Content note: domestic violence, depression, self-harm
On paper, my life looked almost perfect:
I had a successful career as an ORACLE developer at Credit Suisse—a secure, well-paid job. An introverted, loving partner, Ralf—rational, reliable. A nice five-room flat in the countryside near Bern. I’d climbed from a working-class home into the middle class.
It should have been good. But in the shadows something else waited: domestic violence. Depression.
It wasn’t good. I was slowly coming apart.
The beginning of the end
At first it felt like slowly suffocating. The deeper I sank into the banking system, the more it disgusted me. I coded reports on forgotten accounts—money quietly accumulating interest for a privileged few while everyone else kept the machine running. The better I understood the system, the more I hated it.
At some point I asked myself: did the job make me depressed, or was I already depressed before I started hating the job? I still don’t know.
The trigger—Michele enters my life
That summer I met Michele on Battle.net while playing Diablo II. We clicked over a shared loathing of banks, capitalism, the system itself.
But Michele wasn’t just a rebel spirit. He was steeped in conspiracy theories and esoteric nonsense—and there was always a low hum of racism underneath.
His obsession with his ex was disturbing. One moment she was his goddess, his queen who’d left him without cause; the next, a “dirty whore.”
Then one evening he said, almost casually:
“Yeah, I hit her a few times. She provoked me. And okay—I killed her cats. But she left me! Just like that. How cruel can a person be?!”
I should have blocked him on the spot.
I didn’t.
Instead, I invited him in—to my life, to my flat.
From then on, everything spun out of control.
Living in fear—when home becomes a war zone
Once Michele moved in, our flat became a front line. He exploded out of nowhere. Ralf and I—both conflict-averse—tiptoed on eggshells, hoping not to spark his rage. It didn’t matter what we did.
Ralf was drowning in his own crisis—his father was terminally ill with cancer.
Ralf drank. Every night. It numbed him.
Michele became my problem.
The first physical attack came in the middle of the night: a kick to the ribs. Brutal. No warning. I woke up gasping, with no idea what I had done “wrong.”
After that, I couldn’t sleep.
At work I fell apart—hiding in the bathroom just to close my eyes for a few minutes.
Sleep deprivation, fear, constant tension—I stopped functioning.
I hurt myself to stay awake—or maybe just to feel anything at all.
Michele bombarded me with messages while I was at the office.
He was alone. In my home.
With my two cats.
That gnawing sense—permanent fear—never left.
It was no longer a question of if he would hit me.
Only when.
Collapse
Then Ralf moved out. And I capitulated.
I stopped going to work. I didn’t call in.
I lay on the sofa—unwashed, uncombed—waiting to disappear.
Meanwhile, Michele drained my credit cards.
I didn’t care anymore.
Then a letter arrived.
Credit Suisse summoned me to a mandatory exam with their trusted physician.
Somehow I dragged myself there.
She wasn’t what I expected. Not a cold corporate automaton. She was kind.
One look at my face and she knew.
Within days she arranged an appointment with a psychiatrist.
Diagnosis: total breakdown.
I was signed off sick.
Final escalation—and the ultimatum
At home, nothing changed. Michele kept raging—unpredictable.
One moment I was his savior.
The next, a “fat, greedy slut” because I asked him to clean up his own mess.
Then came the final assault.
He hit me. Full force.
I couldn’t hide the bruises anymore—not even with a scarf.
My psychiatrist was clear:
“I can’t treat you like this. You need to go to the hospital. If you stay, he will kill you.”
She was right.
But I was terrified. Too scared to truly leave.
Michele was against hospitalization.
I knew what he was capable of.
So I compromised: day hospital.
Not ideal. But the most I could manage.
Life in ruins—but I’m still here
By the end of 2003, everything was gone.
My job.
My financial safety.
My self-worth.
Rubble and ash.
But I survived.
And maybe that alone is a victory.