I Was the Abuser - Lyrics and Meaning

I Was the Abuser

Artist: Loui Crow
Streaming: All platforms
Linktree: https://linktr.ee/louicrow

This one is carved, not written.

A holy gutting.
This is what happens when you stop hiding behind survival and stare at the blade in your own hand.

It’s not an apology.
It’s a ritual.
A naming.
A liberation by fire.

This is what accountability sounds like when it’s honest.
When it costs something.
When it bleeds.

This is what it means to say:
“I did that. And I’m the one who has to stop it.”

THE SETUP: FROM ONE STORM TO ANOTHER

After Eli, I didn’t take a break.
Didn’t go to therapy.
Didn’t even breathe.

I packed my trauma like luggage and moved into a new house with a new man—Derek.
Military. Linguist. Motorcycle.
He showed up with a rose and a smile like a movie scene.

But we weren’t a romance.
We were a trauma thunderstorm with good lighting.
And I was already electrified.
Hair-triggered. Defensive.
Ready to be hurt again.

THE PATTERN: HOW I BECAME THE ABUSER

Let’s be clear.
Derek yelled too.
He shoved.
He belittled me when drunk.
He drank too much.

But this part of the story?
This is where I name the things I did.

I hit his arm. Hard. Often.
So often, his dad—a priest, mind you—pulled him aside and said,
“That girl is abusive.”
He wasn’t wrong.

I was.

I thought it was playful at first.
But it wasn’t.
It was power.
It was testing.
It was me projecting all the things Eli had done to me, trying to reverse the role.

I was jealous.
Obsessively so.
He couldn’t smile at a waitress without me spiraling.
I policed his tone, his phone, his body.

I dominated. I fought. I poked. I screamed.
Cornered him in doorways.
Picked fights in public.
There’s a memory of me crouched by the front door, sobbing,
“Please don’t hit me.”
He wasn’t raising a hand.
He was just standing there.
But in my mind, he was already Eli.

I couldn’t see Derek.
I could only see the ghost.

THE BREAKING POINT

The night it ended? He slapped me.
Then locked me in a hold—one arm across my neck, trying to stop the storm.
I slapped him back. And it was done.

But honestly?
The relationship had been bleeding long before the bruises ever showed.

THE SCIENCE: WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO ME?

Lundy says:

“Abuse is a pattern. It doesn’t excuse—but it explains.”

I didn’t just snap.
I was programmed.
I learned that control was safety.
I learned that suspicion was protection.

And after Eli, I didn’t heal.
I just rehearsed.
Only now I was the one making someone else crouch by the door.

TRAUMA REENACTMENT

Oh look, a new boyfriend!
Let’s not rest.
Let’s not regulate.
Let’s just load the gun of unresolved trauma, hand it to our new partner, and dare them to pull the trigger.

“Oh wow, he bought you a dress? That totally cancels out the part where you tried to emotionally waterboard him every time he didn’t read your mind.”

Let’s be honest.
I was scared.
I was grieving.
And instead of grieving out loud,
I gripped control like a knife.

That’s not healing.
That’s hostage-taking.

THE SEX STUFF: WHERE IT GOT MESSY

Derek couldn’t have sex.
He had back pain.
Body dysphoria.
Pressure from a hyper-masculine military role and a priest for a father.

I didn’t know it at the time—but he wanted to transition.
He didn’t want to be a man.

But I made his body a battleground.
I took it personally.
I caused fights.
I guilted him.

And when he didn’t want me, I thought it meant I wasn’t lovable.
I didn’t ask what was going on in his soul.
I just demanded access to his body.

Lundy would say:

“Abuse can be verbal, emotional, physical—and sexual coercion goes both ways.”

THE SWEETNESS I DIDN’T SEE

Derek once bought me a fancy dress and took me to dinner on Valentine’s Day.
He bought me a boob job for my birthday because he knew I was insecure.
He tried to show up for me.

But I was too busy trying to control the narrative to receive the kindness.
I turned his gentleness into evidence he was hiding something.
Because I didn’t trust anything.

CULTURAL GROOMING: WHERE IT STARTED

We don’t teach women how to spot their own red flags.
We teach them how to survive men.

So when the roles reverse—
When we’re the ones yelling, hitting, guilting—
We say:

“But I was hurt.”
“But I was scared.”
“But he shoved me first.”

Lundy says:

“Being abused doesn’t grant a license to abuse.”
“We must take responsibility for our own patterns, too.”

THE PLAY AND THE PLAYBACK

Crow would whisper:

“To truly be free, one must name their own hand in the script.
Blame is a mirror. Responsibility is a blade. And liberation lives in the cut.”

THE PART THAT STILL STINGS

If he had told me he wanted to transition—
I would have loved him through it.

I actually think we could’ve made it.
But we were both buried in roles.

I played the desperate girlfriend.
He played the boyfriend he never wanted to be.

And neither of us had the tools to stop the scene.

THE RITUAL: HOW TO BREAK A PATTERN

What to Do:
Sit with a mirror.
Name one thing you did that makes your stomach turn.
Don’t explain it.
Don’t excuse it.
Just name it.
Say: “I did that.”
Then forgive—not to forget, but to prevent it from repeating.

What to Say:

“I am capable of harm. And I am capable of healing. I name the wound, and I end the cycle.”

🖋 LYRICS — I WAS THE ABUSER

[HOOK – ]
Go on, get your popcorn.
This ain’t a clean confession.
It’s a scorched earth session,
Where I set fire to my own reflection.
Don’t clap yet.
We’re dragging me.
Through every bruise I dressed in charm,
Through every time I called harm "calm."
I was the abuser.
Yeah. That’s me.

[VERSE 1]
Derek. Military.
Sweet like breath before the scream.
Language degree, motorcycle lean,
Red rose in his teeth like a dream.
But we weren’t love.
We were locked and loaded.
Two trauma bombs, safety codes exploded.
I moved in fast.
No pause, no grace.
Just trauma in a bag, a new man in its place.
He was careful. Gentle. Quiet hands.
I was rage in jeans, no plans.
I yelled when he didn’t flinch,
Flinched when he held his stance.
Hit his arm like it was a game,
But I knew the rules and still played blame.
His priest dad pulled him aside:
"That girl is abusing you."
He wasn’t lying.
I just didn’t want the view.

[PRE-HOOK]
Told myself he was hiding things.
Really, it was me with the strings.
Softness felt like setup scenes,
So I broke his peace just to feel seen.
Every face turned into Eli’s mask.
Every kindness was a test I passed.

[HOOK]
I was the abuser.
I say it loud.
I don’t sugarcoat it.
I don’t play proud.
I just bring the mirror.
I bring the breath.
I let it rot so I can rest.
Yeah—I did that.
Etch it deep.
No edits. No bleach.
Let the silence speak.
I was the abuser.
That blood is mine.
And I carve it clear line by line.

[VERSE 2]
He didn’t want sex.
Not with pain in his back,
Not with a body that didn’t track.
I said, “Why don’t you want me?”
Like rejection was attack.
Like his "no" was a slap.
He never got to say, "This isn’t the gender I feel."
He just tightened his jaw and stayed still.
I took it personal. Made it a fight.
I yelled.
How could he answer?
I didn’t ask what kept him up at night.
He wanted to transition.
He wanted to be a woman.
But I made every silence a sin.
Military rules, daddy's collar,
And me demanding his skin.
I saw him look at women, and I lost my breath.
Cornered him like debt.
I read his stillness like a lie,
Raised my voice under restaurant lights.
Accused him of lust, of lies,
Of everything except the truth he couldn’t bring.
He didn’t want to be a man.
And I never saw it.
Never gave him space to name it.
Just forced him to embody it.
If he had told me—
I could have loved him through.
I could have held her name like a sacred truth.
But I never softened.
Never paused.
Never gave him air to say the cause.
I was too loud with fear.
Too blind to hear.
And now I live with that missing piece—
What he never got to release.

[BRIDGE]
You ever guilt someone into touch?
Wrap need in chains and call it love?
I did that.
He didn’t push—
I made him leave.
Not with fists.
But with everything I couldn’t see.

[VERSE 3]
He bought me a dress.
Blue. Tight.
Love stitched in silk.
He said I looked beautiful.
I curled my lips like milk gone sour.
I didn’t believe him.
Valentine’s Day. Candlelight. Power.
And all I saw was motive, mask.
What's he hiding behind the glass?
He bought me a boob job.
Because I hated my chest.
Saw how I cried,
When I took my shirt off.
And I turned it into a test.
Accused him of buying silence.
I accused him of jerking off.
But he was just trying to hold space.
And I was too busy gripping my pain like it gave me shape.

[RITUAL VERSE]
We were roles.
He played man.
I played demand.
No script. Just fear.
Just breath we didn’t clear.
He never said, "This isn’t who I am."
I never gave him room to un-become the man.
I rattled his quiet.
I pried at his skin.
But really?
I was the blade the whole thing was in.

[FINAL HOOK]
I was the abuser.
I say it again.
I write it in blood.
Make it end.
Not to punish.
Not to fall.
But to stop this shit once and for all.
I was the abuser.
But I broke the chain.
I named it.
I walked through flame.

[OUTRO]
I sit with the mirror.
I say: I did that.
I speak it so it doesn’t speak me.
I forgive.
Not to forget.
To break the repeat.

💔 What pain or struggle is this blog addressing?

This song addresses abuse from the inside out.
The kind we inflict.
The kind we justify.

It speaks to the buried truth of women who were hurt—
And then became the ones who harmed.

It names jealousy.
Sexual coercion.
Emotional domination.
And the ache of trying to control love instead of feel it.

It’s for anyone afraid to admit they crossed the line.
It says:
“I did that. And I want it to end with me.”

🕯 CROW BLESSING

May the mirror crack clean.
May your confession be a key, not a cage.
May your pain lose its edge when you name its shadow.
May every line you etch in truth become the gate to your own release.