Don’t Shrink My Story

There’s a moment every survivor knows—
when you’re brave enough to put your truth into the air, and instead of landing softly it gets flattened into something small enough for other people to swallow.

I tell people what he does to me.
Not once.
Not in anger.
Not exaggerated.
Just the truth.

How he bends reality until I doubt my own.
How he punishes with silence so sharp it cuts.
How he uses the kids like bargaining chips.
How my body still reacts like danger is standing in the doorway.

And then I’m told— “It’s because he’s an asshole”

As if that explains it.
As if that covers it.
As if calling him that could hold the weight of what I’ve lived through.

But being an “asshole” is a personality.
Abuse is a pattern.

An asshole is someone who’s rude.
Abuse is someone who rewires your sense of safety.

An asshole is a moment.
Abuse is a system.

People choose the smaller word because it’s easier.
It keeps them comfortable.
It keeps them distant.
It keeps them from having to face what’s actually happening.

Because if they call it abuse, they have to see me.
Really see me.
And that’s harder than pretending I’m just dealing with a difficult man.

The don’t see the nights I froze.
They don’t see the mornings I cried in the shower.
The way my voice shakes when I try to explain.
The way my nervous system still braces even when the room is empty.

They only see the version of him that’s convenient.
And the version of me that’s quiet.

So, when they say he’s just an “asshole”, they’re not describing him—they’re erasing me.

Minimizing abuse is another kind of harm.
It tells the survivor their experience is negotiable.
It tells the survivor their reactions are too much.
It tells the survivor their pain is too big for the room.

But I’m done shrinking my story so other people can stay comfortable.

What he does isn’t “asshole behavior”—
It is abuse.

It’s the kind that rearranges your nervous system.
Reshapes your identity.
Teachers your body to brace for impact even when nothing is moving.

And I’m allowed to name it.
I’m allowed to tell the truth.
I’m allowed to stop accepting the smaller version of my story.

Because minimizing abuse doesn’t make it disappear.
It makes the survivor disappear.

And I’m not disappearing anymore.