copyright©2025
I didn´t know My Own Strenght
The house we moved to was only across the street, yet it belonged to a different agency, one that knew nothing of us, nothing of our shame, nothing of the slow unraveling that had brought us here. The hallway hit me first, a nauseating mix of stale beer, sweat, and the sharp, acidic sting of men who had staggered home from the pub and urinated where they stood. The apartment itself was a shrine to neglect: ugly, cold, and heavy with a bad energy that seemed to seep into my bones. I longed for my old apartment, pristine and warm, the one that had felt like my own skin. Instead, I was trapped in this place, consumed by the relentless itch of eczema and the dizzying awareness of how far I had fallen.
I stopped leaving. The world became a blur outside my four walls. Work, once a tether to normalcy, fell away—first because of a broken leg, then completely, as my skin betrayed me. The state offered a pitiful consolation of two hundred euros a week, not nearly enough to buy dignity or courage. I avoided human eyes, hiding behind the dark rings of eczema that framed my eyes like some grotesque mask. My days were spent in sterile, distant clinics, where a doctor examined me with a mixture of clinical curiosity and thinly veiled pity.
“I sent photos of your eczema to specialists in Dublin,” he said once, his voice tight with concern. “Honestly, I’ve never seen such an aggressive type of eczema in my life.”
He gave me a massive injection, a chemical lullaby that sent me into oblivion for the rest of the day. I woke in a haze, moving through the apartment like a tiny, fragile insect, a creature barely clinging to life. By then, Jack and I had stopped being intimate, and I felt an unexpected relief, a freedom I hadn’t realized I was starving for.
Distance became a lens through which I finally saw him clearly. The charming facade, once suffocating and inescapable, melted away. My feelings evaporated, quick and hot, like steam from a boiling pot. Separation brought clarity, a hard-edged sobriety I had never known. For the first time, he could not touch me, could not torment me, could not take what little I had left. In that cruel withdrawal, I found sanctuary.
Months later, Jack announced another move. He had secured an apartment, he said—a state-subsidized haven for himself and his son. We returned to Riverdell, the place we had fled, yet this time the apartment faced the opposite side of the building, looking out over the agency. It was new, pristine, orderly, a layout similar to the old one: a bedroom, a smaller room, and a living area with a kitchenette that opened onto a balcony. For the first time in months, everything was functional, untouched, and mine to inhabit.
I no longer shared a bedroom with him. He took the larger room, while I claimed the smaller one beside him. Across the hall was my bathroom, but it was the small bedroom that became my true fortress. That room was my sanctuary, the place where I could breathe without fear. And because my eczema made me undesirable to him, he did not touch me. In that moment, in that quiet, I discovered a salvation I had never anticipated: a glimpse of peace, of autonomy, of survival.
One evening, when he didn’t come home and I saw from the window that he had wandered into the pub on the square, a restless, suffocating urge gripped me. I walked toward the flooded river near the rowing club, where I had often watched men sweat and strain, oars slicing the water in perfect rhythm. But now, I was too raw, too exhausted by Jack, by my skin, by the relentless hopelessness pressing down on me. I sat on the riverbank, my ankles submerged in icy water, and let my mind drift to the dark thought that maybe the river could take it all away—my pain, my fear, the endless weight of everything. I cried until my phone rang, breaking the fragile spell. Jack found me eventually, scolding me in his cold, clipped way, and dragged me home. I knew, with bitter clarity, that concern was the last thing motivating him.
Those weeks seemed to stretch like thick taffy, slow and oppressive. I began visiting Ewa’s apartment, where some of her friends gathered. Edita and Ewa’s boyfriend were often there, and we would listen to music, letting the sound fill the gaps left by my silent despair. Jack ignored me during those visits, and the absence of his scrutiny felt strange and almost luxurious. For once, he had turned off the radar that always seemed trained on me. Maybe, I thought with a faint, ironic smile, he had finally learned to trust me. I didn’t truly believe it for a single moment, but it was a small, illicit comfort.
That month, I traveled alone to Kilkenny for a minor cosmetic procedure, spending my afternoons at Ewa’s. Jack knew where she lived; once, he even accompanied me there. For a while, things were calm, almost bearably so. There were no major arguments, no physical outbursts. I allowed myself to enjoy it. The quiet was a rare, fragile treasure I hadn’t known in years.
Then, one evening, he snapped. I cannot remember why—likely some trivial provocation—but the eruption was violent. His voice became a roar, and I ran to hide in my small room, heart hammering. The door, sturdy and resolute, became my only ally as he pounded against it, shaking the walls. A picture crashed to the floor, glass shattering under the weight of his fury. Jack pressed himself against the opposite wall, kicking, straining, desperate to break through. Minutes dragged. He finally gave up only when he realized the hole he had created in the wall. When he finally left for the pub, I emerged slowly, surveying the damage. Fear clung to me like a second skin. Memories I thought I had buried rose up, raw and unyielding. And in that moment, I understood something terrible and undeniable: nothing had changed. Nothing ever would. The last straw had broken, and I could feel it deep in my bones.
During that time, I found solace in messages to Roger, a friend of Tamara’s I had never met in person. He knew my situation and, without judgment, listened to every confession I poured out. Those evenings, while the apartment was empty and the walls seemed to close in, I wrote to him. He became my lifeline, a quiet voice of faith in a world that had stripped me of hope. For the first time in months, I felt someone believed in me. Someone believed I could survive.
A few weeks later, I met the girls in a quiet café, the kind of place where the world felt muted and safe for just a little while. Ewa and Edita stared at me as I recounted the latest horrors, their eyes sharp, attentive, filled with a mixture of disbelief and concern.
“I don’t want to tell you what to do,” Ewa said, her voice calm but deadly serious. “But I want you to know I’m willing to help. In two weeks, we’re leaving to Poland for good. You have one chance to change it. Think about it.”
For a moment, fear wrapped itself around me like a heavy shroud. The old, familiar paralysis—of indecision, of cowardice—rose up, whispering that I should give up, that I should simply wave a resigned hand over my own life and accept whatever came next. My throat tightened, my heart trembled, but I nodded, murmuring my thanks. “I’ll think about it,” I said. But as the days slipped by, I realized the window of opportunity was shrinking. Time was running out.
Then, one evening, I found myself watching American Idol. Something as ordinary as television became extraordinary in that moment. That year, a contestant named Danyl Johnson performed a song that seemed to reach into the marrow of my being: “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength.” The lyrics, the music, resonated so deeply that tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. Later, when I learned of Whitney Houston’s own story—how she had escaped Bobby Brown—I cried again, hard, finally acknowledging the depth of my own pain.
And as the music coursed through me, a memory surfaced—Jack’s words from the very first year we were together: “Once you get your confidence back, that will be the day you leave me.” I had nodded then, unsure what to make of it. And the other line, soft but insistent in my memory, followed close behind: “To be able to love someone, you first have to love yourself.” Sitting there, alone, I felt their meaning crystallize. Those words were no longer just echoes—they were warnings, guides, and truths I was only now ready to follow.
In that raw, aching connection—to the music, to my pain, to my own heart—I felt a flicker of courage, a spark of the strength I had thought lost forever. For years, I had prayed silently for an angel, for someone—anyone—up there to help me find the courage to escape. For the first time, I sensed that answer.
I typed quickly, my hands trembling:
“Ewa. I’m taking your help.”
Her reply came almost immediately:
“Great. When you leave, tell me, and Michal and I will pick you up at the back entrance.”
The truth was, I had already packed my suitcases after the last attack. Nothing had changed, except that now, the choice was real. The problem was Jack—he often worked from home, watching everything, always alert to the slightest disturbance. I moved slowly, cautiously, rehearsing every step in my mind. I remembered the warning from the woman at the Women’s Aid center: abused women often return to their abuser ten times before finally escaping, but the greatest danger came when they revealed their plans. Most didn’t survive that final step.
That knowledge shadowed me, heavy and constant, making each movement feel like a gamble with my life. I went to the library, organizing a shipping company online. I couldn’t take everything—my books, my treasures—but I refused to abandon the things that mattered most. Carefully, deliberately, I packed only what I could not live without, leaving the rest behind to avoid suspicion. Books were returned to the library, personal items discreetly stowed.
Later, I went to the Country Kitchen to see Joan, my hands shaking, my chest tight with fear and anticipation. I confided in her, tears slipping freely as I spoke, finally letting someone see the full weight of my despair and my tentative hope.
“Joan, the leg… when I broke it,” I said, my voice trembling, my heart hammering in my chest. “I didn’t break it by accident.”
Joan’s eyes sharpened, inquisitive, and then she drew a slow breath. “I suspected,” she said quietly. “I’ve never liked Jack. Don’t cry.”
I swallowed hard, shame burning my cheeks. “I need money… for a vacation I wasn’t reimbursed for. I need to buy a plane ticket… home,” I admitted, my words stumbling out.
“Of course,” she said without hesitation, her voice firm but gentle. “You’ll get it. Don’t worry. Wait here a moment.” She left the room, and I sat with my chest tight, hands clasped, heart beating as if trying to escape. When she returned with an envelope of money, it felt like the first tangible piece of hope I had held in years.
“Promise me you’ll write as soon as you get home,” Joan said, smiling softly, her eyes holding mine with an earnestness that made my throat ache.
“I promise, Joan,” I whispered.
I tucked the money away, hiding it along with my passport. If Jack discovered it, everything—my plan, my escape, my chance at freedom—would be destroyed.
The only person I confided in about returning home was my father. I needed him. My mother had been out of reach for a year, and I was too afraid to ask her for help. I also exchanged a few words with Roger, explaining my plans. He believed in me completely and waited, ready to act if I were in danger.
The shipping company was scheduled for a specific date, but until then, my mind was consumed with preparation. That week, I barely ate. My nerves were frayed to the breaking point. My hands shook incessantly, and I had to lie down on the bed to hide my fear from Jack, who wandered the apartment, leaving only for cigarettes. He seemed oblivious to the storm building quietly in the corners of my life.
Then one day, everything threatened to unravel. The phone rang.
“Hello?” I whispered, Jack in the other room.
“This is TOPTRANS. We’re here for your items,” a crisp, unfamiliar voice said.
“No… not today. I gave a different date,” I stammered, panic rising. I realized I had probably entered two different dates by mistake.
After a pause, the man clarified, “Ah, yes… so you’re not ready? Only the next date?”
“YES! Please, yes!” I blurted, voice shaking. I prayed Jack didn’t notice my tremor or sweat. I hoped he didn’t overhear me.
Jack though, seemed to sense something, hovering at home like a shadow. Then, finally, he left for cigarettes. My heart leapt. This was my chance. If it worked, Ewa would be waiting to take me away, and everything would fall into place.
Yet instinct screamed at me to be cautious. Every muscle in my body was taut with tension. It was getting dark outside, and a gnawing sense of being watched settled over me like cold fog. What if he was waiting on the street, hidden in the shadows until the lights went out? I lingered near the window, staring at the dimly lit street, my pulse hammering. Half an hour passed. Still no sign of him. Fifteen more minutes crawled by. My throat tightened into a painful lump, and fear made my hands shake uncontrollably.
Then a thought—sharp, clear, lifesaving—cut through the haze: I could leave without the suitcases. Test my intuition first. If he was waiting, he would be downstairs, by the exit. I exhaled slowly, silencing the panic, and left everything inside. The apartment darkened as I turned off the lights. I took the elevator, each floor dragging endlessly, my heart hammering against my ribs.
When the doors opened, I nearly had a heart attack. There he was, standing like an apparition, every inch the predator I had lived under for so long.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone casual, almost amused. Not shocked—he had clearly expected the suitcases with me. Relief surged through me. Thank God I hadn’t taken them.
“I’m going to the store for cigarettes. I ran out,” I said, forcing plausibility into my voice.
He studied me with those piercing, X-ray eyes, and then smiled.
“No worries, I got them!” He held up the pack triumphantly and pressed the elevator button. We rode up together, the silence between us heavy, suffocating. My escape had been stalled once again. That night, I knew—I would not get anywhere.
When later he insisted that we sit and talk, a chill crawled along my spine, freezing me from the inside out. I could not—would not—soften. Not a trace, not a whisper of the truth. That was the hardest part: pretending I was still his, pretending he could reach me at all. Over the years, he had trained me like a careful hunter trains its prey. He knew I feared him, knew I hated lying, knew I would rather crumble under the weight of his scrutiny than risk detection. His radar for deception was unmatched; the smallest flicker of hesitation, the slightest twitch of the lips, the subtle shift in breathing—he sensed it all. He was a cobra coiled in wait, savoring the trembling of his prey before striking. My fear fed him. My pain gave him strength. And yet, now, I was resolute. Not a shred of either would I offer him.
We sat side by side on the couch, a precarious intimacy stretching between us, charged with an uneasy, almost sad confession. He wanted me to tell him why I had been distant all week.
“Tell me what’s wrong? I can tell you’re different,” he said, eyes narrowing, voice smooth but sharp.
Oh God. He’s figured it out, I thought, panic prickling at my skin. He knows I’m planning something. No—no, he knows nothing. Bluff. Pretend you’re unwell. Act as if your body aches, not your mind. My thoughts raced in spirals, giving me commands I barely understood, trying to outmaneuver him with my own fear.
“I’m fine,” I said, voice trembling despite myself. “I just ate something bad… upset stomach for a few days. Nothing more.” My words wavered; I forced a casual shrug, hoping to convince both him and myself.
He studied me, quiet, patient, then leaned closer. “There’s more to it. Tell me everything.”
I had expected that. I had rehearsed for this. I braced myself, sinking into the feeling, letting just enough truth brush the surface while keeping the secret that mattered most.
“Jack… I don’t know. I feel like… you’ve hurt me so much that I can’t feel what I felt before. You’ve killed all the love I had in me.” My words cracked, and the tears came, warm and unrelenting.
He lowered his head onto my shoulder, for just a moment. Was it some fragment of him, sensing the storm I carried, recognizing the distance I had built? The better part that understood? Whatever it was, he left me there, silent, and did not probe further. A small measure of calm washed over me, but vigilance remained.
We retreated to our rooms. I gathered my phone, passport, and money, slipping them beneath my pillow with shaking hands. I went to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, while he lay sprawling on the wide marital bed, the one he had claimed as his own these past months. I washed quietly, the tiles cold beneath my fingers, waiting for the storm I knew was coming. It was inevitable.
“You didn’t tell me everything, did you?” His voice cut the silence like a blade. “I saw those packed suitcases in the closet.”
For a moment, I froze, sensing the shift in the air. He had never smoked in his room before—but now, as he lit a cigarette on the edge of the bed, the acrid smoke curling upward, a warning bell rang in my chest. The cobra was ready to strike. And I could only hope I was ready, too.
Without hesitation, I bolted from the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him leaping from the bed, half-naked, moving like a predator closing in. It was probably only five steps, but each one seemed to stretch into eternity. He was precise, unrelenting. I slammed the door behind me and turned the built-in lock with shaking hands. Jack rattled the door, fury barely contained.
“Open immediately, or I’ll kick it down! The cops won’t let you cross the border. They’re already after you for giving false testimony!” he roared, pounding the door with frenzied blows.
I pressed myself into the far corner of the bed, small and invisible, praying he wouldn’t break through. Each kick reverberated through the apartment, each thud against the door a pulse in my chest. My hands shook uncontrollably, my breath came in ragged gasps. Then, the sound of him storming through the apartment—rifling drawers, shouting threats—made my stomach knot with fear.
“I had a special key made! I’ll get you!” he yelled, voice sharp and predatory.
I couldn’t wait to see what he would do next. The balcony, the windows—he could enter from anywhere. My hands trembling, I dialed the police. Tears blurred my vision, my nose ran.
“Hello, Carlow Police,” said a calm, male voice on the other end.
It was the first time in years I had called for help myself. That voice, steady and protective, felt like a lifeline thrown across a raging storm. I clung to it.
“Please help me. My boyfriend attacked me. I’m in the apartment, and he… he’s trying to break through the door. Please, I’m afraid he’ll kill me,” I sobbed, my chest heaving.
“Give the address and floor,” the voice said, firm but reassuring.
“Riverdell, fourth floor,” I managed to choke out.
Jack froze mid-kick. “Who are you talking to? You called the cops on me?!” he barked.
I didn’t answer. I clung to the voice of the officer, every word grounding me.
“What’s your boyfriend’s name? Have we been there before?”
“Jack Kennedy. Yes, a few times,” I whispered, trembling.
“Don’t hang up. A unit is on its way. Open the door for them,” the officer instructed.
Minutes later, a loud knock shook the apartment door. My heart lurched, but I froze. Terror clawed at me—what if it wasn’t the police? What if Jack was pretending, waiting to snatch me the instant I stepped out? Seconds stretched into what felt like hours as I pressed my ear to the wood, straining to separate sounds, to know the truth. His voice was calm, practiced, almost convincing. My pulse hammered so loud I could barely hear.
Then, finally, over his measured tone, I caught the steadiness of strangers—authoritative, firm, undeniably real. In that instant, the unbearable pressure inside me cracked and lifted. Relief—sharp, dizzying, unbelievable—swept through me.
Only then did I dare turn the lock and crack the door just a fraction. Through tear-blurred eyes, I saw two uniformed officers and Jack, standing half-naked, arms crossed, tense.
The younger female officer beckoned me out. I handed over the belongings I could carry, and her colleague helped me gather the rest. I pointed out the hole in the wall from his previous attack to prove I wasn’t lying.
They escorted me to the elevator, down to the ground floor. We left Jack behind, and I never once turned to see his face. To look would have meant taking a piece of him with me, and I was finished with that. I slammed the door of my mind shut and locked it. Each step away from him felt like shedding a weight I hadn’t known I was still carrying. By the time the elevator doors closed, there was nothing left but me, the steady presence of the police, and the faint, trembling edge of something I had almost forgotten existed—freedom.
“Can I ask what he told you? Did he admit to attacking me?” I asked, anxiety twisting my stomach.
“He told us you made it all up,” the female officer replied. “But don’t worry, we don’t believe him. Jack Kennedy has a reputation,” she added, raising her eyebrows.
They drove me to the Seven Oaks Hotel, where I was hidden in a suite. That night, I slept as if for the first time in years, the crushing weight on my chest lifting, if only briefly.
Leaving the city without being seen was still the hardest part. Only Ewa and Ken knew my location. Ewa secured my plane ticket, Ken offered support, and bittersweet farewells followed—I loved the city, but Jack could not find me.
“He was snooping yesterday,” Ewa said. “He asked for you at my house. I told him we hadn’t seen you.”
Michael had taken my suitcases; TOPTRANS would arrive later.
“Tomorrow my flight is early—Jack could be lurking,” I worried.
“We’ll take you to the airport,” Ewa reassured me.
Early the next morning, I paid my symbolic bill of twenty euros and was driven to the airport with only a carry-on. The streets were dark and silent, wrapping me in a cloak of anonymity. Each streetlight that flickered past the car window felt like a milestone, a quiet witness to my escape.
At the airport, there were hurried embraces, words spoken through tears, and the trembling kind of love that can only exist in the aftermath of fear. And then, it was just me. I walked down the long hall alone, every step echoing against the walls as if announcing my passage into a new life. When I stepped onto the moving walkway, it felt like being lifted, carried forward by something larger than myself—fate, maybe, or the simple will to survive. With each glide forward, fear peeled away, layer by layer, until only strength remained.
Tears streamed down my face, hot and relentless. They were not of sorrow, but of triumph, of defiance, of life reclaimed. My heart pounded, not with dread but with pride, with relief so profound it was almost painful. I had severed the chains that bound me, and in their absence, I felt the vast, terrifying, beautiful weight of freedom.
For the first time in years, the future was mine.
