I went through hell and back alone. It wasn't that I just didn't have help or support, but that I fought while having the exact opposite of what I needed. I came through OCD while living in a severely abusive relationship where my husband blamed me for the abuse because I didn't correct my OCD fast enough or fully enough for his liking. While already feeling that I was a failure, he reinforced those thoughts by telling me, "You should feel like a failure, because you ARE a failure."
He would use my OCD fears to torment me; if I didn't do something fast enough, he would, for example, rub his hands inside the garbage can and then rub them all over the furniture, walls, counters, etc. I once stayed awake for a marathon 72-hour ritual of clean-up after one of those, and thought very seriously about ending my life because I was so deliriously exhausted and anxious that I simply didn't want to go on anymore.
My husband has changed; he doesn't do those things anymore. He controls his anger. He apologizes for all of his past mistakes and the "stupid" things he said and did. He admits it was wrong and he shouldn't have done it. He has held true to those statements for six months now. The problem is, he obviously could have changed by making different decisions. And he didn't, not when I needed him to the most. He chose to torment and abuse me. His cruelty was so severe that a domestic violence counselor of 30 years told me that the things he was doing were some of the most heinous, sadistically abusive she'd ever encountered in her career. Sadistic because, when I asked him why he treated me that way, he said, "Because it works. It makes me feel good."
I've done my best to forgive him, though I still struggle with whether I can…or even should. I miss the man I married. I want that guy back. I don't think it will ever happen. It's like torn pieces of paper that I'm trying to tape back together, or a shattered glass that I am trying to glue back together; no matter how much effort I put into fixing it, I don't think it can ever be beautiful or functional again.
And still I am the one who puts forth the effort. I am the one who offers the hugs and kisses. I am the one who tries to find new, good things. Yet, I am also the one whose hurt bubbles up to the surface occasionally, and loses her shit yelling and screaming about how badly I was hurt and how angry I am and what a horrible person it would take to do and say the things he did and said to me. He makes no effort beyond saying he is sorry. I get the impression he wants nothing to do with me. And, you know, maybe I don't want anything to do with him, either; the thing is, he abused me. He put me through hell that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, or the most evil person alive. He should be making the majority of the effort.
And he doesn't even make half.