It's hell. It's pure hell. It's a constant lump in your throat, an anxious worry that never leaves. It's the first thing you think of when you wake up. It's isolation. It's goodbye to friends and family because you'd die if they knew the truth. It's humiliation. It's gathering your stuff and waking up your 9-month-old at 2AM to hail a cab in the dark and cold night and carrying your thrown-together bag with you to sleep in a motel because you don't know what state he'll be in when he gets home since he's not answering your phone.
I left. I'll never be the same, but I'm getting stronger every day. He still doesn't get what he's done to us. But just writing that is bringing back those awful feelings...