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Instinct for Self-Preservation
For half a year, life seemed ordinary, almost peaceful. Julian, Jack and I took small adventures to Waterford on the motorboat. We discovered a lost island where seals lounged lazily on the rocks, noses glistening with saltwater, sun warming their backs. Tramore beach stole my heart instantly—the golden sands, the rhythmic lap of waves, a soothing contrast to the storms that sometimes loomed over our lives.
During the summer, a fair arrived in town. Music spilled into the streets, laughter tumbled over cobblestones, children screamed in delight on the rides. Families waded into the sea while we lingered on the shore, inhaling the briny air, stopping for fish and chips at a quaint seaside restaurant. In those rare moments, Jack resembled the man I had once loved so fiercely—gentle, warm, laughing freely.
We sometimes stopped at small bars in Waterford or drove along the winding slopes of Mount Leinster, windows down, music blaring—Phantom of the Opera or Rob Thomas, his favorites. On a trip to Glendalough, the ancient monastic town I had visited years before with Paddy, Ice tore down a steep valley slope after some sheep. Julian, Jack, and I sprinted after him, nearly tumbling head over heels, laughing and gasping for breath, until we finally secured him by the collar. Relief was a tangible thing, shared in panting chuckles.
And yet, darkness always returned. Jack’s temper lurked like a hidden storm, ready to break without warning. One evening, after work, I went alone to the Barracks for a drink and met Tom. Harmless, gentle, a giant of a man. I returned home and casually mentioned seeing him—and everything changed.
Jack’s fury struck like a tidal wave. He grabbed my sweater, tearing it as I hit the floor. Straddling me, rage darkened his face. He could not bear the thought of me socializing without him. Another day, in our backyard, he swung a wooden chair at me, leaving me dangling upside down. I can’t remember what had provoked him, only that Ice rested his muzzle against my shoulder, a small island of comfort in the storm of violence.
I endured these outbursts because I thought I had to. I convinced myself that love meant suffering, that devotion demanded submission. It was madness, incomprehensible to anyone outside our world. I believed Jack’s anger was justified, that it was my fault. He painted himself as the loving guardian, the protector of truth, insisting on honesty while shielding us from the outside.
I had no friends then, but slowly, that changed. My sister, sensing danger, reached out. She had deduced from my letters that Jack’s love was poisoned, consulted a women’s center in Prague, and helped me see what I had long refused to acknowledge. Until then, I had never considered myself abused. I excused his behavior, even believed I deserved it. Slowly, the truth seeped in, relentless as a river cutting through stone.
I refused to break. I refused to be like the women I had heard about, crushed beneath someone else’s will. I was strong—or I wanted to believe I was. I convinced myself that enduring him might earn respect, that persistence was proof of love. Sometimes, I almost escaped—but the chains of love held me fast.
By chance, I met Martina in town. She listened patiently and devised a plan. Temporary housing, a chance to escape. I wrote to Jack, declaring our breakup and intent to collect my things. He demanded we speak alone, claimed he held my passport. Martina made me face reality: I had to end it. Waiting in the car, she threatened to leave forever if I did not follow through.
Inside, Jack tried to placate me, but within ten minutes, his manipulation was working again. Martina kept her promise and left, never to return. Later, I wondered how different life might have been if I had listened. Freedom had seemed so close, yet some unseen tether held me back.
Ice and Lola ended up in temporary shelters; we lacked both time and money to care for them. I had grown indifferent to Jack’s decisions—they were absolute. I mourned the dogs but consoled myself: life might be better for them away from us. Later, I learned Jack hadn’t paid the shelter for months, and a kindhearted adopter eventually rescued them. Relief, quiet and lingering, washed over me.
One evening, an incident seared itself into memory. We were in the living room, a few drinks in, when I went upstairs. Returning, Jack lunged down the stairs, head first into my stomach. Instinct surged—pure, unfiltered self-preservation. I kicked him. He flew like a projectile. He recovered, attacked again, and I clutched at anything within reach, heart hammering, adrenaline coursing through every vein.
Fifteen minutes later, the police arrived. Jack opened the door, instructing me to pretend all was well. “Good evening. We had a report from neighbors—they heard shouting,” said the officer, glancing at me. Jack held me like a hostage. I forced a strained smile, feigning surprise. “We were just arguing a little, nothing more. We promise it will be calm from now on,” he said confidently. The officer nodded and left.
I breathed in deeply, tasting survival. That night, instinct had saved me, raw and undeniable. I had crossed a line from which I could not retreat—and for the first time, I truly felt that self-preservation was more vital than love.
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