Relational violence, domestic violence, abuse, spiritual terror - all this does not matter, if it is the current messiah for the herd splashing in the darkest recesses of social media who commits the almost unprocessable crimes. A terrible sight from a (hopefully narrow) corner of Hungarian society.
Judit Varga's Frizbi TV interview gave adequate answers to all questions, yes, even to the incriminating audio recording. Only those who live with a psychopathic, narcissistic personality disorder - because he clearly doesn't fight against it - imagine the messiah who will save Hungary in his ex-husband. They see what they want to see, not what is.
I don't know how many more psychopathic leaders Hungary needs, as far as I remember, we didn't do too well with Gyurcsán, but whatever.
The comment war following Péter Magyar is sometimes more frightening than the self-proclaimed world savior himself, and their main "arguments" are the following:
1. Private life has nothing to do with public affairs, why didn't you talk about the content of the audio recording?
Well, on the one hand, the audio recording and its content are uninterpretable without the context of the private horror, it just hangs in the air out of its context, and everyone hears and thinks about what they want. It is interesting that the rumor of the armchair hussars is not about it, but what was the purpose of Péter Magyar making the audio recording, and in his case, of course, there is no question why he came up with it now.
2. Why did Judit Varga come forward with her tale now? Character assassination, discredit, phew!
According to them, Judit Varga has no right to self-defense.
Well, God bless you, it wasn't Varga who rushed in front of the public, but the ex-husband has been hacking around the opposition media for more than two months now, making statements that raise serious questions! Do you think that a minister dismissed from NER, who is also an abused wife and mother, has no right to self-defense?
In the case of Péter Magyar, of course, it doesn't matter that he himself was a parasite on the NER - he didn't have a job, but a position - for 3-4 thousand a month. That's good. But at least she looks like she's landed on the cover of GQ magazine, and ultimately that's pretty important to her followers, if not the most important thing. Of course, there is no shortage of slogans that have been kissed, chewed, and spit out a thousand times.
3. Why did Varga stay in an abusive relationship for so many years? That can't be true, he's lying!
In the nearly two-hour interview, Varga answered the question several times, and those who have lived in an abusive relationship also had the "aha-experience", opening up long-buried wounds.
About the "aha experience", away from the "me too" money- and fame-seeking scammers
My second marriage lasted from 1994 to 1999, maybe three of the five years of cohabitation were marriages on paper, but I filed for divorce the year after the marriage. Then we didn't go to court, we talked and reconciled. Like many other times after that - because people wanted to believe that it would get better, change, and the usual beliefs in this case. It's easy to be smart in retrospect, and love, as we know, is not only blind, but also completely stupid.
I moved roughly 15 times during the five years, of which I returned 14 times.
Fortunately, there were no children together, but my husband had a daughter who was in elementary school at the time, who lived with his first wife. (I was the third.) I maintained a good relationship with both the woman and the child, and later, as a young adult, the little girl asked me, when her father was about to take his next "victim" as his wife, that there really was no chance that he would ever marry her again. should i get together with my ex? Because he had the best relationship with his father when he lived with me.
Fortunately, he was still small, so maybe he doesn't remember those two terrible "experiences", which I still remember well.
One was a weekend program when we took the child with us to the tennis club. As a BMW maniac, my husband always held his cars in high esteem, and while the little girl was getting into the car, she accidentally tapped the handle of her racket (carefully wrapped with grip) against the door, sticking out of her backpack. There was no damage to the car, but the child had to suffer such a humiliating scream that he arrived at the track sobbing. "I can't believe this, my own child is breaking my car! Are you normal? You can't even get into a car properly? You should lose weight anyway, I've said it a thousand times..."
On another occasion, we brought him home from Austria, where his mother held a summer camp and he had to stay as a teacher. The little girl, maybe 9 years old at the time, slept stretched out on the back seat, child seat, seat belt nuku. I sat in the mother-in-law's seat, and my ex-husband found a crazy racer like him, with whom he started racing on the highway. We went with 240, sometimes on the outside, sometimes on the inside, sometimes in the stop lane.
Crying and shaking, I asked him to let the other one go, we're going to face each other, and the child is sleeping in the back seat without any restraints, useless.
In the end, he lost, the other practicing mental patient won, and my ex only said that "he had bigger rims".
As we crossed the border, he stopped to refuel, I got out of the car, the child woke up and I didn't want him to see my condition. I walked forward along the road so as not to light it at the gas station, I thought a cigarette would calm him down. I was shocked when my ex came out of the well, sat awkwardly in the car, then when he got next to me he accelerated and drove away. He left me on the side of the road, next to the Austrian border, because I criticized him for running amok on the road. I hitchhiked home to Budapest.
Physical abuse was not left out with us either, he was able to kick in for anything, completely unpredictably. On one occasion, he cooked a deer stew, he was a big fan of the specialty, and he was completely upset that I put sour cream on the side dish - it was nokedli or pasta, I can't remember anymore. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with him, but he got so angry that he punched me in the face. Yes, but I instinctively leaned away and he hit the half-timber of the kitchen door with sheer force, breaking his hand. Care, cast, regret, apology.
Then the next day at lunch, the same scene took place, only then he hit me with the plaster.
I have a thousand such stories.
Towards the end, at the age of 29, I changed jobs, and I had to change my jeans and T-shirt clothes to skirts and blouses. By this time, she was so overcome with jealousy that she turned off the boiler so I wouldn't be able to wash my hair in hot water, because I certainly don't want to rush to my new workplace to have sex. He didn't expect my reaction, because instead of being hysterical, I went to a hairdresser and cut my shoulder-length hair to one centimeter, like a Sharon Stone hairstyle.
When I finally moved out, there was nothing in my new apartment apart from a mattress and a bookshelf, only my personal belongings, clothes, etc. Later, my parents helped me buy a refrigerator and a washing machine.
I loved him just the same, or rather, I was in love with him just as much as at the beginning of the relationship, he was handsome, tall, smart, a doctor of automotive engineering and economics, athletic, popular, and so on. I, on the other hand, am dead tired at the age of 29. I am so tired that the weariness of my soul has overwhelmed all other feelings. The only relief left is that I can lock the door at night and no one tells me what thigh-fix to wear for sex, and that I'm just a little country bitch: "It's not that you're a whore, it's that you're a stupid whore."
As it turned out later, he kept a set of keys to my apartment, where he went to check the "order" while I was working.
I noticed once that the answering machine tape wasn't where I left it, but I thought I was remembering wrong. Meanwhile, of course, he was bombarded with the usual messages, let's try again, it will change, etc. I remember he invited me to lunch and I accepted, thinking it was going to be about the divorce, but it wasn't. We sat down in the restaurant, ordered, and after the waiter brought out the food, tasted it, he said it was shit, let's go somewhere else. It wasn't the first time he did this, of course, that's when I told him to take me home instead, there's no point in doing anything else.
We were on our way in from the agglomeration, on road 7 he had already started screaming, he was terribly agitated, so I jumped out at a red light and ran back, flagging down a car. A driver immediately stopped next to me, but my ex ran after me, hugged me from behind, reassured the other driver that there was nothing wrong, just a little family dispute. I didn't say a word until I got home, I got out, but he came after me, claiming that he would let me in as a gentleman. But when I said goodbye, he put his foot on the threshold of the staircase door, he definitely wanted to come up so we could talk.
I think that was the scariest scene of our marriage, that's when I was most afraid.
I thought that someone would come soon, based on the law of large numbers, in an eight-apartment apartment building sooner or later someone must come, and so it happened.
He came to the divorce trial with his lawyer - he thought I would come up with all kinds of demands - and I was alone.
I didn't ask for anything, I just wanted to be released, the judge asked me twice if I was sure I didn't want to exercise my right to use the apartment? I said one hundred percent. At this, my ex burst into tears in anger.
There is a way out. Je suis Judit!
Oh, and working with wood - although now the herd, those who create nothing, laugh at Judit Varga's interest in carpentry - is one of the best therapies. It worked for me, I've been working with wood for two years, and since it's Good Friday, the statement is also relevant: working with wood is a miracle, magic, the deepest sacred experience.
Featured image: Thinkstock illustration
