The Move In: The Escalation I Should’ve Seen Coming
I used to think “steady” meant safe. That if a man seemed calm, attentive, or balanced, I had finally dodged the chaos I’d known before.
But here’s the truth: sometimes “steady” is just the mask they wear before the cracks show.
What I walked into wasn’t stability. It was déjà vu with a different face.
Moving the Red Flag In
When he moved into my condo, the atmosphere shifted fast. I caught the signs early, but I was still in survivor mode, still learning how to spot the web while I was standing in it.
The comments started:
“If you ever left me, I’d kill you. If I saw you with someone else, I’d rather die—so I’d just take care of that.”
Chilling words disguised as devotion. That’s not love. That’s possession.
The Financial Unraveling
Then came the money games.
He borrowed over seven thousand to fix his truck, contributed little to the household, and always had an excuse for why he couldn’t cover more than scraps. When repossession loomed, I stepped in, reorganized, caught him up, and even built him a cushion.
Within two months, he wasn’t living paycheck to paycheck anymore. That should have been a relief. Instead, it became fuel for resentment.
Suddenly, my support was twisted into “control.” The narrative flipped. And while he tried to smear, I kept receipts. I knew what was real.
Escalation Mode
Fights escalated quickly. I learned silence was my safest weapon. I’d let him rant, recording video for protection, then follow up with text so there was a time-stamped record.
Words can be spun. Evidence cannot.
But silence didn’t slow the spiral. The drinking intensified. Nights ended with threats, a gun across his lap, or him passed out mid-rage. If I didn’t bend, he’d pinch my arm hard enough to bruise, a quiet violence he thought no one would notice.
The Affair + Breaking Point
The breaking point wasn’t just betrayal. It was the escalation after.
When I confronted him about the affair, the mask cracked. Defensive turned volatile. Police were called. He left.
But abusers rarely leave clean. At 2 a.m., he came back drunk, blasting music, circling my condo like a storm. Police nearly arrested him for DUI and open container. He slipped inside before they could.
By morning, I knew: he couldn’t stay. I didn’t trust him in my home.
The Final Fight
The last fight ended like most abuse does; fast, messy, and dangerous.
When I called the police, he bolted for his truck, clipping my car and swiping my body on the way out. I was left with a deep bruise as a reminder of just how little my safety mattered to him.
Days later, an email landed in my inbox. He claimed he’d spoken to someone about “the truth of my life,” then disappeared into silence, except for his truck, which kept showing up around town.
Why I Share This
This isn’t about one man. It’s about a pattern. About the way abuse escalates when we ignore the early signs and hope the storm will pass.
I write this for the woman who’s still in survivor mode, who doubts her instincts, who second-guesses the red flags because she wants to believe in the mask.
Please hear me: love doesn’t threaten your life, drain your finances, or bruise your body.
You don’t owe chaos a home.
Disclaimer:
This blog reflects my personal experiences, perspectives, and lessons learned. It is written under my First Amendment right to free speech and is not intended as legal advice or as evidence in any ongoing legal matters. Names and details are shared only as part of my story, for the purpose of advocacy, education, and awareness.
