For twenty-five years, I lived my life with my tongue firmly
pressed against the roof of my mouth.
Except that I did not know that I was doing it.
It was just a part of me.
Like going back to the front door and checking the locks twice. Then a third time. Like never crying in front
of anyone. Like saying I'm fine before anyone has finished asking.
This week, the HR department at work held a “How is your
mental health” week. They had brought in
a counsellor, and we were all required to have a mental health check-up as part
of their new drive to “keep their workers happy”. A pay rise would have been better to be
honest.
The counsellor shot question after question at me. Work life.
Home life. What made me
stressed. How did I cope with it when I
was stressed.
The questions alone were giving me stress.
Then suddenly, the questions stopped.
“Take your tongue from the roof of your mouth.”
“What?” I said,
pulling myself out of the inner world I had been drawing myself into as she
fired questions.
“You are clenching your jaw and pushing your tongue against
the roof of your mouth like your life is depending on it. It’s almost like you are stopping your words
from coming out. You need to relax.”
I looked at her, properly for the first time since entering
the room and realised that she was right.
I was. Tongue, firmly at the roof
of my mouth. It felt almost glued
there. As if it was supposed to be
there. Except that it wasn’t.
It was her words however that stopped me in my tracks. It is almost like you are stopping your
words from coming out. Was that
true?
Later that night, once I had escaped the
counsellor/interrogator from hell conversation and was in bed, memories started
to flood through my brain. Hundreds of
tiny moments where I wanted to speak but didn’t.
The arguments with my husband John where I swallowed what I
really wanted to say because it would make him angry if I argued back.
The funeral where I refused to cry because I had been told
that I would embarrass him.
The night when John told me something unforgivable, and I
simply nodded in agreement that it was my fault somehow.
The time my daughter Casey asked, “Mum, are you happy?”
and I had changed the subject.
It was if every time I silenced myself, my body remembered. And now, apparently, it won't let go.
More memories. My
mother. Telling me that I should be
grateful that my husband had even taken me on when I told her the way that he
treated me. The affairs that were blamed
on me. The way he spoke to me with such
contempt. The way he expected me to be
his servant.
As the memories of the last twenty-five years of being silent
flooded through my head, John came into the bedroom. “Why is my blue shirt not ironed? I need it for tomorrow. Get up and iron it. Come on, move!”
I looked up at him. My
tongue, fixed in its position, to stop me talking so for long, gave a wriggle.
“No”.
His eyes widened in shock and then, his face contorted with
contempt. “What do you mean no? Get up you lazy bitch”.
“Iron your own shirt.
I am not your maid, and I work just the same hours that you do. Do it yourself”.
I don’t know who was more shocked. Him or me.
Apparently him, as he stormed out of the room without a word. I could hear the storage cupboard door banging
open downstairs. The iron and ironing
board being torn out. I am amazed he
even knew where they were.
A few minutes later there was a roar from downstairs. “My shirt!!
It is burnt! Why didn’t you tell
me the iron was so hot!”
Something started to bubble up in me. Something that I had done in front of people before
but forced. Performative. Not real.
I laughed. A real laugh, the kind
that starts in your belly. For once, the
streams of tears flowing down my face were not from sadness, but were from laughter.
I heard him barrelling up the stairs. “Are you laughing at me? What is wrong with you? Have you gone mad?”
“Nothing is wrong John.
At least not anymore. For the
last twenty-five years you have been telling me how pathetic I am. How incapable. Yet you, at 45 years old cannot even iron
your own shirt”.
I got up from the bed, got dressed and started to pack.
“What the fuck are you doing now?”
“I’m packing John. I
am going to Casey’s. I realised tonight
that I don’t need your approval. I don’t
need to listen to your insults, your taunts anymore. I am done.” For the first time in twenty-five years, I was no longer asking permission.
“You have lost your goddamn mind” he said. But quieter.
Because he could see that I was serious.
“No John, I’ve found my mind. And more importantly, my voice.”
I finished packing my overnight bag and headed for the
door.
“I’ll be back for the rest of my things.”
I went downstairs and paused when I reached the
kitchen. A small smile rose on my
face. Remembering a film I had once
watched where another woman finally found herself again.
I grabbed some post it notes from the counter, wrote three
notes and placed them around the kitchen.
“Oven = hot”. “Fridge = cold”. “Whirling thing – clothes”
I picked up my phone and sent a message to Casey as I headed
to the front door with my car keys. “Can I come over? I am leaving your father”.
The message notification bleeped as I got into the car. Just one word.
“Finally”.
