As women we have all been stifled at some point. It’s never elaborate, it’s so often small, and slow burning - holding your tongue when you should spit, laughing a little quieter so as not to offend, dressing to remain unnoticed – selling yourself out to the patriarchy unwittingly. And before you know it, the mute button is stuck on.
I’ve lost count of the amount of times my voice has been stolen by a man. Not just my voice, but my sense of self-worth, will to live and cutlery collection too. After one break up, a man even asked for his Tupperware back. I had a habit of falling in love with men who stripped me of my identity, leaving me questioning who I was and where it all went wrong. It was painful to realise it had happened again, the voice thing that is – I kept the Tupperware. Speaking of which, I’m here to tell you about what happened when the musician walked into my life (or if we are being historically accurate, slid into my DM’s)
A council estate kid growing up – never knowing we didn’t have much, because we had everything. We were poor, but we made the best of it. Our situation worsened when Dad left but that’s another story; so let’s move on. As a family, we’d never owned a house – I never ever thought I would, never had any call to. Homeowner status meant nothing to me – mortgage rates hadn’t even crossed my mind. I believed a home was wherever you lay your hat, or however that Paul Young song goes. In honesty, I don’t recall ever feeling at home anywhere, I was always so sure there was somewhere else I needed to be, Stetson or not.
Anyway, it’s 2017 and I’m in love. He’s a crystal blue-eyed guitar playing cowboy, with a quiff to rival Elvis’ – my mam always warned me about musicians. Worse yet, posh ones. Wherever we go, women break their necks to catch a glimpse of him, svelte and well turned out, they whisper to each other and giggle at his cowboy boots. Charisma oozes from his skin like sunshine, and blinds all who fall into his path. In these moments, I feel secondary to him, little did I know, this would set the precedent for the next two years of my life.
This is a whirlwind romance – so typical of me to chase dopamine. Intense and all consuming. We spend our weekends racing up and down the A1 to each other’s respective cities, waving at the Angel as we pass. Whispering I love you’s in the corners of dive bars, line dancing in the living room, and it’s here my voice begins to waiver.
Three months in and it feel like someone is forcing water down my throat, and slowly covering it with tape. Little digs here and there about my weight, tiny comments about my friends. His baby blues, flashing green with envy at any mention of my life before him. This is familiar territory for me. Swapping my own words with those from the mouths of men. Too fat, too thin, not interesting enough, convincing myself I have nothing to bring to the table. Perhaps this feels too much like home, as I find myself making the pilgrimage North to move in with him.
He IS a homeowner, and he makes sure I know that. The silence consumes me, as I swap my business and independence for strict curfews and boundary lines, and simultaneously pull away from my loved ones. Life becomes a series of egg shell walking and damage limitation. Day to day just trying to stay afloat. Pursing my lips to keep the peace. The digs turn into shoves, and the shoves then into punches. Those on the periphery assume it’s the physical pain that’s most damaging, but for me it is always his words. Maybe because I know they are mine, ironic really.
As I recall, he's leering over me – so close to my face that I’m pebble dashed in his saliva, and can feel the warmth of his breath. Again, he begins to growl at me through his perfectly white gritted teeth,
‘You’re NOTHING without me!
‘You CAN’T afford to leave!’
‘You NEED me!’
‘SHUT UP and stop crying!’
‘This is MY house!’ as I Feel the Earth Move plays in the background.
In one foul push, he bulldozes me to the ground, face first into the cream carpet - now soaked in shame and mascara. I’m crying because I know he’s right. I'm a working class kid, I always will be. I'll never amount to anything. So again, I say nothing.
“Now fucking clean that up” he snarls.
His shouting echoes through the walls of the Avenue, so much so that a neighbour calls the Police. Consequently, two officers arrive at the door.
‘She’s just upset, we’ve had an argument’ he gaslights.
After five minutes of back and forth, and the occasional chuckle, they leave to their next job without giving me so much as a look over. I always say he is a master of his craft – a fantastic musician, I mean.
Rinse and repeat until it’s a Wednesday, a year and a half later. Over the course of the last few months, things have worsened. But from beneath my bruised chest, comes a little murmur, growing – slowly, but very much there.
It’s 7am, and mundanely, I am getting myself ready for work - the Musician is laid in bed, berating me about an upcoming family wedding he’s sure one of my ex’s will attend. Something feels different today though – today I feel strong. I’d left before, but never gotten any further than the car park down the street – being lured back in by promises of change, and declarations of love - never breathing a word of what goes on behind the doors of the Avenue to anyone. He digs, and digs until, for the first time, I find myself on top of him, hammering HIS chest. He grabs me by my throat and clotheslines me onto the bed, striking me in the face – wriggling, I try to escape. Maybe it’s because I’m two stone lighter now– feeling more flighty – finding it so much easier to drag my tiny body from beneath him, and down the stairs. Running out of his house, I get into the car, and drive past the white lines without stopping. I call my mam and tell her she was right about musicians.
I still can’t listen to Carole King.
When you are made to believe you are nothing, you become nothing and post-relationship-ocalypse I was an empty vessel – a zombie – slow and still in there somewhere, but otherwise dead behind the eyes. I didn’t know who I was, or how to speak my truth – when I attempted to – no sound came out, just a slight rasp of uncertainty. Something had to change, I know it did. It just felt so far beyond reach at that point. Hindsight is such a wonderful thing, isn’t it?
Learning how to put yourself first is not a lesson easily taught when you have always been secondary. My sister endearingly calls me the queen of reinvention, but believe me when I say, this one took some time to rebuild. Brick by brick laying the foundations for a better life for myself. Starting with therapy (although I swore I didn’t need it) Religiously attending that hour session, week on week - staring at myself in the mirror – mouthing ‘you are enough’ like it was gospel until it penetrated my skin. After that came the job –nothing had ever really fulfilled me since I left my business behind. ADHD to my very core, I’d always struggled with authority, to keep a job down – beggars belief how I ended up in this mess really. And so my self-employment journey began (again). It’s funny isn’t it, when someone says you can’t press a button, it makes you want to press it that little bit more.
With that, life starts over and before I know it, it’s the 6th January 2023. It’s a gloriously sunny day in Wallsend, as I walk north down the street, past the park and take a left, just before the lights. In front of me is a house with an ornate red Victorian door – the sun is shining through the floral stained glass and reflecting onto my face. I hesitate for a moment, then unlock the door, and walk in. As I do, I’m a mess with an unfamiliar feeling. I sit on the bare floor in the middle of the empty bedroom – clasping my keys. Closing my eyes, I take a breath.
As I exhale - the words “I am home” escape my lips, confidently.
I walk into the kitchen and look down to see a box I’ve already unloaded from the car. It’s holding a selection of shiny clear plastic tubs. All my own. I laugh, and it is in that moment, I realise I am finally free.