Dear Joely: Why Do I Keep Going Back to Men Who Hurt Me?

Dear Joely,

Congratulations on your column. I have really enjoyed it so far. You make me smile and sometimes laugh. I hate that I need to write to you about something serious. If my letter is too much of a corta-onda — as we say back in Brasil — please don’t publish it.

I am 26 years old. I grew up in an abusive household. There was always a lot of yelling. My father was a drunk and when alcohol was involved, it was nothing for him to hit my mother.

As kids, my older sister and I tried to protect her as best as we could, but we couldn’t be there all the time. She would often walk around bruised and, of course, she suffered mentally as well.

My sister left as soon as she could, leaving me alone with my mother and father from age 13. I didn’t blame her. I still don’t.

My mother died young from cancer — at just 45. It is fair to say life was a disappointment to her.

I say all this by way of my background. My problem is that I’m finding relationships incredibly difficult. I tend to date men who are a fair bit older. Things start well, but they always turn out abusive.

I don’t stick around when this happens, but I have been known to go back and “visit the scene of the crime,” hoping things will be different. Of course, they never are.

I have tried going to counsellors. I can’t seem to relate to them and there are not many where I live. I know you can’t solve a problem that has been with me forever, but I just thought you might be able to give me some perspective.

Thank you, Joely,

Machucada

Dear Machucada,

First, your letter is not a corta-onda. It is not a mood-killer. It is a human being telling the truth.

And I’m very glad you wrote.

You grew up in a house where love and fear were tangled together before you were old enough to know they should be separate things. You watched your mother being hurt. You tried to protect her when you were still a child yourself. Your sister left, as she had every right to do, and you were left carrying far too much.

That is not “background.” That is weather. That is the climate your nervous system grew up inside.

So when you say you now find relationships difficult, I’m not surprised. Not because there is anything wrong with you, but because you learned intimacy in a dangerous room.

This is the part I want you to hear clearly: you are not choosing abusive men because you are stupid, weak, dramatic, or secretly “asking for it.” You are being pulled toward a pattern that your body recognises before your mind has a chance to object.

Sometimes what feels like chemistry is actually familiarity wearing perfume.

Older men may feel steady at first. Protective. Certain. Grown-up. But if the dynamic later becomes controlling, cruel or abusive, then the age difference may be part of the power imbalance, not an accident beside it.

The fact that you leave when abuse appears matters. That is a strong and sane instinct. Please respect that part of yourself. She is trying to save your life.

The part I would be more careful with is what you called “visiting the scene of the crime.” That phrase is painfully accurate. Going back to someone who has already shown you harm is not romance. It is the old wound asking whether this time the story might end differently.

I understand the hope. Of course you want the person who hurt you to become the person who makes it right. That would feel like justice. It would feel like repair. It would feel, perhaps, like rescuing the younger version of you who could not rescue your mother.

But abusive people rarely heal us from the harm they caused. More often, they repeat the lesson.

So here is one practical rule I would like you to try:

When a man becomes abusive, the relationship is over. Not paused. Not under review. Not waiting for his sad childhood explanation. Over.

You do not need to keep returning to check whether fire is still hot.

Counselling not working for you so far does not mean you are beyond help. It may mean you have not yet found the right kind of help. For what you describe, I would look specifically for someone trauma-informed, ideally with experience in childhood domestic violence, coercive control and relationship patterns. General counselling can sometimes feel too light for a wound this old.

You might also find it easier to begin with something less face-to-face: online trauma therapy, a domestic violence support service, a group for adult children from abusive homes, or even structured reading and journalling while you search for the right person. The right support should not make you feel judged, rushed or “too much.”

You are not too much. You are injured.

And injured people do not need scolding. They need safety, repetition, patience, and new experiences of being treated gently until the nervous system slowly begins to believe that gentleness is not a trick.

Please do not try to solve your whole life at once. Start smaller.

Do not go back to men who have harmed you.
Do not explain away the first signs of cruelty.
Do not mistake intensity for intimacy.
Do not confuse being wanted with being safe.

And when you feel the pull to return to someone who has hurt you, try saying this to yourself:

This is not love calling me back. This is the wound looking for a familiar door.

You signed yourself Machucada — wounded.

Yes. You are.

But wounded is not ruined.

Wounded is not doomed.

Wounded is not unlovable.

It only means the next part of your life must be built more carefully than the first part was built for you.

And you are allowed to build it.

Yours with tenderness, and absolutely no tolerance for men who make love feel unsafe,

Joely

Dear Joely: I’m Not a Drunk, But

Dear Joely,

I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing to you, except that a friend of mine’s wife likes your column, which I imagine is about as glowing a recommendation as one can expect for an advice page.

In any case, I have a question, or possibly a problem, depending on how dramatic we’re being.

I think my drinking may be getting a bit out of hand. I say “may” because I’m still employed, still paying my bills, and not waking up in a hedge in Stevenage with one shoe missing. I’m not pouring vodka on my cornflakes, and I haven’t yet become the sort of man people speak about more quietly over Christmas lunch. So I do have some perspective.

That said, I’m drinking more often than I mean to, and more than I intend to once I’ve started. I’ve also begun waking up feeling woolly, thick-headed, and vaguely disgusted with myself more often than I’d like. A woman I was seeing recently told me she never knew which version of me she was going to get after a few drinks — the funny one, the moody one, or the one who suddenly wants to start an argument over absolutely nothing. I didn’t enjoy hearing that. Mainly because I think she may have been right.

So my question is this: at what point does “I should probably get a grip” become “this is an actual problem”? And before you say “go to AA” or “talk to your doctor,” I am aware those options exist. I’m asking whether you think this sounds like a genuine issue, or just a man in his fifties noticing that the body is no longer as forgiving as it once was.

You may well be the wrong person to ask, but I seem to have run out of the right ones.

Signed,

Woolly in Watford

Dear Woolly,

First, thank you for that stirring opening vote of confidence. “A friend of mine’s wife likes your column” is exactly the sort of endorsement every woman dreams of.

Men do so love to arrive at vulnerability wearing a fake moustache.

Now that we’ve both survived that, yes — I do think this sounds like an actual problem.

Not because you are waking up shoeless in a municipal shrubbery, but because your drinking is no longer behaving as a harmless supporting character in your life. It is changing your moods, your mornings, your relationships, and your own opinion of yourself. That is enough. You do not need to wait until you are pouring vodka on your cornflakes or being discussed in lowered tones over the Christmas potatoes before you are allowed to take it seriously.

Men in particular do seem to love the idea that a thing only counts once it has become catastrophic. Until then, it is merely “having a few,” “blowing off steam,” or “one of those patches.” This is often very convenient for them, and rarely for the people around them.

The woman who told you she never knew which version of you she was going to get did you a favour. Not a pleasant one, admittedly, but a favour all the same. If alcohol is making you unreliable to yourself and unpredictable to others, then I would stop fussing over whether the word “problem” feels too dramatic and begin with the plainer truth that something is not going well.

And yes, since you’ve pre-emptively rolled your eyes at the obvious advice, I’m afraid I’m going to be boring and sensible anyway. Start keeping proper count of how much you drink and when. Not your charming estimates — the real number. Then speak to your doctor, or a proper alcohol support service, or both. There is no medal for trying to out-stubborn a habit that is already beginning to cost you pieces of your life.

You ask whether this is a genuine issue or simply the body becoming less forgiving. I would suggest that if the body, your conscience, and at least one exasperated woman are all trying to tell you something at once, it may be worth listening.

And for the record, advice columns are not magic. They are simply one of the places people end up when denial has started springing a leak.

Yours, surprisingly sensibly,

Joely