Love in a chokehold

Chapter 4: Torn Between Love and Freedom

I tried. I really did. I tried to fix everything myself, him, the relationship. He had told me I was obsessed with myself, that I didn’t spend enough time loving him. So I tried to change. I reduced certain things in my life, tried to focus more on him, thought maybe this would be enough. But I never stopped talking to my family or friends they were my anchors, and I refused to let them go. Still, I convinced myself that if I became “perfect” in his eyes, everything would be okay.

Every day was a battlefield inside my own heart. His jealousy was confusing part of me wanted to believe it was love, a sign that he cared deeply. When we went to the supermarket, he watched me like a hawk, making sure no man dared glance at me. If I took a taxi to his house, he would glare at it as though the car itself were a threat. I whispered to myself, He loves me; he’s just protective. And yet, a tiny voice inside whispered that it was something else control, fear, something darker.

The contradictions tore at me. He gave so much attention, gifts, care but his actions were unpredictable and often frightening. I began noticing patterns I couldn’t ignore. I suspected he was texting other girls on i********:, hiding things from me. When he wouldn’t let me use his phone, insecurity bubbled inside me. Every time he went downstairs, I imagined him talking to one of his exes, and when he came back upstairs, the accusations would start. “Who were you talking to? Who is he?”

And then came that night the night I would never forget. I had called him for hours, desperate to reach him, and he didn’t pick up. I went to his house, only to be told he had been praying. My frustration boiled over. I demanded we go upstairs to talk, to resolve whatever this was. My voice shook with anger, my heart pounding and he snapped.

“Leave this house. f**k off. Never contact me again.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I was stunned, but my anger flared. I opened the door, demanding to know if he was mistreating me or worse. That’s when he struck. His hands gripped my neck, squeezing, choking me. Pain shot through my body, panic clawed at my chest, and my friends screamed outside. His friends rushed in. Everything became a blur. My things were thrown, the room a whirlwind of chaos, fear, and disbelief.

Then, just as suddenly, he shifted. He called me upstairs, pleading, begging me to calm down. “This isn’t intentional. Listen to me. Calm down.”

I looked at him, chest heaving. “You literally told me to f**k off in front of your friends. And now you want me to listen?”

I wasn’t ready to talk. I wasn’t ready to forgive. I had already decided I needed space. So I left angrily, with my friend by my side and for three days, there was silence. No calls, no texts, no attempts to reach me.

And yet, even after everything, even after the fear, the pain, and the anger, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I tried to convince myself that love could exist alongside control, that maybe he was just flawed, that maybe we could fix this. The line between love and pain had blurred completely, and I didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

I stayed. I tried. And each attempt to fix things only made me question myself more my worth, my choices, my sanity. The hands that had held me with tenderness had also held me with power, and the same charm that had made me fall in love now made me doubt my own judgment.

The chokehold wasn’t just physical it was emotional, psychological, and all-consuming. And though I had left his house, even for three days of silence, I knew the battle was far from over.