Being Scheherazade

The story contains description of verbal abuse, violence, mental health issues and self-harm

He was yelling at me—it felt like someone was hammering nails into my skull. I was bad, bad, bad in every possible way. Not a good mother. My children were neglected. The house was a mess. The food was either uncooked or cooked wrong. The dishes were left unwashed—or washed, but not well enough. And this, despite the fact that I worked just as much as he did—often even more. I earned more, too. But still, I was the only bad one. He made sure to tell me—loudly, and more than once.

There were only two choices: scream back (like the neighbors in the next apartment did half the night), or stay silent and wait for him to calm down. That was easier. And that’s what I did.

I didn’t get married of my own free will. I was seventeen. And I didn’t want that marriage. It was pure manipulation—he played on my guilt, a guilt he had carefully planted in me. He made me believe I was bad, worthless. He drove me into deep trauma, only to later “forgive” me and “bless” me with a declaration of love. And I said yes—even though, in that moment, what I wanted most was to die, to disappear from the face of the Earth.

But my subconscious—or maybe, on the contrary, my higher consciousness — take your pick — buried it all deep within my memory. I completely forgot that terrifying episode… until the divorce. After 18 years of misery, after fighting off relatives' resistance and enduring open blackmail — “If you divorce him, I’ll divorce your mother,” and my mom listening to those harsh words, looking like a small, injured bird — I finally broke free.

And only then did I remember. It was as if that early trauma had been left outside the frame of my life.

As the marriage began, I resigned myself to it. And with time, I even developed something like affection. Friendship, maybe even strange love. You can always find something good in a person, if you try hard enough. And he did have good qualities — though maybe that’s just my Stockholm syndrome talking, trying to help me survive.

This could be a whole separate conversation — and a long one at that — but it’s worth exploring. When I worked in image processing in the publishing world, I noticed something: every image has its darkest and brightest spots, and our eyes adjust our perception to that scale. Have you ever noticed how, even in darkness, your mind and your eyes try to find a highlight? They search for a single bright spot, just to create some space between light and shadow.

I think the soul — or the psyche — does something similar. Even in the worst, most prolonged suffering, the mind tries to create a frame of reference, finding both happiness and misery — like coordinates — just to place life somewhere in between. So yes, you have happy moments even in what others might see as unrelenting misery. It’s how you survive.

Have you ever seen those images of women killed in domestic violence—the ones the news shows afterward, where she’s smiling, radiant? And you wonder: how could someone who looked so happy have been living in horror? I know. I was there. I’ve seen the happy photos of that life. And yes—I was happy. Often, actually. Until the evenings.

So—after eighteen years in that first marriage to a man who yelled at me, day after day. It’s incredibly hard to think straight when someone is screaming in your face. Almost impossible. Which, I suppose, is exactly the point: to dominate, to hammer you down, to strip away your will. I would end up apologizing, promising to do better, to fix things, to try harder. Just to stop this yelling… or rather hammering. And he would “forgive” me—graciously, of course. But then came the night. The part I dreaded most.

But of course, beyond domination, he also needed an outlet—some trace of warmth, of connection, maybe even friendship. So he began telling me stories—ones he made up himself. And they were… well, dull and flat, like bad soap operas. I’d been a passionate reader all my life. From a young age, I developed a deep and particular taste in books. So his “literature” didn’t exactly impress me. Eventually, I started making up stories of my own—and telling them to him. And it turned out, I was better at it.

That gave me a certain satisfaction. A bit of leverage. It made life a little easier. He was genuinely interested—he looked forward to the next installment of his own personal “show.” Especially since Soviet television didn’t offer much in the way of adventure or excitement.

But it had a downside, too: now he needed these stories, this form of entertainment. It became another prison—another duty I was expected to fulfill.

Do you remember the Eastern fairy-tale collection One Thousand and One Nights from your childhood? It begins with a furious king whose first wife’s betrayal drove him to vow he’d marry a new bride each evening—and have her executed the next morning. Pretty grim opening, right?

Then comes Scheherazade, the clever daughter of one of his ministers. Each night, she weaves the most enthralling tale—but stops at the cliffhanger just before dawn, when she should meet her fate. The curious king can’t resist hearing the ending, so he spares her for one more night. And the next night, she does it again—leaving him hanging at the most suspenseful moment, earning herself yet another reprieve… night after night.

So now, I genuinely understand the misery poor Scheherazade must have lived through for all these nights. Truly—I feel a deep compassion for her. I’m over sixty now, and even after a joyful divorce and many happy years of marriage to another man, I still feel the sobs rising from deep in my chest whenever I hear the violin that started the Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade theme. It all comes back. Not many people who enjoy those fairy tales realize that for her, every night could have been her last. In my life, it wasn’t quite so dramatic—but it wasn’t any easier either.

Getting darker

But over time, a darker side of this process began to emerge—I started creating stories not for him, but for myself. I needed something that I liked, something I could enjoy on my own terms. And so I began spinning stories just for me.

That kind of thing is completely normal for teenagers. They imagine themselves, their own world, their own encounters: you walk down the street, step into a store, and there he (or she) is—the movie or TV star of your dreams. And he (or she) sees you… Come on—who hasn’t fallen in love with a screen hero at least once? Didn’t we all fantasize? Build a world where you could meet? And didn’t you meet—at least in your imagination?

We create that world over and over again, rehearsing every phrase and imagining every response. These conversations can go on endlessly—until, suddenly, you find yourself on the other side of town, with no memory of how you got there.

And these fantasies are completely normal—and, according to some scientists, even healthy—at a certain age. Mostly, they’re limited to the teenage years. For some, they last longer. But for others—especially those who feel unsuccessful in real life—they can persist and stop being helpful or healthy. People retreat into an imaginary world, sometimes cutting themselves off from reality altogether.

For me, it started in my mid-twenties—and I got completely lost in it. In that world, you’re the king and queen. You’re the god of your own creation. Think it was all sweet daydreams? Not at all.

In my imaginary world, I was traveling through foreign countries, caught up in action packed with horror and violence. What began, say, with a real movie about treasure hunting soon evolved into an entire series of inner films—adventures, gang fights, survival on uninhabited islands. When I later saw Rambo, which had finally made it to Soviet screens, I was amazed by how the creators had captured the very essence of those teenage fantasies and feelings that once lived in my imagination. Obviously, they weren’t just mine.

That was the time when I truly began to neglect my duties as a mother and a wife. My head was so full of endless travels and imagined adventures that everything else began to fall apart. The most terrifying part was realizing I couldn’t stop.

It was like a substance addiction—but with one crucial difference: to get a substance, you need money and a supplier. But to escape into your fantasies? You need nothing at all. You have an endless supply—always with you, always available. That was the real horror of the situation.

I even tried to hurt myself—after yet another family fight. I call it a fight, but I wasn’t really part of it. I wasn’t the one fighting. I was just absorbing his anger, as always—waiting for it to pass. That day, I realized I had no control over anything. I was angry at everyone. I couldn’t create peace or order in the family. I wasn’t capable of it. And the truth was, I didn’t even want it. It all felt so dull and meaningless to me. But worst of all—I couldn’t escape from the world of my imagination.

I remember being left alone, bursting into tears from sheer helplessness. But they weren’t soft tears—they were angry, bitter, full of fury. I wanted to destroy something. So I grabbed a knife and stabbed my own leg. No, I didn’t use much force—the wound wasn’t deep. Then, suddenly, a thought hit me: This is stupid. It’s not my unhappy body’s fault—it’s my unhappy mind. And you can’t punish your mind by stabbing your body. So yes—it was just plain stupid. I never tried it again.

Step to Light

Well, since hurting myself wasn’t a solution, I was still stuck with the addiction. There was no AA, no other anonymous support group, no twelve-step program, no religion to turn to. There was only one path: to think.

To think deeply and passionately—with a single desire: to escape into the freedom of the real world. And the solution came, not from logic, but from somewhere deeper—my subconscious mind (or perhaps my higher consciousness).

The answer was: to tell. I discovered in that moment that confession is one of the most powerful tools ever created by human society. So I confessed. Yes, to my torturer—who was also human, and who, at least this time, listened.

For strange reasons, I believed the problem would vanish instantly. Or no—not believed, but hoped, irrationally. It didn’t. And I was disappointed. Life went on. All the usual troubles returned, unchanged. Back to the familiar routine of my quiet madness.

But strangely enough, a couple of weeks later, I suddenly realized — standing in the middle of a street — that I was in the middle of a street, not in my imagination. The method had worked, though not instantly.

Just Talk!

So I take the opportunity to talk when I really need it. If I can’t afford therapy—which obviously requires money—I go to a local church or synagogue and ask to speak with a priest, pastor, or rabbi. Once, I had long, therapeutic sessions with a monk. I cried through the first few talks. Later, it became easier. Some churches even have a therapist available for free. It’s a wonderful thing. It helps.

My fantasy world didn’t disappear forever. It still comes back from time to time—especially during moments of intense stress: university exams, immigration troubles, and so on. Imagine needing your full attention and every ounce of focus, and instead you find yourself being a girl escaping from the mafia. Not exactly helpful, right?

But now, it’s different. It’s much more controlled—especially since I started writing the stories down. For some strange reason, I couldn’t do it before. But then one day, my friend—and therapist—said, “Why not write it down?” And it was like opening a tap. I dedicated my first written story, The Chariot of Evil, to her. She truly worked a miracle in my life.

I discovered that the stories want to be told. Maybe one day, I’ll tell them all. At least now, it’s no longer a form of torture—it’s a real joy.

And back then? One little achievement didn’t dramatically change my life. There were still many ups and downs ahead—moments of great enlightenment, total collapse, and slow recovery. In short—just life.

This story is much harder to tell. Sometimes, my hands still shake when I press the keys on my laptop. But I’m trying now—maybe for my final recovery.