Trigger warning: physical violence, Sexual harassment, Self-harm
I avoided reading It ends with us by Colleen Hoover for as long as I could because I knew the impact it would have on me as a victim of domestic violence. Seeing my then-17-year-old younger sister immersed in the novel during the pandemic felt like a cachetada (slap in the face). I remember accusing her of basically living the same life as the protagonist, but something that always stuck with me was her response: “…but that’s fiction.” And after watching the film, which came out earlier this month, I could see the romanticization that is entangled in domestic violence and how Generation Z and the CoHort fandom (the official name of Hoover’s fan club) made the saga a never-ending market that includes a sequel. After watching the film, I folded my hands because that’s the point of fictional stories. Fiction is based on non-fictional moments, but the characters are transcendental in nature, so these stories can be eye-opening and insightful about real-life issues. As a Latin American author, I know the challenges and obstacles that prevent me from telling such a similar story, with the difference that mine is non-fiction.
We were high school sweethearts and grew up earlier than most because we welcomed our daughter our senior year of high school. We were best friends before we had any kind of relationship, so we dated for a few months before I got pregnant, as I found out at the end of my first trimester. He seemed like Prince Charming to me before he had his child, and his mysterious wit made me fall in love with him. Of course, there were rumors that he was “toxic” in high school, but I never believed them since he “spoiled” me and catered to my wants and needs. Whether materialistic or physically intimate, he made it his mission to put me first, and that was a feeling I wasn’t used to.
Becoming a parent at 17 was an adrenaline rush, but I was careful to put my personal development first for our daughter. He had no desire to even finish high school, but I excelled at school because I knew it was the only way to escape poverty. I was kicked out of home because I didn’t uphold the family tradition of wearing white to the altar, nor did I intend to undergo a forced marriage for the sake of tradition and people’s perceptions. Many of these problems stem from Marianism, the belief that women must be obedient, submissive, traditional, and above all devoted to their family.
The saying “you never really know someone until you live with them” is very true simply because it forces people to show their true colors. His face was an illusion of control, egocentrism and villainy. I got a glimpse of his mental instability when he tried to stab himself in front of me and our daughter. His mother was there and she had the strength to stop him, but after that incident I never felt completely safe.
It wasn’t until after I became pregnant that I learned he was of Nicaraguan descent and that he belittled anyone of Mexican descent, including me. When I spoke to my family, he had to listen in: he had access to all of my social media accounts and monitored them diligently. I couldn’t get my driver’s license until we separated at 25, and he followed my every move for years.
I was never able to get a license or learn to drive because he thought those two things would give me power. Something he never wanted to give me because with any “power” came freedom and he never wanted me to have any contact with what was out there in the real world. When we were no longer together, a restraining order was issued by the police. Even with that piece of paper, he followed me, hacked my tech and stalked me whenever he could.
In this society, we women are looked at with skepticism when we don’t give our best in relationships, no matter the consequences. I went through that, except that I was pregnant before the abuse and I wasn’t dating a rich neurosurgeon like Ryle, Lily Bloom’s possessive lover. Instead, my abuser was a narcissistic, pathological liar who traumatized me. He reflected the “Ryle” aesthetic: tall, dark-haired, broad shoulders, fitted shirts, slacks, and dress shoes that were worth more than his entire outfit combined. His magnetism to spout all the things a woman wants to hear: “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you” or “I’ll give you the life you deserve” was enough to hypnotize me.
Starring Blake Lively and Justin Baldoni as Lily and Ryle, the film opens with a majestic nighttime view of Boston’s beauty, which Lily greatly admires. She then sees Ryle throwing chairs and raging with inner conflict. A similar depiction of Ryle in that scene, banging and clanging against the patio furniture, still plays in my mind – when my tormentor smashed down our apartment door. Instead of fleeing the scene, I plastered posters over the gaping hole, the only form of physical evidence I ever had. I never mustered the courage to leave, instead thriving in high-functioning anxiety, piling up one task after another to better myself for our daughter.
During those eight years, I held onto the thought that “he will change…” but I didn’t know it. I wrote about the abuse in diaries and journals because I only dreamed of expressing such harsh realities through deeply held secrets. It wasn’t until I wrote about the topic of domestic violence in my undergraduate creative writing class that my professor shared the memoir with me. In the dream house by Carmen Maria Machado. An honest and vivid look at Machado’s abusive relationship through a scenic trail of vignettes. Something most survivors never share is that they keep wrapping themselves in contradictions to the truth (“he abuses me, but he loves me”) and praying that they will end up in a peaceful parallel universe.
Domestic violence is a big issue for many women. In the U.S., one in four women experience it, and one in three Latinas experience intimate partner violence. However, it is even more common among 18- to 34-year-olds, and the sad truth is that many hesitate out of fear of the unknown. Where will I go? Who will take care of me? Can I handle everything on my own? Will my child hate me if I leave? My family supported me because they felt they had to, but emotionally they never fully supported me, simply because of their traditional mindset that adheres to generational gender norms.
The last abuse scene in The film depicts a moment of sexual assault where Lily manages to get out of the situation. As the clip played, I sat there silently, paralyzed in a moment of reliving that exact impulse – hot tears streaming down my face, shaking in disbelief at what I had once been through. But it was the bite mark on Lily’s shoulder that sent me running out of that frosty theater. My tormentor relished the idea of ”marking his territory” – more often than not, burning a series of “love bites” all over my body as living proof that only he would ever “love” me. A physical imprint I did not bear with my own eyes, but my mind has seen much more than meets the eye. Compared to Lily, I have relived the abuse over and over again, and it never really fazed me until I got the ultimate blow, a wake-up call. It was his hands around my neck and the fear of impending death that made me realize I had to go.
Even when we want it to stop, that feeling of love limits us. It’s too much for us to set limits because we’re not used to walking away. By the end of the movie, my mascara was running down my cheeks and my eyes were todos hinchados. This movie paints a great picture of domestic violence, but as a Latina who has experienced this myself, I’m not thrilled with the lack of diversity or inclusivity, especially in movies that tackle such issues.
People with stories like mine are not given the power needed to craft such harsh truths on screen. The number of people denouncing domestic violence is not large enough. It starts with one person breaking the story. Sharing these stories sheds light on the cultural pressures and systematic inequalities we face as BIPOC people every day.
Crystal Reyes is a Chicanx essayist, poet, and educator who published her debut collection Blooming wildflowers in 2024.
If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or visit thehotline.org. All calls are toll-free and confidential.
