Then, one day, we got into a huge argument over one of my co-workers. As usual, he called me every name in the book: Slut, whore, skank…nothing was off-limits. Dishes were broken, holes were punched in the wall, and things were thrown. The situation took a drastic turn for the worst when Brad lifted his arm and backhanded me hard across the face. I fearfully retaliated by biting him, and ran out the door while he shrieked in pain. The first time he hit me was going to be the last.

I stayed at my mother’s house for a few days while I tried to get my head back on straight. I’d left everything behind: My money, ID, clothes, and even my phone. Fearing Brad’s wrath, I steered clear of our shared apartment until I was certain he was at work. Even then, I asked for a police escort in case he showed up. Judging by the fact that he hadn’t thrown away my belongings, I deduced that he thought I was “cooling off” and would come crawling back to him any day now. He was dead wrong. While the officers waited patiently at the door, I took the essentials, leaving my furniture, decorations, and cookware behind. I wanted a fresh start, even if it meant having to re-purchase household staples.

Before long, I was moving into a fabulous new apartment across town. Rent was fair, the neighbors weren’t snoopy, it was closer to my workplace, and, best of all, there were no memories of my ex. None of his toenail clippings, body spray, or stupid NFL memorabilia. I felt fortunate in my misfortune: starting over wasn’t easy, but it was exactly what I needed.