Some of the most dangerous lies aren’t shouted; they’re whispered through screens, disguised as love stories, and wrapped in fantasy. We watch them unfold in movies, binge on TV shows, and scroll past them in viral TikToks and memes. They’re everywhere. Many tell us that control, dominance, or manipulation are forms of passion.
Take Fifty Shades of Grey, for example. It was marketed as a provocative, edgy romance—a daring take on seduction and sexual exploration. Millions bought the books. Box office records were shattered. But here’s what was often missed: what was sold as a “love story” was, at its core, a deeply unhealthy and abusive relationship.
Christian Grey isn’t a dream partner. He’s controlling, possessive, emotionally manipulative, and isolating. He stalks Anastasia, controls her career decisions, dictates who she can see, and uses intimacy as a tool of control. And yet, audiences swooned. His behaviour was excused as the actions of a “damaged man who just needed love.” The message was clear: if you love someone enough, you can fix their trauma, even if it means sacrificing your safety or sense of self.
This isn’t just bad storytelling. It’s dangerous.
And it’s not always a man hurting a woman. Women can be abusers, too. Media tends to portray abusive women as “crazy,” “jealous,” or “just emotional,” but these are red flags too, not plot twists. Female abusers may weaponize guilt, control finances, isolate partners from family, stalk, or use children as pawns. Whether the abuse is emotional, physical, sexual, or verbal, and regardless of the gender of the abuser or the victim, it’s still abuse.
When abuse is repackaged as romance, it distorts our understanding of what love is supposed to look like. It blurs the lines between passion and possession, between desire and domination. And for those who have lived through real abuse, it feels like a punch to the gut.
Because here’s the truth: Real survivors don’t get luxury penthouses and fairytale endings. They get confusion, isolation, trauma, and years of healing. They get gaslit into thinking it’s their fault. They get disbelieved, silenced, or told to be grateful it wasn’t worse.
The media doesn’t just glamorize abuse; it often eroticizes it. It teaches young people that being desired means pursuing relentlessly, even when you say no. That jealousy is romantic. Mood swings and emotional outbursts show how deep someone’s love runs. That boundaries are meant to be broken if you’re truly “meant to be.”
But this isn’t love. It’s an obsession. It’s dysfunction. It’s abuse dressed up as intimacy.
It’s not just Fifty Shades. Countless other stories glorify toxic relationships: The brooding, emotionally unavailable partner who treats their love interest like a project. The “bad boy” or “crazy girl” who hurts everyone but magically changes for the right person. The romanticization of stalking, ignoring boundaries, or using sex as a bargaining chip.
Think about how often films show people being “worn down” until they finally say yes. Or how many times emotional abuse is chalked up to childhood trauma that the love interest is supposed to fix. These narratives aren’t just tired—they’re harmful.
They send the message that love requires suffering. The more you endure, the more valuable your passion becomes. That abuse is a phase, a kink, a challenge—not a crisis.
And for those of us who have survived actual abuse, it’s triggering. Because we’ve lived the reality behind the fiction. We’ve endured the “love” that left bruises—not just on our bodies but also our minds and spirits. We’ve been told our abusers were just “misunderstood.” We’ve heard, “But they buy you nice things,” or “At least they come home at night,” or “Maybe you’re just too sensitive.”
So when the world glamorizes what nearly destroyed us, it’s not entertainment. It’s erasure.
We must start calling it what it is. Abuse is not sexy. It is not romantic. It should not be brushed aside for chemistry or plot development. Abuse is traumatic. It’s life-altering. And no amount of cinematic flair can change that.
We need better stories. We need love stories rooted in respect, empathy, communication, and mutual care. We need media that shows healthy relationships—where power is shared, not hoarded; consent is sacred, not negotiated; and people are partners, not projects.
And we need to equip ourselves—and the next generation—to spot the difference. To recognize when the screen is lying to us. To stop confusing red flags with butterflies.
Because real love doesn’t control, it doesn’t intimidate. It doesn’t cross your boundaries and then blame it on trauma. It doesn’t make you feel smaller so someone else can feel powerful.
Real love honours, protects, and sets you free.
Let’s stop letting Hollywood define romance. Let’s tell the truth—even when the truth isn’t shiny or marketable or trending, because survivors deserve more than to see their pain turned into profit. And love deserves more than to be reduced to abuse with good lighting and a soundtrack.
Survivor Speaks Truth 
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