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Manolos in hand, mascara-clumped black tears running down my face, fuming so heavily with anger, I could have sworn I had smoke coming out of my ears, I ran. I ran far, far away. I deleted, erased, backspaced, blocked, cut off, and systemically cut him out. Right then and there. And I have not looked back.

But every now and then, something will happen–a Chris Brown will punch a Rihanna, and she will go back to him. A guy will drunkenly shove his girlfriend at the bar, and she will leave with him, hand-in-hand. A Ray Rice will punch his fiancée square in the face, then drag her out of an elevator, face-down. They will get married. The entire world will comment and judge and speculate.

I will do none of that. I will only reflect.

My father prides himself on having raised me the same way he raised my brother. Though I will eternally be his princess, if there was ever a heavy bag to be lifted, a car to be washed, chores to be done, trash to be taken out, I was not looked at like a fragile girl who is above any of those tasks. I learned to throw a football the same day I learned to braid my own hair. I learned to throw a mean pitch in the same week that I learned how to sit with my legs crossed. There were never any “girl things” or “boy things” in my home, and as such, my parents never pushed gender roles upon my brother and I. Even within the framework of their own marriage, if my mom packed our lunches, my dad made dinner. Sometimes mom dealt with plumbing issues, while daddy did the laundry.

At age 17, when I first got my license, my dad handed me my AAA card, then walked me out to the driveway and taught me how to change a flat tire. I whined and complained, bitched and moaned about never needing that so-called “life skill.” A week later, dressed in an itty bitty black dress, stuck on the side of the Garden State Parkway amidst a February snowstorm, I was forced to change my own tire. AAA gave me a three hour time window, and I couldn’t possibly miss the winter formal.

I persevered because as feminine as I am, as girly as I come off, as prissy as I can be, I have never used any of those traits as excuses for my inability or lack of interest in pursuing what are generally “male-oriented” tasks. Why should I? If a guy in jeans and a tshirt can change a flat tire, am I not more of a badass for doing it in a minidress and heels?

I have never dumbed myself down to boost a men’s ego, acted like a ditz for attention, or played the damsel in distress. I have never needed a man to “save” me. As wonderful and flattering as compliments feel, I have never needed a man to tell me I am beautiful, in order to feel beautiful. I have never asked a man if I “look fat.” If I have ever liked a man enough to want to be in a relationship with him, I have treated him with the utmost respect and dignity. So to that extent, I have never let a man treat me any less than how I treat him, or how I treat myself–with the utmost respect and dignity.

Until one evening, when I almost let someone treat me like less. Almost. Several drinks deep, void of inhibitions, respect, self-awareness, and manliness, he slapped me. We were sitting at dinner with a large group of friends. Everyone had consumed a glass of wine or two with their meals. He had consumed 8. On our walk back from dinner, I said “Why don’t I get us a cab? You’ve had a bit much to drink.” A flip switched–a flip I didn’t know existed. He slapped me. HARD. He had never so much as raised his voice at me before. We had never even gotten into a fight before. Not even an argument–well, maybe a small argument over why I am a Giants fan. But that was playful. This was not.

I was shell-shocked. My face felt numb. It stung. But the confusion, wondering where the hell this slap came from, all the weird emotions flying through my head at once, kept me from saying or doing anything.

When I was 16, and I brought my first boyfriend home, my dad took him out into the backyard to “play frisbee.” In the 30 or so minutes they hung out alone, my dad politely reminded him that I was a black belt, and that his daughter had bigger balls than any guy out there.

As I stood there shivering, face red, tears running down my face, I did nothing. Nothing came to me. Nothing felt instinctual. I just turned around and said “Okay, let’s keep walking.” He pushed me into a brick wall in an alleyway. I have boney shoulders. It hurt like a bitch. He screamed in my face, for what felt like hours. Nonsense. Drunk talk. Things I never thought my boyfriend, who loved me so much, who sent me flowers once a week, who massaged my feet on command, could ever say to me. I had never experienced this side of him. Who was this person?

We eventually made it back to his apartment. The screaming continued into the hallway. I grabbed my coat and the few belongings I had at his place, and called a cab. I needed to leave. He pinned me to the wall so forcefully, I couldn’t breathe. I associate that very moment with utter terror. It is absolutely the most terrifying thing in the world when a 200-pound man has you in a chokehold, screaming in your face. My back felt bruised from being pushed so hard. I knew I would have marks around my neck. His neighbor came out of his apartment, pulled him off me, and I ran into the elevator.

We read of these things and say “This will never happen to me. I would never let a man treat me like this. I will hit him back. I will kick his ass.” In that moment, the shock, the trauma, the confusion kept me from doing any of those things. This is often how these things happen. A really great guy does a really bad thing. His significant other justifies it by saying “He’s never acted this way before. It’s not like him. I should let it go. He loves me.”

I could have justified it. I did not.

Manolos in hand, mascara-clumped black tears running down my face, fuming so heavily with anger, I could have sworn I had smoke coming out of my ears, I ran. I ran far, far away. I deleted, erased, backspaced, blocked, cut off, and systemically cut him out. Right then and there. And I have not looked back.

But one thing is for sure. Now I am desensitized. I no longer read these stories, watch these videos and think “This will never happen to me.” It has happened to me. It can happen to me. Again. The next time around, I will use those same Manolos to slice his fucking balls off.