I Was a Love Addict – Léna Escapes

Finally, the bus is here.

Late again, even though it only comes from the next town.

Somehow it is almost always late.

On a pleasant spring evening like this, waiting does not feel quite so bad.

Spring is my favourite season.

Breathing deeply feels better somehow, and so does sighing.

I sigh a lot these days, trying to lift the weight sitting on my soul — even though I know every sigh relieves the pressure in my chest for only a few seconds.

I have been postponing a decision for a long time.

I keep trying not to face the fact that I live with an aggressive man.

Even now I am terrified that when I get home he will explode again because the bus was late.

My stomach tightens almost automatically every time I think about it.

I do not blame S.

I never loved him.

A man can feel that.

He must.

Perhaps in his helplessness he knows no other way to react than to hit me and crush my spirit.

I know exactly why I tolerate it:

I am afraid of the future.

The money I earn from teaching is barely enough for anything.

And I have nowhere to go.

I could return to my mother, but years ago I escaped from her precisely because of the constant raging there too.

I am tired of living in permanent war.

Tired of humiliating myself before a man.

Tired of fighting my mother simply because I cannot — and do not want to — live the life she designed for me.

For once, the bus is not packed.

I am grateful because I can finally sit down and read the last few pages of the book.

I have never read anything that made me want to run this strongly.

To leave everything behind.

Every wound.

Every time I begged him not to hit me again.

Every promise.

Every false fragment of the belief that I was safe.

I do not have much experience of the world.

I am afraid.

Very afraid.

I do not know what will happen next.

I know only one thing:

I will never again let anyone humiliate me this much.

Three years ago, S. pulled me out of my own vomit after I had collapsed drunk outside a pub.

That was the last time I got drunk.

Ever since then, I have allowed him to rule me as repayment for having helped me that night.

I owe him a lot.

He brought me into a family.

He took care of me and my physical needs.

There is always food at home.

I wear beautiful clothes.

I live in a wonderful house.

But the price is enormous.

Every single day, S. tears another piece out of my soul.

I have gained fifteen kilos.

I limp.

My lower back hurts.

My hip hurts.

Every step hurts.

The last page.

I close the book.

Right now I feel emotionally stronger than I have in a long time.

If I do not act now, I may lose that strength again.

I can do this.

I have to be strong.

I don't think Dr Csernus even knows how powerfully this book affects the people who read it.

It forced me to face myself.

It held up a mirror.

There is no point lying to myself any longer.

I am a love addict.

No — not even that.

I barely receive any love from S. beyond terror.

I am simply a whore.

Wonderful.

An overweight, limping, humiliated whore.

There it is.

I stare out of the window, shocked by my own thought.

My chest tightens.

The realisation hurts.

I cannot blame anyone else.

I brought myself into this hopeless situation.

Perhaps if he changed.

If he became the person he was in the beginning.

Perhaps if I changed and tried to love him.

Or perhaps I finally have to pull myself together and escape before everything gets worse.

We are almost there.

My stomach tightens exactly as it does every day before I get off the bus.

I have a choice.

I can live like this and remain alive only biologically.

Or I can look directly at my misery and walk out of this shit.

There is still a fifteen-minute walk before I reach S.'s house.

My stomach is trembling.

I have been taken to hospital several times because nervous vomiting would not stop and I nearly became dehydrated.

Enough.

I am leaving.

But I have nowhere to go tonight.

I would miss the last train to my mother's.

I have to leave in the morning.

Until then, I will decide what to take.

I know I will have to pack quickly.

And I know it will not be easy.

I walk through the door.

S. is sitting at the dining table.

Angry again.

The air around him feels hot.

My stomach trembles.

I tell myself:

One last time.

Just survive this one last time.

“You came on the later bus. Who were you with?” he asks as I hang up my coat.

“The 19:20 bus was late,” I answer flatly.

I know the entire script.

In a moment he will stand up.

He will try to intimidate me.

Then he will grab my hair at the back of my head and start pulling.

I know something he does not:

This is the last time.

He has no power over me anymore.

“I asked who you were with!” he screams, standing up from the table.

He moves closer.

Looks into my eyes.

He sees that I am afraid.

Then his face changes.

Is he frightened?

I hope he does not understand what I am planning.

But he does.

“Forgive me, my dear Nusika,” he says — the name he used when he wanted to sweet-talk me. “You know how stupid I can be. You know I love you.”

He places his hand on the back of my neck.

Terror switches on automatically.

But this time his touch is different.

Fear has awakened in him too.

I can think of only one thing:

I have to make him stop suspecting me.

He cannot know I am leaving.

“You always do this. You never believe me. How could I cheat on you when you monitor every step I take? Forget it. I don't want to argue,” I say indifferently.

“Shall we watch a film?”

“Sure.”

He goes into the room.

I will probably fall asleep during the film.

By morning he will stop suspecting me.

But inside, I keep fighting with myself.

Perhaps I should simply accept what I have.

Maybe I do not deserve more.

No.

This cannot be my life.

I am only twenty-three.

But what if this is all I deserve?

What if things become worse after I leave?

How will I survive financially?

No.

Enough.

I have had enough.

The idea of having a child with S. makes me shiver.

But his family is so kind.

And his youngest brother.

What if I never see him again?

His parents welcomed me with open arms.

How can I be so ungrateful?

Stop.

I have to stop doing this to myself before I lose my mind.

I have to leave him.

I may never have more strength than I have right now.

Dr Csernus's book gave me the courage to change.

If only I could tell him one day.

I am tired.

I slowly fall asleep while the film is still playing.

I have no idea what we watched.

Tomorrow morning I will be strong.

I always wake earlier than S.

Today I wake especially early because I am so nervous.

I go downstairs.

Make coffee, just like every morning.

Sit at the dining table.

Everyone is still asleep.

Seven o'clock.

Perhaps this is the moment to slip away quietly.

Should I leave without saying goodbye to anyone?

I need to go now.

I can take only one bag.

Right now.

No more thinking.

I will go upstairs and leave.

Yes.

That is what I am doing.

I enter the room quietly.

S. is deeply asleep.

I sit on the floor so I will not wake him and think through what I need.

Then I stand.

Very quietly, I take out a bag.

All right.

He is still sleeping.

I am terrified.

Phone.

Wallet.

Cigarettes.

Clothes — whatever fits.

The book.

I get dressed.

Oh no.

He is awake.

He sees that I am dressed and preparing to leave.

I do not wait for him to speak.

“I'm leaving,” I say.

Then I run down the stairs.

I need to reach the street before he catches me.

The front door is locked.

I left my key upstairs.

Why did I not think of that?

His father's key must be here somewhere.

I cannot find it.

The terrace door.

I can get down from there.

He is already here.

It does not matter.

I am outside.

Now please, let a bus come.

“Stop! Where are you going? You can't do this!” he shouts angrily.

Then he immediately lowers his voice when he notices a neighbour looking out of the window.

I barely hear him.

There is only one goal now:

Get onto a bus heading into town.

He walks beside me.

He tries to make me laugh.

And he succeeds.

For a moment, doubt returns.

What if I really am doing something stupid?

My throat tightens.

My chest hurts.

I am an idiot.

I have become ugly.

Overweight.

Sick.

There is no life left in my eyes.

Of course I am leaving.

I am not staying.

I see the bus turn the corner.

I run.

S. runs too.

I get on.

So does he.

He keeps talking.

Begging.

Pleading.

I refuse to look at him.

Tears run down my face.

Somehow the separation still hurts, even though there was very little good in this relationship.

S. is completely different now.

Gentle.

Trying to persuade me kindly.

I look out the window and see my reflection in the glass.

A lost girl looks back.

She has no idea what she is doing.

Perhaps she is making a terrible mistake.

I know almost nothing about life.

What happens now?

Soon I have to change to another bus that goes to the railway station.

S. gets off too.

He can see there is nothing more he can do.

There are several people at the stop, but none of them notices our private drama.

He hugs me.

Lovingly.

My God.

It has been so long since I felt that from him.

Perhaps leaving really is a mistake?

I immediately push the thought away.

I am going.

“Let's talk again. I'll get your things to you, or you can come back for them,” he says, loosening the embrace.

He looks deep into my eyes.

He is crying.

He is not fighting me anymore.

Not trying to force love out of me.

Not humiliating me.

Not trying to dominate me.

He turns quietly and walks away.

I turn immediately in the opposite direction toward the next bus stop.

I cry because it hurts.

It hurts so much.

With every step, I am farther away from S.

For a moment, the weight seems even heavier.

But I can feel that it will not stay that way.

It is already beginning to lift.

There is emptiness around me.

And inside that emptiness I feel space.

Space to rebuild myself.

To rebuild my life.

“What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.”

How often I repeated that sentence while standing beside the conveyor belt in the factory night after night.

Minutes felt like hours.

I felt trapped.

I hated it.

That ended too.

And it did make me stronger.

Every step becomes easier.

I breathe deeply.

Every step brings me closer to my new life.

I can write my own story.

And it will become what I choose to make of it.

At the station, I wait for the train and watch the other people waiting.

There is a story behind every pair of eyes.

On older faces, the story is almost written visibly into the skin.

Their wrinkles are lines from the novel of their lives.

How strange.

I can see life around me now.

I can see it embracing me.

Where have I been until now?

Why did I allow this for so long?

What could make me happy?

Who am I?

Why am I here?

So many questions.

And somehow, fear is no longer one of them.

My chest feels lighter.

I breathe more deeply.

I smile as I take my seat on the train.

Then I realise I have not even called my mother to tell her I am coming.

The phone rings.

She answers.

I tell her I am on my way.

She is happy.

I do not know what happens next.

I know only that I can move forward from one place:

The place where I actually am now.

I have to see myself and my life exactly as they are.

---

It still hurts.

But I allow it to hurt.

Tomorrow will already be another day.

In another life.

Thank you, Dr Csernus.

Thank you so much.

(The cover image is only an illustration.)

Professional portrait photography works best when the real person remains recognisable behind the image.

Part of the BANHALMI ecosystem

For the professional context and practical side of portrait photography, visit the BANHALMI professional website. Related art series, books and exhibitions are preserved in the BANHALMI ART archive.