The Year That Devoured Me – 2003

There was a time when my life looked perfect on paper. A successful career as an ORACLE developer at Credit Suisse. A stable, well-paid job. A loving, rational, and introverted partner, Ralf. A beautiful five-room apartment in the countryside near Bern. I had climbed from working-class roots into the middle class. Everything should have been great, but domestic violence depression loomed in the shadows.

But it wasn’t. I was unraveling.

The emotional toll of domestic violence depression was heavy, and I felt it weighing down on me.

The Descent into Darkness

At first, it was a slow suffocation. The deeper I worked within the banking system, the more disgusted I became. I built reports on dormant accounts—money that had been left untouched, silently accumulating interest, creating wealth for an elite few while the system thrived on the silent labor of the many. The deeper I understood how banking worked, the more I loathed it.

I started to wonder: Did my job make me depressed, or was I already falling into depression before I began hating my job? I still don’t know the answer.

The Catalyst – Michele Enters My Life

That summer, I met Michele in Battle.net while playing Diablo 2. We bonded over our mutual hatred of banks, of capitalism, of the system itself. But Michele was not just an anti-establishment thinker—he was consumed by conspiracy theories and esoteric nonsense, tinged with racist undertones.

His obsession with his ex-girlfriend was disturbing. One moment, she was a goddess, his queen, the one who abandoned him without reason. The next, she was a traitorous whore. Then, one night, he casually mentioned: “Yeah, I hit her a couple of times, but she provoked me. And okay, I also killed her cats. But she left me! Can you believe how cruel she was to just walk away?”

I should have blocked him right then. But I didn’t. Instead, I invited him into my life. He moved in. And that’s when everything spiraled out of control.

Living in Fear – The House That Became a War Zone

From the moment Michele moved in, our home turned into a battlefield. He had violent outbursts over nothing. Ralf and I, both conflict-averse, walked on eggshells, hoping to avoid his rage. But it didn’t matter what we did.

Ralf was already dealing with his own hell—his father was dying of cancer. His coping mechanism was alcohol. He drank every night. He checked out. Michele became my problem.

Then came the first act of physical violence: a sudden, brutal kick to my ribs in the middle of the night. I woke up gasping, not even knowing what I had supposedly done wrong. That was when my body gave up on sleep.

I started collapsing at work, curling up in bathroom stalls just to close my eyes for ten minutes. The sleep deprivation, the fear, the constant tension—I couldn’t function. I resorted to self-harm just to stay awake, or maybe just to feel something that wasn’t numb terror. Meanwhile, Michele kept calling and texting me while I was at work. He was alone in my apartment—with my two beloved cats.

That gnawing dread became my constant companion. I knew it was no longer a question of if he would physically attack me but when.

Breaking Point – I Stopped Functioning

Then, Ralf left. And I gave up. I simply stopped going to work. I didn’t even call in. I just lay on the couch, unwashed, unbrushed, waiting to disappear. Michele drained my credit cards while I sank into the furniture, too exhausted to care.

Then, one day, a letter arrived. Credit Suisse summoned me to their medical examiner for a mandatory check-in. I barely had the energy to show up.

To my surprise, the company doctor wasn’t an extension of the heartless corporate machine. She was kind. She took one look at my hollowed-out face and saw the depression before I even spoke. Within days, she arranged for me to see a psychiatrist. My official diagnosis: complete mental collapse. Sick leave granted.

The Final Escalation – And the Ultimatum

At home, nothing changed. Michele kept unraveling. One moment, I was his savior, the wonderful woman who had rescued him. The next, I was a fat, disgusting, greedy bitch because I dared ask him to clean up his own broken dishes.

Then came the final attack. A violent, full-force assault that left bruises I couldn’t cover, not even with a scarf. My psychiatrist didn’t sugarcoat it. She looked at my bruises, at the marks around my neck, and said: “I can’t treat you anymore. You need to be hospitalized. If you stay, this man will kill you.”

She was right.

But I was still too afraid to fully break free. Michele opposed me going to a hospital. I knew what he was capable of. So, I settled for the compromise: a day clinic instead of inpatient care. The best I could do without unleashing his full wrath.

The Ruins of a Life – But Not the End of Me

By the end of 2003, I had lost everything. My career. My financial stability. My sense of self.

Schutt und Asche.

But I survived.

And maybe that, in itself, was already a victory.