Fight Club – The First Slap from the Person You Love

If someone asked me when I truly changed overnight, I would name two days that brought enormous shifts into my life.

For a woman, I think there is hardly anything more important than the birth of her children — and I experienced that four times.

Holding them in my arms was extraordinary, and I am sure they changed me deeply too.

But the greatest transformations in my life did not begin with their births.

One of them came when, after many years, I saw a childhood friend again.

Something happened to me that day that I can describe only as recognition.

When she walked through my door, the first things I noticed were the scent of her perfume, her beautiful coat and scarf.

Then her earrings.

Her makeup.

She looked so beautiful.

And there I was in sweatpants, with not even my eyebrows done.

I suddenly thought:

I have lost a part of myself.

The woman who once liked looking attractive and feminine.

By then, I had become little more than a domestic servant in the role of mother.

I do not mean that appearance is everything.

But for a woman, five minutes a day can matter.

Time to do her hair.

Paint her nails.

Something that belongs to her.

The real recognition came during our conversation.

My friend told me her relationship with her husband was bad.

He hurt her.

He had beaten her.

He had even hit her while their child was sitting in her arms.

My stomach tightened.

She talked.

I listened.

And at the end she said again:

She was going to divorce him.

I assume everybody knows that internet image of a cat sitting in a carrier with the top missing.

The cat stares straight toward what it believes is the way out — except there are bars there too.

That is exactly how I had felt.

Suddenly, however, divorce appeared as a real door.

A way out of my own hell.

By then, my husband had been beating me for a long time.

He blackmailed me.

Emotionally terrorised me.

I had to return home from kindergarten at exactly the expected minute.

He knew every step I took.

Beside him, I could not breathe.

When he happened to be in a good mood, he only criticised the food I had cooked — after eating it, of course.

I could never cook anything well enough for him.

Once, after he slapped me, he explained to our children that I had deserved it.

“Mum needs to be educated too,” he told them.

“She does bad things as well.”

From that point, even my children stopped respecting me.

Nothing I asked or said carried weight.

Dad was omnipotent.

He decided everyone’s fate.

He “educated” everybody.

Even me.

I wore long, shapeless clothes.

They looked as though I had pulled a sack over myself.

But they hid the marks.

The only thought in my head was:

Nobody else must see.

How humiliating it would be if someone noticed and asked why my thigh was purple.

I am sure I would have invented an explanation.

But thanks to those sack-like clothes, I did not have to.

Of course, I no longer looked attractive to other men either.

That meant my husband had less reason to become jealous and ask who I was dressing nicely for.

I had forgotten what dressing nicely even felt like.

There were the children.

And I believed that as their mother, it was my responsibility to keep the family together.

I did not dare leave.

We lived in a rented apartment.

Where could I possibly go?

We also had some debt at the time.

Not much.

But enough to become another reason to stay.

My husband constantly repeated:

I was useless.

Nobody else would ever want me.

I should be grateful he was my husband.

There had even been a time when I was grateful.

I genuinely believed I could not have a better husband.

I believed any other man would do the same things to me because the problem must be inside me.

So I was always the one trying to change.

But nothing was ever enough for him.

Whatever I did, however hard I tried, he criticised me.

Somehow I even denied to myself what was happening.

He does not really want to hurt me…

He was only angry…

I deserved it.

He did not hit me that hard.

He had simply had a terrible day at work.

And yes — the toast really had burned.

He apologised after pushing me against the wall.

Why did I deny it even to myself?

Because I was afraid to tell even my closest friend.

If I said it aloud, it would become real:

Yes.

My husband beats me.

And once that becomes real, the next step can no longer be avoided.

I changed.

I could not stop the change.

One word kept appearing in my mind:

Divorce.

I began imagining how much easier life could be if it were only the children and me.

What would it feel like not to become frightened at six in the evening because he would soon walk through the door?

What would it feel like if the arguments disappeared?

If I no longer carried the responsibility that everything at home was my job — and that forgetting anything meant shouting?

If I cooked, there would be nobody to insult the food I placed on the table.

Even when I was ill, nobody had ever taken care of me.

From the day they were born, I had looked after the children.

I could do it alone.

And it might even be good.

Even if no man ever wanted me again, being a single mother would still be better than buying comfrey cream at the pharmacy with my eyes lowered, feeling as though everybody could read on my forehead why I needed it.

Then one day, after taking the children to kindergarten, I stood in front of him.

“I want a divorce.”

I could barely say it without crying.

He did not even look at me.

He did not take my words seriously.

He casually asked:

“And where exactly would you go?”

“To my mother,” I said.

I asked him to talk calmly.

Neither of us was happy.

Not him.

Not me.

I even said:

I cannot cook properly anyway.

Why keep me here?

He can find someone better.

In the middle of my explanation came the first slap.

It was so hard that I fell onto the bed.

My ears rang.

Before I even understood what had happened, the next blow came from the other side.

This time with a fist.

I tried to defend myself.

I could barely see.

The blows kept coming.

Until that day, he had never hit my face that hard.

He kept saying he would disfigure me.

Then no other man would want me.

According to him, the only reason I wanted a divorce was because I wanted to “whore around”.

I said I would get a medical report documenting the injuries.

I thought that might stop him.

Instead, he hit me even harder.

Somehow I managed to kick him in the stomach.

That gave me enough space to crawl away.

Then I ran.

In slippers.

In December.

I went next door.

The neighbouring building was a school.

I asked a teacher for help.

My nose was bleeding.

I could barely see.

That day truly changed me.

The police came.

They did not take him away.

Even though they could see exactly what I looked like.

They questioned me.

The children.

And him.

He said I had fallen down the stairs.

He lied.

He did not even have enough courage to admit what he had done.

The officer asked what I wanted to do.

I said:

I want to move out.

I want a divorce.

My husband has even taken my phone.

Fortunately, I mentioned the phone.

At least the police made him return it.

But they did not remove him.

I remained in the same house with him.

I had believed that if I asked for help, help would come.

It did not.

There was no help anywhere.

It was the longest night of my life.

I tried to sleep with the phone in my hand.

Every sound woke me.

The fear was unbearable.

I was convinced he might kill me during the night.

And perhaps the children too.

The next day I filed a police report.

I also had my injuries medically documented and began organising the move to my mother’s home.

Getting the medical report was difficult.

Fortunately, my friend came with me.

The doctor who examined me was a man, and I felt painfully uncomfortable in front of him.

Even though he was a doctor.

When I walked in, he and his assistant were laughing about something.

I sat down and explained what I needed.

The paperwork and examination happened at the same time.

The doctor and assistant continued joking together as if I were barely there.

I could not bring myself to show all of my injuries.

I simply could not.

He examined only what was visible on my face and sent me for a skull X-ray.

There too, they asked:

“Who did this to you?”

With my voice breaking, I said:

“My husband.”

That was when I became a real fighter.

The first time I showed my wounds openly, I promised myself:

Nobody will ever be allowed to hurt me like this again.

No human being can deserve this.

There is no such thing as:

“She deserved it.”

Deep down, I had already been a fighter.

I had fought and survived every single day.

I had learned whatever I had needed to learn.

How to clear a blocked drain.

How to put a door back on its hinges.

How to trim the bottom of a Christmas tree so it fit into the stand.

How to shovel snow.

Carry heavy shopping bags.

Lay carpet by myself.

Pack an entire home alone during a move.

I survived.

It was difficult.

But I solved everything.

Emotionally, I was a fighter too.

My husband had taken almost everything from me.

He damaged me psychologically.

Humiliated me.

Took my self-respect.

My faith.

But one percent of me remained.

A tiny ray of hope saying that one day I would rebuild myself and take back everything I had lost.

I went through with the divorce.

It was extremely difficult.

Three psychologists stated that my husband had abused both me and the children.

Even so, he still received visitation rights.

I also had to fight through a defamation case he initiated during the divorce.

His idea was that if there were criminal proceedings against me, perhaps the court would give him the children.

Fortunately, it did not work.

He received a probationary measure.

That means if he tries something similar within a certain period, the consequences will be more serious for both the new act and the defamation.

I became a fighter.

A real one.

---

Someone who uses every ounce of strength to protect her children.

Someone who refuses to give up.

I believed in myself enough to know I could survive the process.

People often imagine that once you leave an abuser, the story ends.

It did not end.

Sometimes he begged me to take him back because he loved me so much and regretted everything.

At other times he blackmailed me and threatened to take the children.

He could not.

He tried countless tactics.

I remained standing.

He reported me to child protection authorities several times.

But nothing was secret anymore.

The kindergarten teacher knew.

My children’s teachers knew.

Even the neighbours where I lived knew.

I was no longer ashamed.

I could say openly:

Yes.

This happened.

But I will no longer allow him to hurt us.

Never again.

Everything changed.

That change began seven years ago and is still unfolding today.

I realised I was capable of far more than managing a household.

I learned that I could handle official administration.

That I was resourceful.

Creative.

And yes:

A good person.

A good mother.

I realised I could still be a woman even though I was already a mother.

More than that.

I was fortunate because eventually I also experienced real love.

And that gave me even more strength.

I learned to stand back up.

To face fear directly.

To fight like an Amazon for my family.

For my children.

And for myself.

(The cover image is only an illustration.)

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