„𝒲𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎.“

𝐹𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒸̧𝑜𝒾𝓈 𝒹𝑒 𝐿𝒶 𝑅𝑜𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓊𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓁𝒹

Complaint to the Man Who Called Himself Human

I can no longer cry.

The tears have frozen.

In my eyes now lives only ice.

My voice, once strong, is lost and quiet.

Silenced within a circle of silence.

Your words cut through my ears like knives,

draining me of fear where love once resided.

I look at you, yet I am afraid.

Your gaze brings only judgement and danger.

In the mirror, I barely recognize myself.

The girl I once was — buried, banished.

The woman who came after never found her happiness,

because no one saw her, no one understood.

I once had a voice —

as bold as the land,

as strong as the earth,

endless, raw.

But you smothered it with a cold hand.

You showed me how silence is enforced.

You gave me a book, full of words of love.

Yet I found no truth within.

Only performance. Only masks.

Never genuine desire.

Even when I shone, you were never on track.

You call yourself human, so full of feeling?

I saw only cold decay.

If this is humanity, this noble goal,

then mercy should turn away from such a name.

I wrote that poem months ago — before I decided to change everything.

But have I really changed?

I gave up my flat.

Moved in with a man who, as you all know, was supposed to be the stable one. The protector. The solid pillar.

And yet now, I can still hear the echo of my own voice — that very first evening together — asking a question I thought was only half a joke:

“𝓘 𝔀𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝔂𝓸𝓾’𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴 𝓶𝓮.”

Maybe I wasn’t asking. Maybe I was prophesying my own downfall.

Because now, after barely two months of living together, I know exactly how he breaks me. Not with fists. But with constant shouting. With accusations born from insecurity.

With hearing only the parts that justify his own rage. Yesterday, for instance. I felt terrible after the gym, too exhausted to talk. He called immediately. And I, the good girl that I am, picked up — because I knew what would follow if I didn’t.

When the master calls, you answer.

Otherwise, there will be war. He began to talk — endlessly — and interrupted me three times. Twice I dared to say, “Please, let me finish.” The third time, I gave up.

And that, apparently, was my sin.

Because silence — my silence — gave him space to decide that my tone was the reason for his anger. That I had spoken more gently to my ex than to him. And just like that, the trial began. My second mistake that day?

I sent him a link to an online course about communication.

In my naïve mind, it was a peace offering.

In his, an act of war. That evening, we argued for two straight hours.

He shouted.

I tried to breathe.

He said it was my fault he was angry, because I would have preferred the other man. He spat insults about someone who has long ceased to matter.

And when I said, “My head hurts, please stop shouting,” he screamed louder — breaking yet another of his promises not to. So here it is — the truth:

The man I thought was solid is emotionally hollow. A grown man behaving like a toddler. A fifty‑year‑old child desperate to win a war that exists only in his mind. I asked him, “What am I doing wrong, that you still feel so unsafe next to me?”

He said nothing. He spoke of everything but that. And yes, I’ve done everything to make him feel secure:

I don’t greet other men.

I don’t shake hands.

I avoid eye contact.

I make myself small, silent, compliant — and yet it’s never enough.

Until finally, I screamed.

And I hated myself for it.

I wanted to hit myself, just to stop the noise. Because I despise becoming someone who shouts. He called it manipulation. He said if I didn’t speak Polish properly, he’d hang up. Tell me — what’s more manipulative than that? He twists words until I begin to doubt my own sanity. And in that moment, standing there with my own voice trembling against his, I realised — I’m not the one projecting.

I’m the one surviving the projection of a man who mistakes control for love.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓐𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓶𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓘𝓼𝓷’𝓽 𝓞𝓷𝓮

He interrupted me again.

Right when we were talking about interruptions.

There’s a certain irony in that, isn’t there?

He said, “You’re impossible to please.” Then, before I could even respond, he added, “I have a question.”

That’s his usual defence line. Whenever he has no answer, no argument left, he throws in that phrase — “I have a question” — like a smoke bomb.

It’s not curiosity. It’s a tactic.

He needs the pause to rebuild his logic, to find a new angle from which to strike.

And his question? The same as always: “What do you criticise most about me?”

So I answered. Honestly. Calmly.

First — his car.

A Mercedes. Automatic. A symbol of everything he believes defines success. I am no Mercedes‑girl. These cars are for men who want to be seen, not for those who actually go somewhere. I told him once — “I told to you”, he said, mixing Polish grammar into English, “mówię dla ciebie”. You can’t say that. Not in any language. It means nothing. Like so much of what he says.

Second — his figure.

The famous Popeye shape: wide shoulders, no arse. A walking triangle. You know, the cartoon sailor who ate spinach, smoked a pipe, and solved everything with a punch? That one. That’s what he’s built himself into. A man so obsessed with the upper body that he forgot there’s supposed to be a base.

Third — his diet.

He calls it healthy living. Boiled meat with garlic and parsley. Every day. The menu changes slightly, sometimes an egg, sometimes not, but always a mountain of supplements. Capsules instead of flavour. Chemistry instead of nourishment.

Fourth — his language.

He interrupts constantly.

He says he doesn’t hear me because I speak too softly, and when I remind him he cut me off five times already, he insists it’s because he thought I’d finished.

He even admitted once that he sometimes imagines what I might say — he fills in the blanks himself, then later accuses me of saying it.

He literally builds his own evidence.

Fifth — his style.

Philipp Plein. Glitter. Skulls. Over fifty.

He calls it style. I call it a midlife crisis wrapped in rhinestones.

A man preparing to open a business should know the difference between statement and screaming.

And after I listed those things, he said, “You don’t listen to me. You’re always doing something else when I speak.”

He said that yesterday morning — the same morning I was lying on the couch, holding a hot water bottle against my abdomen, barely able to move after the gym, doped on painkillers.

But of course, his voice had to rule the room.

The world pauses so he can talk.

There’s no real conversation between us.

There’s only interruption management.

And sometimes I wonder if this is what love becomes when one person turns dialogue into dominance —

a constant loop of “I have a question”,

when the only question left is:

Why am I still answering?

𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓾𝓷𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓛𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓸𝓯

I thought I was a quarrelsome woman, always criticising, always pointing out flaws. But yesterday, I discovered something else—something I hadn’t realised until now: I falsely accused him, too. I accused him of ruining my life, of making me live in constant fear. He cannot imagine being with someone who is afraid of him. And yet, in truth, it is not him I fear—it is his eruptions, his bursts of anger, his relentless insistence on control. I tried to explain this. I told him I was exhausted from always having to make his life the centre of mine. He claimed this was not true. So I asked him, plainly, when was the last time, in three weeks, I had a day to focus on my work, to write my blog, to pursue my goals? Let’s take last week, as an example. I wanted to watch a YouTube video by my favourite vlogger. Five days later, I finally managed to finish it. Just twenty minutes long. And yet—he missed it. Despite me telling him multiple times, in Polish, I wanted to watch it until the end, he ignored me. His solution? “Put on headphones,” he said. As if I had not already done so. Did he notice? Of course not. He kept talking, oblivious to my attempts to disengage, until I gave in and listened. His reality was always more important than mine. Last week, I had planned to study daily, to advance my nutrition training. How much time did I get? Five minutes? Two? None. Exactly zero minutes without him placing himself at the centre of my day, needing to talk, needing attention. He claimed his “freedom” had been taken from him and finally rejoiced that he could speak freely, without criticism. And there I was again, the critic. Instead of learning, I had to sit, endure, and listen to his endless monologues. I tried to explain. He said he would never speak to me again. And honestly? If I were truly honest, I would have said, thank God. May Allah support you in your stubbornness. But instead, I said I did not expect silence from him. I expected understanding. I expected that he would listen when I said I needed a moment for myself. But he never listens. The argument continued, as he constructed, brick by brick, the narrative of why he was angry, why my “failure” had triggered his outburst. And here, my friends, let’s speak plainly: you cannot win against a man who has a problem with communication. Research confirms this. Men and women often communicate differently, especially in conflict. Men tend to take a problem-solving approach, instrumental and task-focused, while women lean toward relational communication, seeking connection and emotional understanding. Misunderstandings are inevitable when each interprets the other’s intentions through their own lens. Furthermore, studies show men interrupt women more often than they interrupt other men. This constant interruption fosters a feeling of being unheard, dismissed, invisible. And there is the emotional toll—men often struggle to express vulnerability and may avoid difficult conversations entirely. This avoidance exacerbates isolation, frustration, and resentment in their partners. Reflecting on this, I see my partner’s communication style mirrored perfectly in these patterns. The more I tried to explain, the more he ignored, interrupted, and controlled. The more I tried to assert my own time, my own focus, the more he claimed freedom to dominate the space I needed. And all the while, I am left exhausted, frustrated, and unheard.

Communication, it seems, is not a shared act with him. It is a battlefield where one voice is allowed—the loudest, most controlling, most self-assured. And if you dare to speak in your own tone, in your own time, you risk being accused of provocation, of criticism, of undermining him. This is what it means to navigate life beside someone who cannot communicate: constant vigilance, constant self-censorship, constant fear—not of him, but of the storm he unleashes. And yet, I endure, I document, I reflect. For if I do not, who will remember that I spoke, that I resisted, that I existed at all?

I wanted him to learn two things from our conversation. First, if he is unsure about what I mean, he should ask. If he thinks he knows something but isn’t certain, he should ask. Instead, what happened? It became my fault again. At 17:20, he messaged me asking if everything was okay, while I was in the middle of a conversation with my best friend. Around 17:30, he sent a second message. By 17:40, a third message arrived—full-on attack. It basically said: “If you don’t care about me, just say so. I don’t care about you.”

And here comes the age-difference issue. For me, a Millennial woman, someone writing with exclamation marks feels like shouting. For him, it’s just emphasis—an assertion of the importance of his words. The problem is clear when you read it like this:

“Jeśli masz mnie gdzieś to napisz! Mam Cię gdzieś! I będę wiedział że wszystko jest OK z Tobą, tylko nie chcesz bym ja się odzywał!”

In other words: “If you don’t care about me, write it! I don’t care about you! Then I’ll know everything’s fine with you, you just don’t want me to contact you!”

This is not about aggression or concern for my well-being. Instead, he called my generation psychologically disturbed and sick, insisting he wants nothing to do with my generation.

𝓦𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓗𝓮 𝓝𝓮𝓮𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝓪 𝓑𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓜𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓷 𝓤𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰

For nearly two hours, I tried to calm him down. I absorbed the storm, took the blame, softened my tone — anything to pull him away from that edge of rage. And just when I thought he was settling, when I dared to believe that the shouting might stop, a fresh wave of fury rose from nowhere. Suddenly, it was my fault again — apparently because I expect him to ask when he doesn’t understand something, but when he does, I respond like an “adult,” which, according to him, is an act of arrogance. From there, it spiralled. He accused me once more of not loving him. His reasoning? If he ever failed to reply to my messages immediately, I would supposedly panic, assume the worst, and start a fight. I told him, calmly, that wasn’t true. Unless he were a woman, ill, travelling late at night, or entering a danger zone — I wouldn’t worry. I’d simply assume he was busy, working, on a train with no signal, or just didn’t have the time. I would wait. I would give space. But he refused to hear that. Instead, he snapped, “Right, you don’t love me then.”

Let’s recap, shall we? I am, according to him: argumentative, cynical, impossible to please, emotionally cold, and now — incapable of love. At this point, my readers already know my stance on phone addiction. I genuinely believe no one should live handcuffed to their phone, chained by the illusion of constant availability. This 24/7 expectation to respond — instantly, obediently, emotionally — is madness. I’ve noticed my own tendency to scroll too long, especially on Instagram, and I’m consciously trying to distance myself from it. I take days without touching my phone, go for walks, breathe real air. I value quality time with people, not pixels. But in his world, that’s betrayal. I apologised — again — because it was the only way to stop him from spiralling further. I apologised, even though I’d done nothing wrong. I apologised, the same way I did with my mother, with my rapist, and now with him — taking the guilt that isn’t mine, just to earn a few hours of peace. When I finally hung up, drained and trembling, he began calling again. Four times in a row. Then came the messages, the screenshots, the provocations. I was lying in bed, freezing, with my head pounding and my body shaking uncontrollably, and all I wanted was silence. But he couldn’t stop. He never can. Because the moment I reclaim my quiet, he loses his grip. And so, once again, I became the villain — not because I did something wrong, but because I refused to play the part he wrote for me.

And there it was again — a message from him, after he had gone to the urgent care. Nothing serious, really. But naturally, I found myself apologising. Automatically. As if taking responsibility could somehow shield me from the chaos of his moods. I ask myself now, why did I even say anything at all? Why does he believe he can claim a human being as his property, demanding I show no fear while he explodes? And yet there I am, expected to face the morning with a calm smile while he erupts — because apparently, my reaction to his outbursts is the only thing that counts.

It’s absurd. It’s exhausting. And yet, in that madness, I can’t help but see the echoes of the poem I wrote months ago: the frozen tears, the muted voice, the girl inside me buried under expectation and fear. Today, the poem lives not on paper but in reality, in the space where I am supposed to negotiate my own existence around his volatility.

So I leave it with this: even when the storm passes, when the apologies are given and taken, when I have bent myself into shapes that should make him comfortable, the truth remains. Fear, silence, and self-blame do not make a relationship. And maybe, just maybe, recognising this is the first act of reclaiming my voice.

So now I turn to you, dear reader: if you were in my shoes, how would you act? Would you absorb the blame, swallow the accusations, nod silently while being screamed at? Or would you finally draw a line, say, “No, I will not apologise for your rage, I will not take responsibility for your chaos”?

Think about it — would you let someone dictate your fear and your voice, while expecting gratitude for your existence? Or would you reclaim your space, your mind, and your calm?

Write in the comments. Tell me — would you stay silent, or would you finally let yourself be heard?

Read more -> 1. Psychology Today – Age Gaps in Relationships: What Men and Women Prefer

Dieser Artikel untersucht, wie Altersunterschiede die Präferenzen in Beziehungen beeinflussen und welche Auswirkungen sie auf die Partnerwahl haben. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-asymmetric-brain/202501/age-gaps-in-relationships-what-do-men-and-women-prefer?

2. PsychCentral – All About Age Differences in Relationships

Hier werden die Herausforderungen und Dynamiken von Beziehungen mit großem Altersunterschied beleuchtet, einschließlich emotionaler Reife und Lebensprioritäten.  https://psychcentral.com/relationships/age-difference-in-relationships?

3 Medium – The Dark Side of Communication Amongst Age-Difference Couples

Dieser Artikel beleuchtet, wie romantische Ideale toxische Kommunikation und Machtungleichgewichte in Beziehungen mit Altersunterschied verschleiern können.  https://medium.com/%40eleos0002/the-dark-side-of-communication-amongst-age-difference-couples-f930de54ca6a?