“If you don’t quit squirming I’m gonna break it,” the man clasping tightly to my forearm screamed.

My 19-year-old self, at 5 feet 9 inches tall and 130 pounds, resisted. I found myself pressed against the strikingly white wall of my apartment, my socks slipping on the wooden floor as I struggled to free my arm, which the man held firmly behind my back. I was looking for an advantage. A weapon. A way out before he snapped my ulna like a No. 2 pencil.

I let out a shrill cry for help.

The man was wearing a red polo shirt with a tiny tiger embroidered where a front pocket could go. His hazel eyes glowed with anger. His spiky brown hair was disheveled, and his face was splotched with bright red tones, sweat swam from his brow. He smoked at least a pack of Camel Wides a day, and he was out of breath.

My heart pumped powerfully too, and I thought, “How did I get myself into this?”

Well, it all started innocently enough. I was enamored with the man who was now attacking me from the first time we’d met. He had a bad-boy edge, which I’d later learn was all there was to him. Nine months later, he would grip my arm like a vise.

It wasn’t long before he started hitting me. It’s a tattered, torn memory – a long stream of torture and torment, and I relive it to you with apprehension.

But more powerful than my fear of being labeled or blamed or reduced to a stereotype is my urge to reach out to other girls who have been or are in an abusive relationship.

I want to help other victims discover that they do not have to feel shame or guilt; that they do not have to cover, conceal or compartmentalize their pain with a forced smile; that they, under no circumstances, have to tolerate insults, threats or physical abuse from anyone. And I want to help them learn that instead they can stand proudly and independently on their own, because an unloving relationship, no matter how comforting or familiar, is not worth staying in.

Even after I removed this man from my life, the pain from the punishments he inflicted remained because I secretly felt that I didn’t deserve happiness and, all and all, I deserved to be beaten, not loved.

And the pain never fully fades.

Even now, four years later, when I leave the house I still have to check my reflection three or four times just to make sure I look normal. All of the things he said about my appearance still ring in my ears: You’re fat, ugly, no one would want you. Often I can’t even hold eye contact with a man for more than a second or two before nervously turning away.

And any time something good happens, I am crushed with an irresistible inclination to punish myself.

When my boyfriend brings home flowers, or I win a contest, or someone compliments my outfit, I come up with a reason to question it, a reason to not be satisfied with myself, because, down deep, I feel responsible. Like it was my fault.

And at the core, part of me still associates love with pain. Sometimes I wish time could rinse the memories away, like the ocean waves wash away sand castles.

But other times, I want to cling to every detail. I want to remember the time I spent on the battlefield of domestic violence so that I will not forget that it happens to other women every single day.

I can still picture the dusty stack of books on the floor next to me, the pile of magazines on the desk, the broken glass bowl, once filled with leftover cereal milk, that he had hurled to the wall causing it to shatter at my feet, all of it next to me as I writhed with pain to free my arm. I can still remember the clothes I wore. And most clearly, I can still remember the anger piercing through his eyes.

Thankfully, I was rescued by a neighbor knocking on the door. He’d heard the struggle, and wanted to check on things, make sure everything was OK. My attacker didn’t get a chance to break my arm. He was arrested and eventually convicted of battery. The verdict, along with a string of previous convictions for similar crimes and probation violations, added up to five months in jail.

Five months for me to clear my head.

I’m so glad I had the courage to call the police, and in the cold, black night, while standing in the parking lot of my apartment complex, give my report to an officer.

My hands trembled and my fingers outlined the fingerprint bruises on my forearm as the details tumbled from my mouth as quickly as they pour from my mind to my fingers and onto the computer screen now.

I tell you this story because I know that there are girls who are abused every day, and they needn’t be. If you are in an abusive relationship I want you to visit www.womenslaw.org, a Web site that will provide you the help you need to begin your journey to an abuse-free life. And, most importantly, I want you to know that you deserve to be loved, not beaten or abused.

And for everyone else, I want you to watch out for your friends, sisters, mothers and cousins, and make sure it doesn’t happen to them. Let’s break the cycle. Snap it like it’s a No. 2 pencil.