"My Journey Through Life: Young Adulthood" Part 3

The very first time Nick's aggression was directed specifically at me happened just two weeks after we officially became a couple.

We rented a house out of town on the riverbank and went there with a small group of friends—there were about 7 or 8 of us. Everything went according to the usual scenario. It was already nearly dark when I was sitting alone by the river, and then Nick came. He sat down next to me, and of course, we were both tipsy but not completely wasted. I don’t remember how the conversation turned to Andrew, my ex—I don’t even recall what exactly I told Nick, but I’m sure it wasn’t anything that could justify his reaction. At first, he just sat there silently listening to me pour my heart out, and then suddenly he grabbed me by the scruff of my neck like you’d grab a misbehaving cat, and clearly and slowly said that if I ever spoke about an ex again, then... Honestly, I don’t even remember what he said next because I was so shocked, I couldn’t hear or see anything anymore except his furious, drunk face.

He let me go, and we walked back to the house where everyone else was. On the way, he "hugged" me—meaning he slung his arm over my shoulders like you would to help a limping person walk somewhere. Only he wasn’t limping.

As soon as we got there, I went straight into the house—everyone else was still outside in the gazebo. It was dark inside, and I went into one of the rooms on the first floor to grab something when I saw Nick’s phone vibrating on the charger. I picked it up to see who was texting, and I saw a name I didn’t recognize. The message came through VK. I opened the chat and the first message I saw from Nick to this girl was: “Haven’t seen you in ages, send me a pic, I miss you.”

I looked at other chats, and there were tons of girls I’d never even heard of. And remember—we grew up in the same crowd, always hung out together, so I thought I knew all his friends. Turned out, I was completely wrong.

I was crushed. Completely. One of the girls from our group—the same one who once slapped me hard on the pier—came in and saw me crying. I told her everything. She was shocked, really pissed off, and stormed out of the house.

I went upstairs to the second floor where our bed was in a big shared attic room.

While I was lying on the bed, wallowing in self-blame and pain, I overheard an emotional conversation happening outside. I got up and went to the window, which was cracked open for ventilation, and saw that same girl talking to Nick off to the side of the gazebo where everyone else was. I remember clearly what she said—“Do you understand you can’t raise your hand against someone weaker than you!”—she was really pressing him. “She provoked me,” Nick answered. That’s the line I would hear from him over and over for the next several years. “And what if it was your mother or sister?” she asked. “Would you do the same and then say—they provoked me?”

You know what shocked me most in that conversation? His total calmness. Not a trace of regret or shame. “She provoked me.” And I started wondering—what if he’s right? What if I did provoke him?

Then I heard part of the conversation shift to the phone incident, and he was furious I had touched his phone without his permission, and even more furious I had read his messages.

At that point, I crawled back into bed and fell into an even deeper pit of misery. God, how shitty I felt then.

Later, that same girl came up to comfort me and recounted her conversation with Nick. I told her I’d overheard part of it, and she passionately urged me to break up with him—because if someone admits they could hit their own mother, there’s nothing good ahead.

After a while, everyone else came upstairs to join us, and that helped lift the heavy atmosphere a bit. Nick lay down beside me and started petting me like I was his little pet, looking at me like absolutely nothing had happened.

So yeah, by now you’ve probably figured out—I forgave everything. Absolutely everything.

And here’s the kicker—I bet you didn’t expect this—we hadn’t even had sex yet. Yep. And this time it wasn’t because of me, imagine that 😅

The thing is, cowardly, insecure Nick only had the courage and resolve when it came to using physical force. So at 18, he still hadn’t had real sex with a girl—just some failed attempts. I found out much later when I directly asked him about it.

Our first time happened about 4–5 months into our relationship. It’s kind of amazing how a mountain of muscles and constant peacocking can so thoroughly mask such a deeply fragile self-esteem and cowardice.

The following three and a half years would reveal so many more "lovely little facts about myself" according to Nick.

He could easily tell me I looked awful. “I want to admire the girl beside me, not be ashamed of her.” Once he even said something like that in front of my mom. But she tore him a new one—he quickly backed off, realizing he’d almost ruined his carefully maintained image of the “cool boyfriend.” Also, he was scared of my dad, who, as you might remember, was a police colonel. Nick’s dad used to work under mine, as I understood it, and apparently feared him too. Nick’s dad wasn’t a good person at all.

During arguments, Nick began to hit me more and more boldly. Eventually, the line was crossed entirely—nothing held him back anymore. But honestly, that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was what he said. I still remember clearly, during one fight over the phone, he screamed: “You’re nobody and nothing. Even your mother doesn’t love you. You’ll be crawling at my feet. I’ll break you.” That stuck with me so vividly. I don’t remember the exact swear words, but trust me, there were a lot.

And yeah, being treated like that turned me into a savage too. When you live with a beast, you eventually become one yourself—otherwise, you’ll get eaten.

I’ve never thought of myself as a victim—important to mention. Even after countless therapy sessions, I still don’t think of myself that way. Not because of the years of him saying, “You provoked me.”

(By the way, did you know that’s the favorite phrase of abusers? I didn’t. I didn’t even know the word “abuser” back then. And even if I had, I probably would’ve considered myself one too. In part, I was.)

And I had no idea that when a girl is coerced into sex in various ways—when she doesn’t want to, or it hurts terribly—even if it’s her boyfriend, that’s still a form of sexual abuse.

At the time, I thought I was just a bad girlfriend if I didn’t satisfy my boyfriend enough 😅

And now… here comes the shocking part.

While Nik was busy telling people — not even me, but some guy in our friend group — that since my birthday is right before New Year’s (December 28th), I should get one gift for both occasions… I just stood there, watching, witnessing it all in real time. Classic.

But here’s the real shocker: I’ve mentioned before that my love language is gifts. I absolutely love giving presents to the people I love. That’s how I show my care, gratitude, and affection — it’s always been that way.

So, to give Nik the kind of gifts he wanted, photoshoots alone weren’t enough to make that kind of money.

I ended up pawning all the gold I had — just so I could get him that Moschino sweater he wanted, that Diesel cap he liked so much, a new iPhone (more on that in a bit), and plan expensive birthday surprises — like booking a luxury countryside hotel with beautiful nature for a getaway. The list goes on.

Because of this wild, and honestly kind of irrational, love I had for gift-giving, I will never again wear my first-ever gold earrings, the ones my parents gave me for my birthday. I’ll never wear that tiny gold Capricorn pendant (yes, I’m a Capricorn) my dad gave me, or the few simple gold chains I used to own.

To buy Nik the iPhone he wanted so badly, I even sold all my printers — the ones I used for printing client photos, printing onto CDs (yes, back then we still gave out photos on discs), and so on.

But I didn’t even hesitate. Making someone I cared about happy felt far more important (yep — I actually thought he was someone close to me. How adorable, right?).

And I still didn’t have enough. So I had to ask his mom for help — and she agreed to chip in so I could afford the phone.

Even then, all I could afford was a second-hand iPhone with 16 GB of storage (I think it was an iPhone 5 or 5S).

I found an ad on OLX (like the Ukrainian eBay) — a guy was selling the exact phone for the exact amount I had. We arranged to meet during the week, and it just so happened that I asked him to come to Nik’s place — because I was practically living there at the time.

So, on the arranged day and time, I went outside and got into the guy’s car. He took out the iPhone in the box, I checked everything — it was in great condition, totally original, and the deal went through smoothly. I was thrilled I could finally give Nik such a cool gift!

What I didn’t know… was that the whole time, Nik had been watching us from the second-floor window — the one that faced the street. He couldn’t see exactly what we were doing inside the car, but just the sight of me sitting there with some guy was enough to send him into a rage.

I thought he was going to completely lose it. I started yelling, calling his mom for help. She came running into his room and confirmed everything — that it was a birthday surprise for him.

He finally started calming down. I exhaled — relieved. I could finally relax.

And if you’re wondering — did Nik ever apologize for that? Just so you know — Nik never apologized. Not for anything. Ever.

But the real madness wasn’t even all that. It was what happened on his birthday.

I woke up at 6 a.m. to make it to Nik’s place before he woke up — just like I’d planned for the surprise.

I’d wrapped the gift in multiple beautifully decorated boxes, like a Russian matryoshka doll (I even have a mirror selfie from that morning with the gift in my hands). Of course, there were balloons too — it wouldn’t be a birthday surprise without them.

I arrived, his mom opened the door — we had everything arranged in advance. We went up to his room and started singing “Happy Birthday.” He opened his eyes — and he was actually pleasantly surprised. Looked genuinely happy.

He unwrapped each box with growing curiosity — the gifts kept getting smaller and smaller — and he seemed truly into it.

When he finally reached the box with the iPhone, he hugged me with joy and thanked me. I told him it was a gift from both his mom and me. And in that moment, I think he really was happy — although now, I’m not sure about anything anymore. Memory doesn’t tend to get kinder with time.

But then I told him we hadn’t had enough money for the 32GB version — only for the 16GB one. And I honestly don’t even want to describe how instantly he turned into a spoiled, whiny child. (To be fair — that’s pretty much who he was. His little sister, by that time, was already known to throw herself on the floor in stores and scream in convulsions if she didn’t get her 10,000th Kinder egg that day.)

I was stunned — like I’d just been slapped in the face, a moral slap. He was saying something, but I couldn’t even hear it anymore. I was just hurt. Deeply hurt.

I was upset the whole day. In the end, his mom suggested we sell the iPhone and she’d chip in for the 32GB version — and that’s exactly what he did. He perked up, his mom calmed him down, but me? Nothing could lift me out of that dark place I was in that day.

It felt like someone had spit straight into my soul — and I swallowed it. I kept living. Because he spit into my soul regularly. I had long since gotten used to it.

But nothing prepared me for what happened next.

Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this part — maybe a few close friends from the past, if that. I was ashamed to speak about it. Just remembering it used to make my stomach turn. But that version of me — the girl who allowed herself to be treated like that and always forgave everything — she’s gone.

And I’m writing this now without shame, because I gave all that shame back to him — as he deserves. He should be ashamed. Not me.

One day, we had a party planned at Sam’s place. I was living with Nik at the time — his parents were away on vacation.

As usual, another argument broke out.

And let me be clear: I’ve never seen myself as a victim. I fought back. I scratched, I bit. I defended myself. But I don’t remember ever being the first to throw punches. He always started it.

One moment it was a blow to the head, then my arms twisted behind my back, or a series of MMA-style holds. (Oh, and fun fact: he actually taught me those holds. Taught me how to escape a chokehold, how to break free. Sometimes, it felt like he didn’t see a girlfriend in me — but an opponent. Like he was fighting someone else, and I just became the stand-in.)

Of course, I couldn’t always fight my way out — when you’re slammed to the ground with 80 kilos of weight pressing you down, and you’re only 165 cm and 46 kilos — there’s not much you can do.

But yeah, he’d sometimes walk around scratched and bruised — and I’m ashamed to admit it, but that gave me a strange sense of satisfaction. Maybe I wanted the others to see that I wasn’t just some passive victim — that I fought back.

It’s heartbreaking to think that I didn’t understand the most important thing back then:

It didn’t matter how much I fought — what mattered was that I stayed.

Even when I screamed that I was leaving. I truly believed that this was what I deserved.

“Well, my parents used to fight like animals when I was little… so what? That happens in families, right?” That’s what I used to tell myself.

Anyway — back to the night of Sam’s party. We had another fight.

I honestly don’t even remember what triggered it. We were standing there, shouting at each other. I was crying. And suddenly — he spit in my face. Like a fucking camel.

And yes — it was just as awful as it sounds. I won’t lie to you. Imagine what a person feels in that moment.

I walked to the bathroom in silence. Locked the door. Washed my face. Cried. Gathered myself. Stood up. Opened the door — and left.

I think he was calling after me, trying to say something in a calmer voice. I didn’t respond.

I walked out, grabbed my bike from the yard, and rode away. Just around the corner, I got off the bike, sat on the pavement — and broke down sobbing. It really, truly hurt.

I could barely believe it had happened. And now for one more brilliant decision from Past Nastya: Think I skipped the party at Sam’s, knowing Nik would be there?

Pff — if only 😅

For me, that party was just an excuse to drink, to be honest — anything to dull the chaos I was carrying inside.

At the party, Nik and I didn’t even look at each other. After some time, I decided to go up to the third floor to be alone, and that’s where I found the Twerk girl. She asked me what had happened, and I gave her a brief version of the story.

Just then, we heard Nik outside, speaking very emotionally to a group of guys (there were no girls around). We quietly cracked open the window — and I heard him making up a whole damn story on the spot.

He was putting on a full-blown performance — painting himself as this poor, innocent victim, and me as a raging, evil lunatic. The blatant lies made my hair stand on end. I flew down the stairs, straight to the front yard, and started loudly quoting him back to his face. I asked him how he could lie so shamelessly, make things up, stand there and complain like that.

I kept going and going — and I saw the fear in his eyes growing, slowly at first. He clearly hadn’t expected that I’d overheard everything.

And when I saw that fear, when I realized I’d just exposed him in front of “his boys,” and that they might actually believe me instead of him — I decided to call a cab and go home.

I went back upstairs to say goodbye to Twerk girl. We laughed about how thoroughly I’d shut him down — she even said she saw it all from the window and how hard he got “wrecked,” pardon my French. I think I stayed a little longer with her, drank some more, talked.

But honestly, this wasn’t even a lot compared to the rest — our relationship was always like this.

We broke each other’s things. I’d throw his deodorant out the window — he’d smash my iPhones (and no, of course he never paid to replace them).

He lied constantly. To everyone. That’s how he maintained his “cool guy” image.

But cool guys don’t kick their girlfriends in the stomach.

That was one of the moments I thought I might actually need an ambulance — because I knew he wouldn’t take me to the hospital himself.

There was one time his own mother made him take me when we thought he’d broken my finger. He resisted the whole way.

During yet another fight, he kicked me full force in the stomach. (As you might remember, I have abdominal adhesions from surgery, and they already hurt from time to time.) The impact blew the door open — I think I actually broke the doorknob with my body. I flew outside and landed flat on my back on the frozen winter pavement.

Honestly, I don’t remember how long I lay there. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe — my mouth was just gasping for air, like a fish washed up on the shore. Nik was frozen inside over what he’d done, at first.

Eventually, he came outside, leaned over me, started saying something — but I couldn’t hear a word.

I still couldn’t breathe or move from the pain. I tried calling for help, but no sound came out. I reached for my phone — it had landed near me. He calmly picked it up — and walked away.

Left me there. In the cold. On the pavement. Alone.

Eventually, I managed to sit up. The pain began to fade, and I could finally breathe again.

I started yelling — as loud as I could, even though every shout ripped through my stomach like fire. I called for help — to the neighbors, to anyone. Do you think even one person came out?

Months passed. My grandma started noticing the bruises on my body — especially on my arms. I always had some quick excuse. It wasn’t that hard — my skin really is sensitive.

(Years later, when the truth came out, my grandma was furious. She told me she had suspected something — she’d seen the bruises, and heard him yelling at me over the phone.)

I’d wear turtlenecks if things got really bad, or just throw on a long-sleeve shirt over a tee.

Yes — I won’t pretend he never gave me flowers or gifts. But here’s what it usually looked like:

– One day, he threw me onto a glass table — shattered it under me.

A few days later, he greeted me with flowers and white chocolate.

– One day, he hit me in the face — like that time at the hotel in Turkey.

My screaming brought the guy from the reception desk running.

But while I sat sobbing and locked in the bathroom, Nik managed to send him away.

When we got home, he gave me a Stephen King book — the one I’d been wanting.

– One day, he called me a bitch, a whore, told me to fuck off —

The next, he bought me a Pandora bracelet.

And so it went, on and on.

But he never apologized.

Not once.

Not for the physical abuse, not for the emotional torture.

And people saw it. People knew.

But not one guy in our group ever stepped in. No one wanted to deal with conflict.

Sam, Jack, Bobby — they had enough courage to flirt with me behind Nik’s back, but none of them had the balls to tell him to stop.

One time I asked Sam: “Doesn’t it bother you that Nik is your childhood friend and I’m his girlfriend?”

And Sam said, clear as day: “No.”

But they all still hang out with him.

Eventually, Nik started losing control even in public — and that shattered his “nice guy” image.

Like that time I went to my first ever photoshoot —The photographer spontaneously took a few topless photos of me in just shorts. Later, I met up with the crew at a café — Nik included.

I got the edited photo sent to my phone. Twerk girl saw it, and she said out loud how insanely beautiful it was. (You’ll see these photos where I’m lying on the sand at the beach) That drew Nik’s attention. The second he saw the image, he slammed his fist down on the table — hard.

Everyone flinched. The room froze.

He was clearly trying to control himself (and thank god I wasn’t alone with him at home right then),

but he still let some lines slip — things like: “What are you, a whore?” “What the fuck — I didn’t give you permission,” etc.

That’s when Twerk girl stepped in — furious — defending women’s rights, and standing up for me.

The whole night was ruined. For everyone.

His mother once said to me, during a quiet car ride when it was just the two of us:

“Nastya, this isn’t right. Leave him. Find yourself a normal man.”

As usual, I started defending him — “But he has obvious mental health issues. He just needs help. He needs to see a psychiatrist.”

She replied, “I’m too scared to even mention that to him.” And that’s when I realized how bad it really was.

I said, “Okay. I’ll try.”

And I did.

You can probably guess how that turned out 😅

And then, one night, when we were staying over at Nik’s cousin’s place —I learned something.

Nik’s dad… isn’t his biological father. It’s not even a secret — everyone knows.

The cousin brought out an old photo album, and there I saw a picture of Nik — or so I thought.

Same age as now, standing in the sea next to a girl, both looking at the camera.

But then it hit me — that wasn’t Nik. That was his real father.

I was speechless. They looked identical. Same face, same build — a mirror image.

His cousin told me that Nik’s real dad left when he was a baby. He used to beat Nik’s mom.

Eventually, he died.

Nik doesn’t remember him. He doesn’t know anything about him.

It was already getting close to spring time and volunteering entered my life...