The Hidden Wounds of a “Nice” Relationship
Why I Felt Broken in a Relationship Without Violence
✨ Content is free—but crows like snacks.
BLOG ENTRY: “THE QUIET ONES KILL YOU SLOWER”
TW: Emotional abuse, porn addiction, suicidal ideation, chronic illness, pelvic pain, dissociation, sexual trauma history, reactive betrayal
This isn’t a blog. It’s a file pulled from the archives of my nervous system. A post-mortem. A holy molt. This is what it looks like to fall apart while being told you’re “lucky” because he never hit you. This is about the man who didn't yell—but who still watched me disappear.
📢 I WASN’T ALLOWED TO SAY THIS. SO I’M SAYING IT ANYWAY.
This is the story of Reed.
Not his real name. But very real damage.
Reed never hit me.
Never screamed.
Never raised his voice.
Instead, he lied.
He gaslit.
He ghosted me emotionally.
He watched porn while petting my hair.
He called me beautiful with one hand while hiding tabs with the other.
And I stayed. For four years.
Until one Sunday morning, when I snapped hard enough to leave my body behind.
🛋️ THE SETUP: “AT LEAST HE’S NOT LIKE ELI”
“Eli” is what we’re calling the one before.
He was loud. Controlling. Religious and cruel. The one people believe is abusive.
So when Reed came along—quiet, polite, calm—I thought I’d made it out.
But calm isn’t care.
Politeness isn’t protection.
Silence is not love.
Reed didn’t hurt me physically.
But he hurt me deeply—by watching me rot in real time while smiling softly.
🚨 THE NASCAR SUNDAY: FINAL SNAP
We were watching NASCAR.
I was curled up in his lap. His hand stroked my head while I slept.
And when I woke up?
His phone was in front of my face.
Streaming porn.
While his hand still pet my hair.
I snapped.
Punched a hole in the wall.
Threw his phone.
And that night, I went back to Eli—the ex I had escaped. I slept with him.
I didn’t go back out of desire.
I went back because my nervous system mistook chaos for attention.
I became the one who cheated.
🕯️ FOUR YEARS TO THE BREAKING POINT
That was the last time I caught Reed watching porn.
Not the first.
I found it for years. On laptops. On his phone. Late at night. Closed quickly.
I wasnt looking for it, I walked in on it. Again, and again.
Every time I brought it up, I got:
“You’re overreacting.”
“It’s not like I’m cheating.”
“Everyone does it.”
So I stopped trusting myself.
I started logging our sex life—just to prove to myself that it was real.
Sometimes we went months without touching.
I stopped being angry.
I started wanting to disappear.
⚠️ THE COLLAPSE POINT: WHY “REED” WASN’T THE WORST—JUST THE LAST STRAW
Before Reed, there were ten rapes.
Not by one man.
By many.
Across years.
Assaults by coercion, manipulation, silence, and force.
I was trained to perform, not protect myself.
To comply, not connect.
To survive, not scream.
So when Reed came, and didn’t yell?
I thought I was finally safe.
But he wasn’t safe.
He was silent.
And my body had no room left to fake it.
🧠 THE PTSD FILES: A COMPLICATION, NOT AN EXCUSE
I dissociated during sex.
I froze during conflict.
I mistook porn for inevitability and silence for maturity.
Reed didn’t abuse me the way Eli did.
But he became the container my PTSD poured into.
And instead of helping me hold it?
He watched it overflow—then handed me flowers.
🧬 WHAT MY BODY SAID WHEN MY MOUTH COULDN’T
I didn’t just “feel bad.”
I collapsed.
Here’s what my body endured while I lived with Reed:
Fibromyalgia – full-body pain as the only allowed scream
Cluster headaches – the kind that mimic suicide ideation
Bulimia – when I couldn’t speak the truth, I purged it
IBS – when the gut won’t digest betrayal
Dissociation – because my safest place was nowhere
Extreme vertigo – the world spun every time I tried to stand
Blackouts – I crashed into walls and woke up on the floor
Stair paralysis – couldn’t walk up the steps of our house
Laundry collapse – couldn’t carry a basket to the basement
Pelvic pain after sex – a literal burn from pretending I felt safe
Dependency as intimacy – I got sicker, and he got more attentive…
So my body started choosing collapse to receive care.
My body didn’t want attention.
It wanted safety.
But sickness was the only form of closeness I’d been taught to receive.
🩸 THE FINAL YEAR: WHEN I CAME BACK—BUT COULDN’T STAY
After the NASCAR incident, I left.
But Reed begged me back.
He cried. Promised. Installed porn-blocking apps.
Tried to initiate more intimacy.
Claimed he was trying.
Maybe he was.
But I didn’t believe him.
Even if he stopped, my body didn’t feel safe.
Sex started to physically hurt.
Burning. Pelvic pain.
My body was now allergic to pretending.
🏃♀️ SNEAKING OUT: CHAOS AS ESCAPE
Reed was a deep sleeper.
So I waited.
Waited for the breath to slow.
Slipped out the front door.
Colt would be parked nearby.
Truck door open. No questions.
We’d have sex.
I’d go home.
Climb into bed next to Reed like nothing happened.
I did it more than once.
Not to be cruel.
But because my body needed any confirmation I was still alive.
💬 THEN CAME SILAS: THE ONE WHO SAID HE LOVED ME
Silas was someone from my childhood.
He reached out. Said he’d loved me quietly, always.
And that attention? That seeing? That hunger?
I jumped.
One night, I left my Apple Watch on the nightstand.
Snuck out.
Went to see Silas.
Reed read the messages.
All of them.
When I got home, he begged again.
But it was done.
He moved out the next month. Silas moved in.
🧨 THIS ISN’T A CONFESSION. IT’S A CONSEQUENCE.
I didn’t plan to become someone who cheated.
I became someone who could no longer fake feeling safe.
Someone who collapsed to receive care.
Who screamed when given silence.
Who leapt at attention because it felt like breath after drowning.
And Reed?
Maybe he was trying.
But I couldn’t rebuild in the place where I collapsed.
💌 STATEMENT OF TRUTH
He didn’t hit me. But I bled in every way no one could see.
He didn’t yell. So I had to yell enough for both of us.
Sex burned. Silence screamed. And my nervous system walked out long before I did.
🕯️ RITUAL: THE GIFT BOX GRAVEYARD
Gather every “I’m sorry” gift, flower, or card
Place them in a box
Write a note and seal it inside:
“This wasn’t love. It was apology for patterns that never stopped.”
“I was being erased. Slowly. Beautifully. With roses.”Bury the box. Or keep it with a label:
“Here lies the silence I mistook for safety.”
🫀 FOR THE READER WHO’S BEEN THERE
If you:
Tracked your sex life in a notebook
Snuck out at night for any kind of touch
Got sicker the longer you stayed
Started hating compliments because they always came with lies
Cheated not out of lust, but out of emptiness
This story is not your shame.
It’s your map.
You're not too much.
You're the only one reacting honestly to something that never wanted to see you fully.
🪶 FINAL BLESSING FROM LOUI CROW
May your body no longer have to scream to be believed.
May your “no” return as a sacred sound.
May your illness become oracle—not curse.
And may your next touch be something your body doesn't flinch from.
📢
This isn’t a confession. It’s a record of resurrection.
This isn’t guilt. It’s evidence.
You weren’t falling apart.
You were finally done performing peace.
And baby crow, you're flying.
One last story..
📩 THE LETTERS HE NEVER OPENED
Halfway through our four years—around year two—I wrote Reed a stack of handwritten letters.
Each one in its own envelope.
Each labeled like a spell.
“Read this when you feel like giving up.”
“Read this when you’re mad at me.”
“Read this when you forget how much I love you.”
I gave them to him quietly.
No expectation. Just hope.
I left them on his pillow like a trail back to connection.
And when the relationship ended,
when the porn and the silence and the cheating and the pain had all come to rot...
I found them again.
Still there.
Unopened.
He never read a single one.
That hurt more than any absence of sex.
More than any browser tab.
More than all the gifts he gave me when he was trying to “fix it.”
Because he didn’t just ignore my body.
He ignored my voice.
Even when I handed it to him in sealed envelopes and told him exactly when to open it.
