My dear friends, I know I’ve been absent for a while. I was, let’s say, involved in a relationship. And yes, it was a truly terrible idea – I know, we all make mistakes, don’t we? I met a man, Darek, and as you may know from previous articles on the blog, it was quite a diplomatic incident. I entered the relationship because of his profession, or rather, what he claimed his profession to be. He was supposedly a soldier in the past – which, logically, should imply self-control, discipline, and composure. Unfortunately, I was mistaken. My expectations – that I could follow him, that I could surrender because he had a purpose – were completely off the mark.
He felt threatened the moment he realised that I did not need him. He told me stories of how many bones he had broken, how dreadful his former partners had been: one cheated constantly, another was a “prostitute” who slept with a colleague, the third took half his flat when leaving. And he – he was always the good one: faithful, patient, rescuing these women, practically bringing heaven to earth for them. And how were they in return? Ungrateful. They stole from him, betrayed him, and hurt him. He boasted about contacts in the prosecution, high-ranking police connections… but did he ever actually listen to me? Of course not. He only heard what fit his own narrative. And do you know what, my friends? After two months of endless conversation, he only truly registered one thing: that I had attended theatre school as a child. That single piece of information was enough for him to label me a liar – despite the countless times I proved that I had never taken any of his belongings or touched his wallet. I even lent him my own money so he could feel comfortable. No matter what I said or did, no matter how often I cried, or how intense my migraine attacks were, I was never able to convince him that I wouldn’t hurt him. Sometimes, all it took was a simple smile from me in the middle of the night – when I was barely breathing from pain – to make him feel diminished. He told me he was a man, that he had never been wanted by his mother. And yes, I felt sorry for him that he had to endure that, though we all carry our burdens, especially when life has pushed us. He would endlessly recount his stories, and if I tried to speak, he would twist my words into what he believed I had said, or that I ought to have said. The irony is that he often felt, at moments when he forgot himself, that he was inferior to my intelligence. He admitted, more than once, that he knew he wasn’t as clever as I am, and that he frequently felt intimidated by my mind. I, however, did everything to avoid making him feel like he wasn’t enough. I even suggested we read a book together – self-education is, as we all know, vital – and he flatly refused. On more than one occasion, during arguments he instigated, I told him plainly: “I’m simply trying to challenge your potential. I am not like the other women you’ve known. I see your capacity, and I want you to use it.” And yet, he felt humiliated. In the end, the only words I was allowed to speak were things like “darling,” “baby,” or “kitten” – all those cutesy names I would never use unless I was genuinely annoyed. Friends, I must confess: I only ever use such names when I truly do not respect someone, or when I’ve forgotten their actual name. He expected me to take all the blame for every single argument we had. Often, I even showed him how he had hurt me, but he refused to acknowledge it as injury. At some point, I asked ChatGPT, “What’s wrong here? Am I the one who’s crazy?” ChatGPT explained that I was likely dealing with a narcissist. Whether that is strictly true, I cannot say—but every time I read about narcissism, I felt like I was reading about Darek. Of course, this is not a diagnosis, merely my own observation. One fact, however, struck me as particularly revealing. Whenever he found himself completely cornered—when I presented every piece of evidence, including messages I had sent him, which he interpreted as humiliation simply because they did not say “I love you,” or “my baby, darling, kitten,”—he immediately resorted to invoking his religion. In these moments, Karl Marx’s words come to mind: “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.”
He clung to his Jewish identity every time he lost an argument. I never fought him. I simply defended myself, until eventually, I wasn’t even sure who the crazy one really was.
I started to seek out information, trying to understand why I felt constantly drained despite sleeping enough. I was losing weight rapidly, even though I ate plenty, and in the last two weeks before the end of the relationship, I noticed persistent migraines and frequent abdominal cramps after every meal. I could barely manage a small yoghurt without pain. Naturally, I turned to the internet for guidance, looking for explanations and support, because at this point, everyone seemed determined to question my experiences.
What I discovered was both enlightening and chilling. Research shows that relationships with individuals exhibiting narcissistic traits—grandiose or vulnerable—often involve manipulative tactics known as gaslighting. A 2023 study in the Journal of Family Violence found that these personality traits strongly correlate with behaviours designed to undermine a partner’s perception of reality, fostering doubt and self-blame. In other words, what I had been experiencing was not just in my head.
Furthermore, a 2024 systematic review on gaslighting emphasises that such manipulation is usually subtle at first, evolving into a pattern where the victim’s autonomy is continuously questioned and their sense of reality distorted. It confirmed for me what I had already felt: it wasn’t me being “too sensitive” or “irrational”—it was the consistent exertion of control, the rewriting of conversations, the selective hearing of only what served his narrative. Science, it seems, had finally validated my lived experience.
https://dergipark.org.tr/en/pub/pgy/issue/76970/1281632
Last Tuesday, at precisely 6:30 a.m., he broke up with me. He knew that I intended to travel alone to another city to sell my flat, and, as it seemed, he simply could not handle the idea of me going alone—he apparently planned to come with me. On Monday, I had already asked him not to interfere, that I had specially booked an early train so that I could leave in peace. My goal was simple: tidy the flat, sort through documents, and take care of a few bureaucratic errands. But, predictably, what did he do? From 6 a.m. onwards, he launched a full-blown morning assault. By 6:30, he had broken up with me again. Then he began crying and, of course, wanted to cuddle. The problem, once more, was me. As he lunged at me with rapid movements, my body instinctively recoiled. Seeing this, he ran out of the flat in tears—truly, in every sense of the word. He returned shortly after, claiming that he had tried to get into a car accident because I had “hurt him” so badly and he no longer wished to live. He told me he’d tried to crash his car to end his life just to see whether I would lie to him on his deathbed and finally tell him that I loved him. I looked at him and said that if he truly had done that, he would not only have destroyed his own life, but also that of some innocent person who happened to be on the same road. I told him that this kind of “gesture” wasn’t proof of love; it was proof of arrogance—the arrogance of someone who cannot think beyond his own pain. And, to be quite honest, the timing couldn’t have been worse. I had things to do, trains to catch, documents to sign. I told him I would not be able to deal with such melodrama before Thursday, and that if he ever dared to drag another soul into his self‑destructive theatre, I would hate him for it. He waged his little war until I finally relented, offering to let him come with me. Suddenly, the storm was over. No stress, no theatrics—at least for a moment. And what did he do next? Without hesitation, he thrust his hands into my intimate area. I looked him dead in the eye, removed his hands, and said firmly, “That’s sexual harassment. Even in Poland, it’s illegal.” He laughed it off, claiming he was “only joking.” No, this is not a joke. It was assault. I had to wait until he was finished before I could resume my day. During this time, I baked pumpkin cookies. He entered the kitchen and, in his usual self‑aggrandising manner, declared, “This looks like newborn crap.” I stared at him and replied, “You are primitively vulgar. Do you even hear yourself?” He countered, “What? I’m just speaking your language.” Except, of course, I would never describe food in such a manner. And, frankly, he didn’t even need to eat it—no harm done. Admittedly, I had forgotten the sugar, so the cookies weren’t perfect. But the crucial point is: he got exactly what he wanted. In the end, he did come with me—reluctantly, of course—while I finalised the sale of my flat. And, naturally, it became yet another exercise in chaos. My correspondence address was disrupted, bureaucratic details were complicated, and he spent the entire time attempting to “correct” me, even in front of notaries. Apparently, my own words were never enough; he always knew better. Once the flat was officially sold, he presented me with a rose. Not spontaneously, of course—he had calculated this move after I casually mentioned that the most beautiful moment I had ever remembered after waking from surgery was receiving a rose from my best friend. Cleverly, he figured that if he gave me a rose, he could manufacture the “most beautiful memory.” The irony being, we were no longer together, even though he still insisted on cuddling. Throughout the day, I couldn’t complete my official paperwork as I had planned, because he was there, and with his car tyres scheduled for delivery, we were forced to leave earlier than I wished. The following day, he insisted that he understood his mistakes and promised I wouldn’t regret being with him. By Friday morning, of course, all previous promises were meaningless. We were back at war before dawn. On Thursday, he had received a call from his employer, which sent him into a frenzy—running through the flat, flinging doors, behaving like a hysterical child. I was terrified. I tried to stay calm, to soothe him like a mother calming a three‑year‑old through emotional turmoil—but this wasn’t a child. It was a grown man, stronger than I am, screaming that he didn’t want me, that he didn’t care about anything, not even his work. On Friday morning, I woke to a text in which he declared he no longer cared about the Jewish community, no longer wanted to work there, intended to leave on 15 November, and claimed he was breaking up with me—again—because that’s what his therapist and “everyone else” advised. But really, how many times can one break up with someone before the act itself becomes exhausting? And can you even “break up” twice in a row, when you never truly reconciled after the first?
By Friday, after reading yet another message in which he “broke up” with me, I began packing instinctively. This was not an act of extravagance, but a desperate attempt at control over my own life. He was at the gym when he messaged me repeatedly, insisting I accompany him to a meeting concerning work. I told him I could not, explaining my schedule and commitments. Instead of respecting this, he issued commands: “Wait for me until I return.” His tone left no room for negotiation. His moods shifted unpredictably, as wildly as the autumn weather: from tears to anger, from fear to irritation. Eventually, we drove to the meeting. Despite my resistance, he claimed gratitude and begged for a second chance. I told him clearly that I could no longer participate in this back-and-forth; I was heading to my father’s grave the next day. He persisted, demanding my address so he could accompany me. I refused, pointing out that I had no intention of meeting anyone else, yet he assumed otherwise, believing I might visit an ex. During this time, he repeatedly attempted to physically assert control—pressuring me to be close, to allow unwanted contact. I refused, standing firm: we were definitively separated. At one point, a sudden abdominal cramp caused me to instinctively clutch my stomach. He panicked, asking if I might be pregnant. I responded sharply: even if I were, he would never know—the child would never be born. He pleaded for a few days of false reassurance, demanding control over my presence, ignoring my basic needs, including taking my dog out. Later, he attempted to trap me further, calculating that without a key, if he returned at 1pm while I had a train at noon, I would be unable to leave. I panicked, unsure of what to do. I contacted Chadjipiti, who immediately advised calling the police. In hindsight, I know this was the correct course, but fear of his connections and the possibility that my concerns would be dismissed prevented me from doing so. Instead, I called him repeatedly. Eventually, he answered, vague about his whereabouts, claiming he might arrive “tomorrow.” I was left feeling utterly powerless—like a mother confronting a child she can no longer manage, but in this case, the child was a grown man with far more physical power. Psychological studies of narcissistic manipulation, coercive control, and gaslighting consistently demonstrate the mechanisms I experienced: the alternating reinforcement of fear and appeasement, the exertion of control over basic daily actions, and the strategic creation of dependency and anxiety. Victims often hesitate to involve authorities, especially when the abuser holds social credibility or institutional connections, leaving them trapped in cycles of fear and hyper-vigilance. My fear was rational; my indecision was survival.
He agreed, finally, to come home. How considerate of him — or so it seemed.
We talked a little, the kind of talk that exists only to delay the inevitable, and then he asked if he could sleep in my bed.
I said no.
“We are not together,” I reminded him. “Please don’t take it personally, but I don’t want that anymore. I have a train tomorrow.”
He reacted with that particular brand of despair men often use when control begins to slip from their hands. Depressive, wounded, theatrically fragile.
And though I thought I had grown immune to it, his sadness still triggered guilt in me — the kind that seeps in through cracks logic can’t seal.
But guilt for what, exactly?
For him ending the relationship? For the insults? For the manipulation?
Even when I recognised it as irrational, the feeling stayed.
The next morning, he offered to drive me — and my dog — to the station. On the way, he mocked me lightly, saying he could never understand people who pack as if they’re moving house for just two days away.
I looked at him and said, “Darek, you broke up with me. I’ll contact you when I find something new.”
He didn’t like that.
He pleaded with me to leave my things, to come back, to give him another chance.
When I finally got into his car, he took a completely different route.
“This isn’t the way to the station,” I said.
He smiled faintly and replied, “We’re not going to the station.”
My pulse spiked.
A panic attack began to claw at my throat.
I begged him to stop the car, to let me out.
He laughed, half‑shocked, half‑amused.
“Do you really think so little of me? Are you truly afraid of me?”
“Yes,” I said.
Something in my voice must have convinced him, because he finally turned around and drove to the station.
He helped me load my bags into the train. The last thing I saw was his face — tears streaking down, disbelief painted over regret. He could not comprehend that this time, it was real. That I was truly leaving.
He kept calling. I ignored it. Eventually I sent a single message: It’s okay. Everything’s fine.
For me, the story ended there. For him, it had just begun.
When I opened my laptop later, the screen flooded with over thirty unread messages.
Some begged for my location. Others contained screenshots of his navigation app, showing he was already in the car, “on his way to pick me up.”
He wrote, “Send me your address. I’ll come for you.”
And all I could think was: Boy, I didn’t run away so you could come fetch me.
It’s like a murderer chasing his victim and calling after her,
“Darling, why did you run? I only wanted to kill you.”
I must have been insane ever to consider going back.
And no, don’t worry — I’m not crazy. I’m just tired. Utterly, clinically tired.
After hearing his voice messages, I realised I was utterly terrified of his voice. My heart raced, my whole body trembled, and my stomach started acting up again. I decided to go and collect my things while he wasn’t at home. Of course, I’d blocked him everywhere. Yet he continued texting from his work number. I replied that we are neither friends nor acquaintances, and asked him to stop. I kept my messages distant, as he had started trying to provoke me. He took my actions as a personal affront, felt insulted, and did not contact me further.
On Saturday, I went with my best friend to collect my things: my favourite blanket, three cooking pots, photos, documents, and my notebooks for further study. But here’s the twist—he didn’t approve. During the visit, his neighbour called him and, at his prompting, asked the police to intervene. The police, however, couldn’t find any criminal wrongdoing on my part, since I had received the keys voluntarily during our relationship. Even though I could prove I was merely collecting my belongings, the officers insisted I return everything from the car—including my underwear, which was utterly absurd—and place them back in his flat with the help of my assistant. I thought it was a bad joke.
When the police instructed me to call him and I had to hear his voice again, panic and terror washed over me. I had a severe asthma attack, felt dizzy, and nearly blacked out. I collapsed to the ground automatically. I tried to stand again, but my body seemed to have forgotten how. Simply hearing his voice had overwhelmed me entirely. He had informed the officers of his “rights” but made no attempt to explain himself. I concluded he thinks he knows everything; he is a walking encyclopaedia of the system’s rules. For a moment, all I could see was black. My best friend gave me an inhaler, and slowly I began to feel a little better. The police didn’t know how to communicate with me; I was in shock and could barely process what was happening. My friend explained to the officer that I have autism and that, under such stress, I might not fully comprehend instructions. I even began texting the officers in German, because my Polish suddenly sounded like a foreign language to me, and I felt extremely unsettled. The officers agreed that he was a complete idiot. I explained that he had tried to alter my documents, that he had contacts at the prosecutor’s office and the highest levels of the police, and that he would probably punish me for it. By the end of it all, I was genuinely afraid. And yet, he scolded me over the phone, claiming that if I hadn’t brought the man with the ponytail, done exactly as I was told, met with him, and collected my things, none of this would have happened. In his mind, he convinced himself that he didn’t know me at all, that I was the one stealing from him, lying to him constantly—because, as I’ve said before, I had attended theatre classes as a child.
He kept ramping up the threats. He’d told the neighbour to note down the licence plate of the car I’d come in and boasted that he’d watched it all on camera — that on Monday he would review the footage and prove beyond doubt that I’d stolen from him. As if I’d masterminded some great heist against the poor, wronged man. I didn’t know what to say. I tried to keep my composure, but I was under extreme stress. And yes, maybe the two times I collapsed from being overwhelmed look to some people like an act — but I did not pretend. I genuinely lost control of my body. Before we went to collect the things, my best friend and I drove to the police station to hand over the spare keys. The officer said he could not accept them. For a second I was stunned — “What am I supposed to do with the keys?” I asked. The police insisted: either post the keys or arrange to meet the man in person. I had no wish to meet him, so I posted them, just as the officer instructed. Unsurprisingly, that simply escalated matters between me and him. If I ever write a CV, perhaps I’ll list my skillset honestly: “Excellent at provoking escalation.” 😅
After I’d left my things there and the police had allowed me to take my documents, I decided for myself: I will never have a boyfriend or a man again. I’ve had enough. But of course, it wasn’t enough for him. He wasn’t finished with me. He claimed that he had called me and that I’d supposedly said I was a police officer. I proved to him that he was lying — or mistaken — that he hadn’t called me at all. He insisted he had witnesses. I smiled into the phone and said, “You didn’t call me. I’ve got the call log right here — I can show you.” I sent him a screenshot, and that’s when his mask slipped. He didn’t even think before replying; he just wrote that he didn’t believe me, that maybe he was mistaken. Then I called him and asked, “What’s your problem?”
He said he didn’t understand why I was calling, that he didn’t want to talk to me. I forced him into the conversation anyway. My best friend couldn’t take it anymore — he couldn’t stand hearing me constantly trying to explain myself for things that weren’t even my fault. I’d reached the point where I no longer knew why I was calling him at all. But maybe that was the point — maybe I called just to calm everything down again. I sent him the poem I had written for him, the one that had once calmed him down that Friday, that had supposedly touched his heart. But this time he said I’d faked it all. That I was an actress. Because, after two months, the only thing he remembered from everything I had ever said wasn’t that I wanted peace, not that I didn’t need a relationship to feel whole, not that I knew I was attractive and didn’t need anyone else’s validation — no. The only two things he remembered were:
first, that if he didn’t contact me for half a year, I probably wouldn’t even notice; and second, that I didn’t need him. Here’s the twist: I really wouldn’t notice — not because I’m cold, but because I grew up in the time of landline phones. Phones nailed to the wall, where people still sent Christmas cards, not WhatsApp messages. Back when everything felt closer, even when it was far away. I grew up at the dawn of telephones. I have friends I speak to once every six months, and it doesn’t bother me. Because I also grew up understanding that we’re all adults now — and that maintaining friendships in adulthood means saying things like, “I’ve got time in March 2027 at 1 p.m.” — “Perfect, I’m free on April 2nd at 11 p.m. Let’s make it happen.” 😁 I learned to give people space — as much as they need. He, on the other hand, only ever learned control. At least that’s how he showed himself to me. And I’d probably still feel guilty even if I’d been the reason for something, because I’d written to him everything I’d felt — listed what I had done, what I’d accepted even though I hadn’t wanted to. That includes the possibility of being pregnant. He called me, and I handed the phone to Karol and asked him to drive me to the hospital. After my best friend called him and told him he was waiting outside the hospital — that the doctors had given me sedatives and were examining me because I was in bad shape — Darek still talked only about himself. About how he allegedly loved me more than his own parents. About how, when one’s in love, one goes mad and becomes irrational. Until Karol finally hung up. And in that moment, I understood: the only thing he truly loves is the illusion of my powerlessness. The only thing he can handle is seeing me as his projection. And I am worth so much more than being someone’s toy.
The Anatomy of Power and Projection
What happened between us is not rare — it’s almost textbook. Psychology calls it trauma bonding: the paradoxical attachment between a victim and a perpetrator, forged through cycles of affection, withdrawal, guilt, and control. It isn’t love; it’s chemical dependence disguised as devotion. A person like Darek thrives on projection. He cannot meet himself in silence, so he casts his chaos outward. His need for dominance is not strength — it’s fear wearing armour. Every accusation he throws is a mirror of what he refuses to confront. You lied. You manipulated. You abandoned me. The truth: he did all three. The illusion of control keeps such men afloat. They confuse love with possession, communication with interrogation, care with supervision. They do not love you — they love the feeling of being needed. Once you reclaim yourself, you cease to be their mirror, and they call that betrayal. Modern relational studies — from Judith Herman’s Trauma and Recovery to Lundy Bancroft’s Why Does He Do That? — describe this dynamic with clinical precision: abusers oscillate between idealisation and devaluation, creating an emotional dependency that mimics intimacy but serves domination. When you start to wake up, they tighten the net with guilt. When guilt fails, they use fear. When fear fails — they crumble. That is the fall you witnessed: the dropped weapon, the frantic denial, the desperate attempt to rewrite the story. Because without your reflection, he must finally face his own emptiness. To survive such dynamics is not just to leave a relationship — it is to reclaim authorship over your own narrative. You no longer speak in response to his distortions. You speak to bear witness to yourself. That is the quietest, most radical form of freedom.
The End of the Male Narrative
Somewhere between survival and awakening, a new kind of silence emerges — not the silence of fear, but the silence of self-possession. For years, women have been told that fulfillment lies in partnership, that to be “complete” means to be chosen. But the cultural tide is turning.
Even Vogue recently declared what many of us have known deep down: having a boyfriend in 2025 is not trendy anymore. Not because of bitterness, not out of cynicism — but because the emotional economy has shifted. The new luxury is autonomy. The new intimacy is self-trust. This isn’t rebellion. It’s evolution. After centuries of being trained to adapt, soothe, and rescue, women are collectively uninstalling the program. The old script — be kind, be forgiving, be patient, be his peace — has expired. What replaces it is radical clarity: be your own peace. I used to believe love was a merging. Now I see it as alignment. And if no man can meet me at the level of my peace, my clarity, my depth — then I choose solitude without shame. Because solitude is not emptiness. It’s spaciousness. It’s where I meet the truest version of myself, unfiltered, unobserved, undemanded. He said he loved me more than his parents. But what he really loved was the version of himself reflected in my eyes. That is not love — that is dependency dressed as devotion. And I will no longer play that role. I resign from the theatre of male fragility.
I don’t want a relationship.
I don’t want a saviour.
I don’t want to be managed, explained, or softened.
Ich will mich selbst.
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