It Wasn't Love, It Was Manipulation.

Heavy breathing, tears streaming down my face, I stayed in my apartment’s parking structure for hours. Though I was in my car, I hadn’t just gotten home nor was I about to go anywhere. I was paralyzed and seeking shelter from emotional abuse. The kind of argument I just endured held such a tight grip around my chest, I could barely breathe. I felt like I wanted to disappear. In that moment, I wanted to be anywhere else but in my apartment’s cold, dank parking structure. Yet, there in my car I sat until anxiety slowly released its grip and I could compose myself to go back inside.

This pattern continued for the entire year and a half that I lived in that tiny downtown LA studio apartment.

What occurred frequently in my home (or prison?) at that time was what my young self thought was love. I moved to Los Angeles at the ripe age of 19 years old. It sounds like a dream — in a city of endless possibilities, my early 20’s should've been a whirlwind of excitement and adventures.

Then came a boy. We’ll call him S.

S and I met one day at a table read for a show that my friend was producing. Looking back, I don’t remember what that show was about, seeing as it never came to fruition. What I do remember, as if every detail were etched into my brain, is the moment I first saw S walk in. At that point, I was still…