The First Punch in the Face

Come on! You all asked yourself the question once. If my ex-, the one I nick-named Pat Murphy, was a stranger who assaulted me in the street, if he had come to me with his fist in a ball and headed for my face, I would have ducked, I would have kicked him you know where, I would have kicked him hard until he cried for Mummy. Either that, or I would have stayed frozen and taken one blow before running away, screaming “Fire! Fire!”

But he was my darling, my prince in shining armor. He was “the one.” So, instead of damaging his reproductive organs for the next ten life times, I kneeled, I bowed and I begged him to stop. I begged because I mirrored my feelings. I thought he loved me so that he would realise –before his fist hit my face– that I was his precious love, the future mother of his children.

He operated in a different time length. He was on another planet. The planet where, no matter who you are, no matter what you say, you are the enemy. He had his own ghosts. He mirrored in me all his failures. I was the worse part of him. He had to hit, insult an destroy me, in an attempt to feel powerful again.

love3Then, when his rage was down, as the blood in his veins slowed down, he contemplated the result of his actions. There was this strange girl in front of him, bundled on the floor, she was screaming probably, but he was deaf to her cries.

– “Why are you crying? Stop crying!”

Yes, stop this, because tears are the weapons women use against men, and this is so unfair… And a man who has had his fists in your face can’t yield for cries and tears. So Stop it!

He cried at first. He begged to be forgiven, luring me into believing that my love would cure him. Then he stopped begging, he stopped apologising, because these scenes were becoming a ritual, and apologising did not change anything. I would still be there the next day, applying my love like band aids.

Since then, when I see anger in a man’s eyes, I want to run as far as possible. I can’t help it but I go back to that girl bundled on the floor bathed in her tears.
If my story can help anyone out there, remember this: the first insult, the first misplaced gesture is “the one.” Nip it in the bud and you will never have to fear abuse at home.

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