Nearly five years after I met my husband, I finally left for good. My head-over-heels love story had devolved into life with a man who pushed me down stairs, poured coffee grinds on my head, and choked me when I yelled too loudly during our frequent disagreements. Post-breakup, my days felt like endless treks down a dim tunnel -- figuring out how to protect myself and my future by getting divorced when most of my friends had not yet married.

Eventually I moved hundreds of miles out of my ex-husband’s orbit to begin a second, far more humble life at 27, complete with an unlisted phone number and post office mailing address. I paid off our joint debts alone. You can imagine the downturn every second date took when I spilled the nasties about my dangerous ex. Whenever I started a new job one of my first stops was the security desk. Sure, it was hard. Once you’ve been abused, some people treat you like damaged goods, pitying you, and you may be tempted to treat yourself that way too. But no matter your exact experiences with crazy love, for most of us there comes a time when you look in the mirror, past the bruises, bad decisions, and missed opportunities, to see the strength you gain by leaving.

Ironically, we are the lucky ones; many women endure destructive relationship patterns for their entire existence, in the process passing their trauma onto their sons and daughters. Another priceless gift from my experience as an abused wife: learning exactly what love is not. Love is not unconditional, except perhaps when small children are involved. Love definitely doesn’t provide cover for someone who pulls the car keys out of the ignition as you are driving 55 miles down a highway. I have my ex to thank for that particular present. That, plus the belief that anyone who makes it out is more beautiful afterwards, no matter how many scars we have.

Look at me now, and you’d never imagine I had a secret first life filled with bruises and heartbreak. At 43, I have work I love, three munchkins, and a man so kind and trustworthy that for the past 12 years of career/motherhood chaos I’ve rarely gone grocery shopping, changed the cat litter or gassed up my car, and never worried -- for one nanosecond -- that he might harm me or our kids.

The best gift, however, was discovering my own voice. The voice I ignored when my ex choked me during sex, four months into our relationship. The one that spoke up during his final beating: “It’s your choice here – you or him – but you have to decide.” The same voice that whispered, a few years later, that I should go on a date with the nice, quiet man who is now my husband. I’m glad I learned to listen.