The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
From Caged Bird by Maya Angelou
I used to be one of those women who said, “I would never let anybody hit me or treat me badly”.
And now?
Now I know that it’s not quite as straightforward as that.
I know that somebody can be utterly charming yet utterly deadly.
That they can convince you that you’re mad, or bad, or both. Or make you believe they’ll take your children away from you and you know they are plausible enough, convincing enough, charming enough to make the right people believe them.
Now I know that trying to see the people you love (and that he definitely doesn’t) takes weeks of planning and can only happen when he’s away. And then you know he will phone you multiple times when you’re with them, so you can’t relax.
Your sense of self, your confidence and your self-esteem drain slowly, slowly, slowly away.
You start to dread the sound of the car in the drive and the door opening and the five seconds it takes to look at him and judge how the evening is going to go. (He’s not stupid – he can still be charming and lull you into a false sense of security. And then when he strikes it’s all the worse.)
You can’t remember what it’s like to relax, to laugh freely and uproariously and say what you think. You lose your moral compass. You’d do anything or say anything – you’d even betray your sister – to keep the peace, to delay the inevitable.
You know what it’s like to feel trapped. Because you are.
If you go, then he says you’ll lose your children and you believe him: he looks at you with mock pity in his eyes when he says that you’re mentally unstable, you’re not a fit mother – just like your mother. Anyway, when it came down to it who would believe you?
If you take them with you, then he will poison them against you. He does it already. You’re IT.
You can’t leave because they’re the most important thing in your life. They are your life. He knows that and he exploits it.
He hurts you when they’re not there and plays the victim when they are. He’s manipulative. And clever – so clever. He outwits you every time in his control games. “You’ll never get the better of me.”
Gradually, gradually, any love you had drips away and your heart shrivels up. You withdraw inside your head and grow a shield around yourself that he can’t get through, no matter how hard he tries. He hates that. It makes him worse when he can’t get a reaction. But sometimes – just sometimes – it’s worth braving his anger to snatch back that tiny bit of control.
How the hell did this happen?
How?
You look back at the film of your life and spot pivotal scenes, decisions that hung in the balance and could have gone either way. You got away once but somehow, somehow, he lured you back with promises of change. And then when you hesitantly put half a foot back into the cage – almost-but-not-quite believing him – that was enough. He pushed you all the way in with his guilt trip and locked the door. Then there was hell to pay.
You have to keep going because there’s no other option. Seasons merge into each other, your children grow out of their clothes and shoes, grow out of their clothes and shoes, school years form a blur, exams are prepared for and sat, prepared for and sat, and you dare to allow yourself to fantasise about a future when you’re free from being controlled and intimidated, when your jaw isn’t aching from unsaid words.
And then one day – suddenly, unexpectedly – something happens that even he can’t talk his way out of. The key turns in the cage door and it creaks open, just a sliver. Just enough. You push through, frantically, and fly for your life.
Of course, he does everything in his power including using his own children to try to clip your wings and stuff you back into the cage – how dare you escape his clutches? But by god you’re singing your song of freedom now and he can’t catch you.
Friends start to tell you that they noticed but were afraid to interfere, that they always thought how very tense and unhappy you looked but didn’t know what to say.
Gradually, gradually, you dare to relax.
You remember that there’s nobody to criticise how you look so you wear the clothes you always wanted to wear.
You try on your old personality for size and decide it suits you. Your children begin to think it suits you, too.
You test what it’s like to give an opinion again – and nobody shoots you down in flames or mocks you. Instead, people listen to what you have to say and seem genuinely interested.
Nobody tries to control you any more.
Gradually, gradually, the shield around you melts away. You begin to laugh spontaneously. You see who you want, whenever you want, for as long as you want. You smile and say hello to strangers and wave back at children in cars on the motorway. Your heart soars – not aches – when you hear a beautiful piece of music or watch the sun sparkle on the sea.
You sing out loud the songs that you used to sing in your head.
You’re free.
You’re you.