< Translator’s note: The original formatting of the stories has been preserved. The translations aim to remain as close as possible to each author's original wording and expression.

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We started our relationship during a very difficult period of my life — in effect, he was the only close person who was physically nearby. It was a period of worsening of my mental illnesses, which he had known about before, and he said he would support me. When I found the strength to make an appointment with a therapist, he first talked me out of it and then started gaslighting me. Every day I heard that I was simply lazy and "filling my head with nonsense" and had made up my illnesses. This went on for several months, and I truly came to believe I was pretending. When I decided to talk to him seriously and tell him my whole story, he laughed at my suicide attempt and, for some time afterward, joked about "cutting lengthwise" and "the right dose of pills." When I wanted to cut off all contact with him entirely, he started telling pitiful stories about how he wasn't loved enough as a child, and that I was the only one who understood him. The worst part for me was the shame of telling anyone: I was supposed to be an "enlightened feminist" already, and yet I'd gotten caught up in some toxic attachment. Although these relationships ended abruptly and quite some time ago, I feel lighter when I share this.

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Anonymous author; story told in 2021 as part of the "16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence" campaign