I left. So why do I still feel like the bad guy?

A guide for the women who’ve done the hardest part, and are still stuck in the ache.

You did it. You left. Whether it was a midnight escape, a slow withdrawal, or a moment of final clarity after years of second chances, you made the move everyone said was impossible.

But now you’re sitting alone with a feeling no one warned you about: guilt.

Maybe you miss him. Maybe you’re thinking about the good times. Maybe you’re watching your kids ask when they’ll see their dad again, and you’re questioning whether you made it all up. Maybe you’re replaying the way your family responded, with awkward silences, or worse, with relief. Maybe you’re wondering why this doesn’t feel like freedom.

This isn’t because you made a mistake. It’s because you’re human.

No one talks about the grief.

Leaving a relationship, even a damaging one, is a loss. It’s the loss of the person you hoped they’d become. The loss of the family you tried to build. The loss of the version of yourself who kept believing if you just stayed calm, kind, or quiet enough, things would change.

That kind of grief is invisible. There’s no funeral. No flowers. Just you, second guessing every step, while others say, “Good on you for finally leaving.” You might be angry and heartbroken. Relieved and anxious. You might catch yourself missing the way he held your hand while knowing the same hand slammed the door last week. These contradictions aren’t a failure of your logic. They’re the slow rewiring of your nervous system learning what safety actually feels like.

You don’t have to hate him to justify leaving.

This is where so many survivors get stuck.

You remember the kind moments. The potential. The way he smiled when your baby laughed. The long drives where he was calm. And you think: “If I can see the good, maybe it wasn’t that bad.” But love and abuse can exist in the same relationship. That doesn’t make it less abusive, it makes it more confusing. You left because the cost of staying became too high. Not because you wanted to “ruin his life.” Not because you’re cruel. Because your body, your mind, or your spirit said: enough.

You may still be protecting him. And that’s okay to admit.

Many survivors don’t go to the police.

They soften the truth for family.

They say “he’s struggling” instead of “he’s dangerous.”

That’s not weakness. That’s survival.

When you’ve spent years making yourself smaller to avoid explosions, it makes sense that telling the whole story feels impossible. You may still worry about how it will affect him, even now. You’re not alone in that.

But your safety matters more than his reputation.

Your healing matters more than his version of events.

You’re not the bad guy. You’re the first responder to your own life.

You stepped in when no one else could. You recognised the damage and made a plan. You took the first exit on a highway that tried to keep you trapped. And now you’re here, looking at the wreckage and wondering if it was really that bad. That’s normal. That’s what healing looks like when you’re used to doubting yourself.

Let yourself grieve. Let yourself feel conflicted. But don’t let that quiet voice be silenced again. You left because something in you, something wise, strong, and brave, knew it was time.

You don’t have to explain that to anyone.

💬 Need support working through these feelings?

Everything I offer is free and private. Message me securely at help@controlaltescape.com.au or through the contact form on my website.

You’re not alone.

💬 Need help using the guides or figuring out next steps for your digital safety?

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