3 Lessons I Learned from Ending My Toxic Relationship

My mother always told me I’d have to kiss a few frogs before I found my prince. What she didn’t tell me was that one of said frogs would humiliate, manipulate and otherwise crush me through a years-long cycle of lying and cheating. At the time (my junior year of college, when I was still a half-formed shell of a person), it seemed inconceivable that any good would come out of that experience. But looking back on the toxicity of the relationship now, I realize I learned some valuable lessons that have given me a unique perspective on which red flags to look out for. I’m sharing them here in the hopes that you leave sooner than I did.

When we first started dating, it was slow and measured rather than hot and heavy—it took months of him wooing me and wearing me down before I was receptive to his advances. Why the hesitation? For starters, a faint whiff of misogyny hung over him like a cloud. (His bedroom wall was collaged with Sports Illustrated models, ugh.) I knew from the way he talked about his upbringing that we had different values long before we got into it. From the very beginning, there was a tiny voice in my head saying this isn’t right; this isn’t the person for you. But I was 20 years old: I was flattered, I wanted to be wanted and I wanted to throw caution to the wind. Eventually, I caved. But in the back of my mind, I knew there was a darkness going into the situation. I think we all do—in our gut—when placed in those scenarios, and it’s not something to brush off, like I did.

I took him back twice. Or was it three times? He was a master manipulator, always knowing what to say to make me feel like I was the one in the wrong. For example, we had been seeing each other for six months (and had swapped “I love yous,” mind you) when I found out that he had slept with someone else on the same night I had been with him and left early to study. His excuse? We had never had a clear exclusivity discussion. (As if that excuses that kind of grade-A jerk behavior.) This set a precedent that still makes me wince: When he lied or said cruel things, I rationalized them as being my fault, too. The fact that he treated me so badly became this embarrassing hurdle to overcome; I wanted to make him happy to prove to myself that I could do it. (I’m not proud of this.) By the second time we blew up (cheating, again), I knew better than to take him back. Second chances are a part of life—but you should never have to offer a third.