I Was My Boyfriend’s Servant: The Nightmare of Financial Abuse

A dramatic closeup of a metallic ballpoint pen poised over a blank check, ready to fill in the dollar amount.

CN: extensive and detailed discussion of emotional & financial abuse; discussion of domestic violence; mention of suicide and sexual abuse; overall disturbing content.

“When I say, “Good girl,” I want you to say, “Thank you, sir.” “Yes, sir.” “Good girl.” “Thank you, sir.”

I handed him the yellow check. When the bank clerk originally asked me what color I wanted my checks in, I picked gold, but it turned out that gold just meant a different shade of yellow. It was written out to my boyfriend J, for $300— all I had left in my bank account.

My boss was pressuring me to quit and I wasn’t sure I would be able to find another job. My parents found me this one, and I didn’t have that networking source anymore. I was living by myself for the first time, I had no computer, no savings, no one to call for help.

I texted J. “I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid I might hurt myself.”

J replied, “I look forward to a time when you are whole again and I can support you through times like this.”

I flipped through the phone book I happened to bring with me when I moved out, found a suicide hotline number, and called.

J offered me a proposal. For every hour I worked for him, he would pay me $10 of my own money.

This idea wasn’t unprecedented. In the past, whenever I had made him mad, I’d make it up to him by cooking special meals, baking him a cake, buying him a gift. But then as I ran out of ways to atone for my wrong-doing, it expanded to chores: I washed his dishes, vacuumed his carpet, did his laundry.

J said I had to do these things for him because I was constantly costing him energy. My anxiety was like poison to him, he had invested so much in me, I had done nothing but take. He called this problem, “the debt.” He said using this system would help me pay back the debt and give structure to my empty life.

I chipped away at the debt 3-4 times a week. Sometimes I’d get the text at 2 am that it was time for work. I’d slip on a tight dress, nylons, and heels, and walk the 7 blocks to his apartment.

I kept the dishes sparkling and dry, cleaned every inch of his counters, scrubbed the inside of his fridge, removing a moldy mess in one of the drawers. I cleaned everything I could find in his tiny bathroom, his bedroom, his living room. I snuck into my cleaning clothes when he left the house and I returned to my good-girl clothes before he got home. I did his laundry once a week at the laundromat across the street. It cost $1.50 if I got there before 11 am on Tuesdays.

I scratched a record of all my hours on a little yellow notepad with a broken pencil.

I cooked. I bought him presents and wore special outfits. I mended his clothes. I gave him massages. I held on for dear life to the secret ball of peace and safety inside myself during violent sex.

A photo from above a light skinned person with dark hair, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her hands full of papers. There are multiple credit cards and a calculator on the ground in front her. She appears overwhelmed.

If I could earn back the full $300 I had given him ten times over, then I would pay the debt off.  As long as I didn’t make any mistakes, that number would keep going down and we could have a real relationship again. 

But instead of a steady $10/hour, J decided that he would adjust my payment rate according to the quality of my work. When I was enthusiastic and well-behaved, he bumped me up to $20/hr. When I was anxious and struggling to hide it, he slashed my rate down to $5. And I discovered the hard way how important it was to never make J angry.

One morning, we were sharing a rare intimate moment when J pulled away a bit and said, “What’s wrong?” Confused, I told him nothing was wrong. He said, “You were fine and then suddenly you stiffened. You were thinking about something that was making you anxious. What was it?”

My brain had already erased whatever it was that made me anxious. I still had a slight impression that a piece of information was missing, but I had no idea what it was. We went back and forth, I insisted it was nothing, J insisted I was lying. I finally came up with some excuse, but by that time the damage was done.

I had to start again from zero.

I struggled to find a new job. I had no resume writing abilities whatsoever and no skillset to focus on. With no computer, I had to make trips on weekdays to the campus library. I wasn’t sure how long my university email would continue working now that I had dropped out of classes. I crossed my fingers each time I typed in my email and password, hoping I could still log in. My anxiety was so bad, just getting myself to leave the house to apply for jobs that I knew I wouldn’t get, was a huge hurdle. I rarely got interviews.

I didn’t know I qualified for food stamps, so I ate little, and once a month took an hour-long bus ride to a wholesale store, where I loaded up as many bags as I could carry with cheap food. To bring in a little extra money, I taught voice lessons to some high schoolers and volunteered for psychology experiments. The experiments just required a school ID, not to be currently enrolled in classes, so if the leader of the experiment asked me about my major, I’d mumble something about taking a few terms off. My income was about $100 per month.

Even on the days that I didn’t see J, my time was devoted to him.

To rack up additional hours, I sewed him a patchwork quilt by hand. I had no money for fabric, so I pawed through bags of old clothes and craft projects that I had saved up seemingly for this very reason. At one point I ran out of thread and spent several days agonizing over the decision to spend a dollar or two on a new spool.

The quilt was beautiful. I laid out the squares of fabric, carefully choosing a place for each one so that the colors complimented each other: pieces of my mother’s dresses, fabric I bought when I was 9, pieces of a friend’s sewing collection. The rows of squares were crooked, but they were vibrant and painfully cheerful. I poured my heart into the quilt, as well as my time. Making it was slow grueling work.

An angled close-up of a handmade quilt. The trim is bright blue and there are multiple colorful patterned squares visible. Closest to the camera is the edge of an orange square, where the seam has come open and the fabric is unraveling.

I kept careful track of my hours and the amount of money I had earned, separately from the yellow notepad and crumbling pencil stub J gave me. Between my side projects and work for him, at the end of the month, I had earned enough to pay my rent.

But first, I needed J to give me the money.

I texted him, using my most careful and submissive language, to ask if it would be okay if he could pay me back the amount I had earned so far pretty soon so that I could pay my rent by the 1st. He owed me about $170. J responded that he would be happy to pay me what I had earned, however, according to his records, he only owed me $80.

Panicking, I tried to convince him that his numbers were wrong. I talked him through my records, how much I had earned and when, trying to keep my voice from quivering but he picked up on my fear. We argued back and forth until he said, “I can’t speak to you when you’re like this,” and he hung up the phone. He refused to pay me any of what he owed and started ignoring my texts.

I paced back and forth across my apartment, frantically reviewing my options. I needed that money. I had no other way of paying my rent. I had no safety net, no credit, no income. I would have to try to apologize to J and behave so perfectly, do my work so enthusiastically, that he’d forgive me, listen, and give me the money back. I would have absolutely no room for error.

I can’t. I can’t do it.

I had finally found the strong fortress inside of myself that would not let me keep tearing myself up for J into ever-smaller pieces. I had reached my limit. I knew there was no way I could hide my terror from him. I knew I could not grovel low enough to please him and get the money back while holding all this anger and panic inside. I had tried so hard to disconnect, to let go of myself through the worst moments so that I could selflessly and unconsciously do everything needed of me. But no matter how I tried, my sense of self remained. I could not make myself small enough to do this.

A young woman with light olive skin and dark brown hair that cascades over the front and back of her shoulders. She is sitting on a couch, leaning forward, her hand covering her face as if she is deeply upset.

I stared at my list of phone contacts, all the people I couldn’t call for help. My eyes fell on a name: Cameron.

Cameron was a family friend that I had known since I was very small. Her siblings and parents had been a surrogate extended family for me. She had also been the only one who instantly understood my motivations when I cut off contact with my parents at age 19. She was a counselor and a friend, and I trusted her with my past and current self in a way I didn’t trust anyone else.

I called. Cameron listened carefully. Unlike every other person who had talked to me about J, Cameron didn’t try to convince me to leave him.

“I can lend you the money. That’s no problem,” she said, “But I’m concerned about you and the power dynamics and relationship patterns you’re learning and how they could affect future relationships that you’re in. Can you tell me, what are you wanting in all of this?”

Stunned, I became aware that I was having thoughts and feelings and they were rapidly becoming too massive to hold inside. Something started to shift.

After taking a few weeks to myself, I convinced J that he was mistaken about the money he owed me. He stared at me with a stony expression. He seemed uncomfortable. “I won’t apologize,” he said. “I made a mistake. I’m only human.” He broke eye contact, his eyes searching for something else to look at, settling vaguely on the unchanged spreadsheet on the computer screen, not really seeing it.

He was true to his word. He never expressed remorse for his actions.

Cameron sent me a check, enabling me to pay rent. A few weeks later, I left J.

I didn’t actually plan to leave. One night, he was yelling at me, and I found myself already halfway out the door with my coat in my hand.

He blocked my path and I stared at the floor waiting for his lecture. He suddenly became quiet.

“You really want to be free?” he said. I nodded.

J breathed deeply and with a gesture, he said, “I release you of your debt.”

Halfway home, I remembered that J still had half my money. When I texted him, he said if I wanted I could come back another time to collect it, or, I could leave it with him as a thank you for all he’d done for me. I never returned for the money.

A small piggy bank looks worse for wear.

Financial vulnerability makes women less likely to leave their abusive relationships. My escape can be directly attributed to having access to financial assistance, somewhere safe to go, and affordable therapy to recover from the trauma.

Though it’s strange to say, I got lucky, in that the physical abuse I experienced was minimal, and not central to J’s control over me. Had the physical danger been more severe, or had I needed to take care of children in addition to myself, leaving would have been much harder.

I spent the next several months staying with friends because I was lucky enough to have a social network that made sure I was never homeless. I found out there was a new gluten-free bakery in the area— my specialty. I reached out to the owner and got myself a job. I found a local organization that provided therapy to people with low incomes, and I was able to make healing a priority. It took me years to establish stable housing and finances, and I am still processing the trauma to this day.

But my story is part of a much larger problem.

A staggering 25% of women report experiencing domestic violence in their lifetime, and 3 women per day are killed by their romantic partners in the U.S. African-American women experience domestic violence at a rate 35% higher than white women, and two and a half times the rate of other women of color. I personally know two people who were killed in connection with intimate partner violence.

A woman turns her back on the camera and hangs her head in devastation

What’s less widely known is that 99% of domestic violence abuse victims experience financial abuse, a form of manipulation in which the abuser controls their victim through money. My experience was particularly nightmarish, but financial abuse can also include behaviors such as limiting access to bank accounts, creating obstacles to looking for or acquiring a job, or requiring documentation of the victim’s spending.

Financial independence is crucial to escaping an abusive situation and having access to the resources needed to get out doesn’t have to depend on luck. There are specific actions you can take to help someone else out of a situation like mine.

The Purple Purse Allstate Foundation is one organization that works to help survivors of domestic abuse by giving back the autonomy their abusers took from them.

They specialize in helping women achieve financial independence by increasing their access to credit-rebuilding loans, child care, transportation, food, and counseling. They offer educational material on how to handle finances while leaving an abusive partner, managing a budget, job searching, and pursuing a career. All these materials are available online, for free, in English and Spanish.

Donations from you to them mean women like me don’t have to rely on luck to get out.

I never gave J the quilt I made for him. I finished stitching it in the weeks after I left and decided to keep it for myself, as an act of self-love. Its beauty defies the environment in which it was made. Its hand-stitched details signal the resilience of the person who created it.

The handmade quilt I made during my abusive relationship sits in the sun, in shades of blue, purple, green, and pink.

Our Debut Book of Poetry:
Pet: the Journey from Abuse to Recovery

A graphic advertising the book Pet: the Journey from Abuse to Recovery. The book cover is displayed on the left: The word "Pet" is in a large, white, painted font on top of an illustration. There is a cage in the bottom left corner, with a lock and key. There are progressing waves of lighter shades of grey blue in different textures, separated by lines of gold foil. There is a beige bird flying into the top right corner. The graphic repeats the title and subtitle and also says "Order Now!" in all caps and "A collection of poetry you'll read from cover to cover."For the last 13 years, we’ve been working on a book of poetry to represent our process of sustaining, recognizing, and healing from the trauma of the relationship in the story above. We finally decided it was time to share it with the world.

After many months of work, our self-published poetry book, “Pet: the Journey from Abuse to Recovery,” is now available for pre-order for both print and ebook!

Order your copy now

Why You Will Want to Order “Pet”

“Pet” is a poem sequence that navigates the reader through the traumatic & transformative journey of domestic abuse and its aftermath.

Written in four parts, “Pet” explores what it means to lose the sense of self to the coercion of violence; the world-shattering revelation, grief, and uncertainty after the escape; the ache of hindsight; and the quiet strength found in healing. Kella Hanna Wayne’s debut collection of poems is a story of self-denial and self-discovery; A book of poetry to be read cover to cover, and then over again.

Order from the store of your choosing

This post was originally published in the blog of Ms. Magazine as well as on this blog under the name “I Was My Boyfriend’s Servant” in November of 2017.


About the writer: Kella Hanna-Wayne is the creator, editor, and main writer for Yopp. She specializes in educational writing about civil rights, disability, chronic illness, abuse, and Dissociative Identity Disorder. Her work has been published in Ms. Magazine blog, The BeZine, and Splain You a Thing and in 2022, she released a self-published book of poetry, “Pet: the Journey from Abuse to Recovery“. You can find her @KellaHannaWayne on Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Medium, and Twitter.

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