The Bar Was Packed, the Whiskey Was Cold, and the Truth Hit Hard

Last night, I dragged my bestie to our usual bar, thinking Thursday would be chill. Nope. The place was slammed—people packed in like they’d all RSVP’d to the same memo about the weather being too damn nice to stay home. Finding parking downtown was a total circus; by the time we walked in, the bar was a mess of bodies with zero seats. I grabbed a cabernet because it’s my go-to, and he got a whiskey with a big ice cube because that’s his deal. Drinks in hand, I wasn’t about to stand there like a loser. “Let’s check the other side,” I said, “maybe we’ll get lucky.” And we did: two open spots, just begging for us. We sat down and dove into catching up the way we always do.

The air was thick with chatter, and the bar smelled of wood and dark liquor—red meat and expensive cologne. Some guy in a suit was yelling across the bar to a few tourists about his top recommended sights to see, and a pack of girls in button-up tops hogged the corner, swapping looks with any single man. It was chaos, but the good kind, until we settled in and the real talk crept up.

You know us: laughing too loud, rolling our eyes like it’s a sport, and tossing out sighs that sum up the week. It’s our thing, funny, sassy, but real when it counts. We swapped stories, the good stuff and the garbage, until he hit a topic he didn’t even know he needed to unpack. And man, did he unpack it. I listened, threw in my take, some props, some pushback, a little “here’s what I think.” It wasn’t just bar talk, though. It was heavy. He’s worried about a friend stuck in a messed-up relationship, the kind I’ve been through myself. Abusive ones. They don’t always look like a movie villain; they sneak up, wrap you tight, and make you think it’s your fault you’re still there.

Let me take you back. College me was fresh out of a tiny Minnesota town where the biggest reported crime was someone under 18 buying cigarettes. Then, I moved to the DMV (DC, Maryland, Virginia, if you’re new here), knowing nobody and having no clue how to survive a city. Where I’m from, life’s simple, sheltered. You don’t see the ugly stuff. My high school sent tons of kids to college, but more than half of them bailed the first year, running home because the real world didn’t play by our rules. I didn’t know I was clueless until I was in way over my head.

Then, shortly after transferring to George Mason University, I met a man who seemed extraordinary. Our connection was immediate and intense, leading us to become inseparable. Hailing from a small town in Minnesota, I was naïve to the complexities of city life and relationships. My sheltered upbringing hadn’t prepared me for the realities outside the little farm town.

One evening, we attended a fraternity party. Amidst the dim lights and pulsating music, I found myself alone near the makeshift bar, waiting for my boyfriend to return from the restroom. A stranger approached, and before I could react, he cornered me against the wall, violating my personal space and dignity. I’m fighting, twisting, yelling, but it’s too loud, and I’m not strong enough. Nobody moves. Nobody helps. It wasn’t until my boyfriend emerged and intervened when it finally stopped. We left immediately, both shaken and scarred by the incident.

You’d think that’d be it; bad night, done. But it wasn’t. We were both shaken. For the next few days, I didn’t want to leave his side, and then for the next two years, he didn’t want me out of his sight. What started out as us both being startled turned into something ugly, where he couldn’t let go of the startle, where control etched out his every move with me. I couldn’t step outside without him right there. I couldn’t get a job unless he could see me from the window. We’d hit fancy restaurants, but if I ordered anything over five bucks, he’d flip; I lost 20 pounds because starving was easier than fighting. Then it got physical. Slow at first, then all the time. I was stuck—no money, no friends, no family nearby. He had everything: connections, people, power. I had nothing. I let it slide for too long, thinking He’s still freaked out from that night. But being freaked doesn’t mean you get to break me.

Getting out wasn’t pretty. It took him choking me against a wall—figurative and not—where I realized I’d rather be alone and broken than his punching bag. I scraped by, leaned on strangers who became friends, and figured out I was tougher than I thought. It’s a road I wish on nobody, but it’s why I’m still here, sipping wine and fighting for her in my head.

Back to last night. My friend’s going off about his friend, caught in her own bad relationship—can’t seem to stand up for herself, even when he’s awful. He’s upset for her, and I get it because I’ve been there. He’s hunched over his whiskey, stirring the ice like it’s gonna spill some wisdom. His voice gets low, sharp, like he’s mad at her but mostly mad at himself for not fixing it. ‘She keeps going back,’ he says, ‘every damn time.’ I can tell it’s eating him up, and I’m just sitting there, knowing that ache too well. Then he says, “It’s her fault.” Oh, no way. I smile a little—credit where it’s due because he’s saying something, where most would never. Two frats at George Mason had whole meetings about my ex’s crap when he tried pledging, and nobody told me a thing, stood up for me, said, "Hey, Sheridan, this isn't right." But fault? That’s a hard pass. “It’s not her fault,” I say straight up. “You remember how it happened to me, right?” He nods, backs off. He knows my story. It’s never the victim’s fault.

Her life right now? Not her fault. No matter how long someone excuses the behavior, tolerates it; three months or ten years in that abusive cycle—the time stolen from you isn’t your fault. Not having the courage, strength, or even the sight to demand your boundaries and the love you deserve? That’s not your fault either. She deserves better: love that doesn’t hurt, a life that’s hers. I’m proud of my friend for caring enough to speak up, even if I had to nudge him straight. We clinked our glasses, cabernet and whiskey, and let the night roll on, a little wiser, a little tougher.

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Resources: If you’re reading this and you, or someone you know, are caught in an abusive relationship, know it’s never too late to say something or do something. Time doesn’t erase your right to safety, peace, or a way out. There’s help out there, whether it’s a quiet word to a friend or a call for support.

Here are some places to start: the National Domestic Violence Hotline (1-800-799-7233 or text “START” to 88788), RAINN (1-800-656-HOPE), LoveisRespect (text “LOVEIS” to 22522), Women’s Shelters (womenshelters.org), the Domestic Abuse Hotline for Men and Women (1-888-743-5754), Safe Horizon (1-800-621-HOPE), and the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (ncadv.org).

You’re not alone, and you don’t have to figure it out by yourself.

• National Domestic Violence Hotline (1-800-799-7233 / text “START” to 88788) – 24/7 support for all genders, offering crisis help and referrals.

• RAINN (1-800-656-HOPE) – Focuses on sexual assault but supports abuse survivors too, with a confidential hotline.

• LoveisRespect (text “LOVEIS” to 22522) – Geared toward younger people, offering advice on healthy relationships and abuse.

• Women’s Shelters (womenshelters.org) – Directory to find local shelters for immediate safety.

• Domestic Abuse Hotline for Men and Women (1-888-743-5754) – Inclusive support for all victims, less commonly listed.

• Safe Horizon (1-800-621-HOPE) – Broad services including shelters and legal help, especially strong in urban areas.

• National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (ncadv.org) – Educational resources and local program connections.