I’m 21, living abroad with my boyfriend and his family. I’m losing myself and don’t know what to do next. It’s long, but I need to be understood fully.

I’m 21. Around three years ago, I met my boyfriend, who was living in another country at the time. I was 17, about to turn 18. We bonded quickly, and I saw in him something I never had in my life — warmth, understanding, and kindness. My mother was abusive for as long as I can remember, and for the first time, I felt safe.

One month into our relationship, after another violent episode at home, I ran away to him. He rented us an apartment. At the time I wasn’t working and I told him clearly that I needed support until I could get on my feet. He agreed. He paid for everything, enrolled me in a nail technician course, and I began trying to build something through social media — he really helped.

Then the war started. He suggested I move with him to the US. I wasn’t scared — I was simply too young to understand what I was agreeing to. I didn’t realize how serious the consequences would be or how vulnerable I was. I left everything behind, thinking life with him would be better.

Now I’m here. We’ve been together for around 3 years, and it’s nothing like I expected.

Turns out he owns a house — but we don’t live in it. We live in his parents’ house, which he shares with them and another relative. His finances are fully controlled by his parents. They tell him what to spend money on, what not to buy, how much to save, etc. He was 25 at the time.

There were red flags earlier, but I ignored them. For example, after he returned to the US and I was still in my country, he messaged me at 3 a.m.: “My parents’ puppy needs to be picked up from the breeder, I’ll order you a taxi.” I had never agreed to take care of a puppy, and animals weren’t even allowed in the apartment I lived in. But nobody asked me. I felt used. But I gave him a second chance. Big mistake.

When I moved to the US, I was told we’d be living with his parents just temporarily while renovations finished on his house. The house was in livable condition, not great, but okay. I believed it would just be for a while. I focused on learning English and tried not to get in anyone’s way.

Later, his mom said things like: “Once you graduate high school and go to college, we’ll start talking about getting you a car.” I was 19. Meanwhile, my boyfriend’s younger brother already had his own car. It felt infantilizing, like everything in my life still depended on their approval.

Three months later, his parents decided he should take out another loan to buy a third house — to turn into a daycare. So now he owns two houses, doesn’t control either of them, and the third was a disaster inside, because his father insisted on redoing everything himself.

About a year later, his dad confronted me. Angry. Asking why I didn’t cook for the whole family. Why I stayed upstairs. Why I threw things away. (I was only throwing out my own stuff — I never touched theirs.) But my trash bags were being inspected. I finally snapped and said: “Maybe you should just leave me the fuck alone and let me live my life.”

He lost it. I felt like I was back with my abusive mother. I grabbed a kitchen knife and tried to end my life. They stopped me. I ran to a friend’s house in panic. But the next day, I had no choice but to come back. I had nowhere else to go. I can’t return to my home country — there’s no home left for me there.

Now it’s 2025. We still live with his family. I spend nearly all my time at work or in college. I’m studying to become a nurse. I bought a car (it’s in his name, but I make the monthly payments). I’ve managed to build some stability. But I still live in a house where I don’t feel safe, even in my own room.

The daycare renovations are now finished, and his parents plan to move into the first house he bought. But it looks like they’re not taking their other son with them — meaning he’ll keep living with us, also being financially supported by my boyfriend.

And there’s more. I used to prepare lunches for myself — food I’d take to work or school — and people in the house would eat it. When I got upset, they acted like I was being difficult or dramatic. Eventually, I stopped cooking at all if anyone else was home. Otherwise, I’d get passive-aggressive comments like: “Oh, making food but not sharing?”

Recently, I brought up the idea again: “Let’s just get our own place. Rent something. We need space.”
He said: “Why rent when I already have houses? That’s stupid.”
I said: “But your parents are moving into one of them — what about us?”
He replied: “I’m not going to kick them out of their home. That would be rude.”

On top of that, I constantly get passive pressure from his parents. His mom and dad jokingly say: “So, when are you two having kids already?”
Every time they say that, something inside me just breaks. I want to disappear. I can’t set boundaries — anything I say will be seen as ungrateful or unstable. So I stay silent, feeling the pressure build up until I feel like I’m going to explode or break again.

I avoid them. I only leave my room if I know they’re not home. I don’t hate them — they’ve helped me, and I’m grateful. I wouldn’t be in the US without them. But no one has ever asked:
Is this lifestyle okay for you? Are you mentally and emotionally surviving in this house?

Everyone else has a role, a space, a say. I’m just the guest who’s supposed to shut up and be thankful.

I’m not asking for “just leave” advice — if it were that easy, I would’ve done it already.
I do have documents and I can rent an apartment. But with new policies, my temporary protection status is uncertain and might be canceled. At the same time, my boyfriend doesn’t seem in any rush to marry me, which would at least give me some stability.

So I’m stuck. I’m exhausted.
What do I do now? How do I survive this? How do I not lose myself when I feel like my life isn’t even mine anymore?