Freedom Day

When considering telling my story, dark heavy butterflies fluttered in the pit of my stomach. Is there greater proof of the world’s need to hear what I am daring to reveal, to share in on the burden my heart and soul have been carrying? I have written the following lines because I am ready to illuminate the darkness with the truth, bravely and sincerely. 

On Valentine’s Day 2017, my alarm clock was a panic attack and for breakfast I was served fear and memory of another sleepless night on the side. On February 14^th one year later, I woke up rejuvenated and rested, went to work, swam twenty laps, and devoured a cupcake for dinner. What sounded like a standard day of an active professional with questionable nutrition choices was in fact a celebration of an anniversary for which there is no Hallmark card: an escape from the prison of an abusive relationship. 

It felt like a bad dream, it woke me up every night in cold sweats; I hyperventilated more often than I breathed. It made me feel like I was losing my mind when everything seemed all right. I felt helpless, confined to the prism of self-doubt. It still gives me shivers. Untangling myself from the web of lies, manipulations, and threats must have been the most freeing experience of my life. Three years ago, Valentine’s Day became Freedom Day: the day I found the courage to wake up from a suffocating nightmare and heard the alarm of false love for the first time, clearly, with urgency.

I could not think of a better way to refer to the perpetrator than the ‘King.’ After all, he has convinced himself he is the ‘King’ of everything, including righteousness.

At the time the “King” started pursuing me, I had known him for three years. A dab of flirtation sneaked into our conversations; the prospect of attraction overseen at first and rekindled unexpectedly was charming to us both. The ‘King’ paid a lot of attention to me, he admitted he had fallen in love at first sight, and confessed he knew I was his soul mate, his ‘one’. In his eyes I was perfect. I appreciated his attention, passion, and grand gestures and believed them to be sincere. I was falling for a covert human predator.  

Suddenly, everything changed; the dream turned into a nightmare.

Activities and qualities he had once admired me for became a thorn in his side. I appeared too friendly when just weeks ago he had praised my ability to see the good in everyone and make friends easily. His promises to mirror my exercise habits were replaced by irritation every time I packed a gym bag. He scolded me regularly: for leaving crumbs on the plate, for brushing my hair violently, or for walking loudly.

When I asked him to stop patronizing me he told me that as my soul mate he had a responsibility to set a standard for me, which I was to live up to: a double standard for when I voiced any dislike about his behaviour, I encountered rage, blame, or accusations. His favourite threats were “Don’t make me angry” and “You misunderstand me. I am simply a tough man” delivered in an intimidating tone.

On one occasion as he raised his voice in frustration I was silenced by my own disbelief in the cruel way he had spoken to me. “Why are you staring at me like a cow?” Seeing tears in my eyes, he pressed on. “Why are you crying? I cannot believe that a woman like you has nothing smart to say. I am going to have to look for intellectual stimulation elsewhere.” He stormed out and the “conversation” was over. 

In moments like this, my disoriented mind wandered back to the time when I had been “the best thing that has ever happened to him” and “the smartest woman he could ever meet.” Those memories would provide a temporary relief from the current reality of reproaches and criticisms.

He accused me of forgetfulness and distractedness; he chastised me for embarrassing him. “You are dragging a dark cloud of negativity over our heads. Please consider anti-depressants.” On several occasions he acted so disappointed in my ‘behaviour’ that he threatened to never take me out again or worse, to leave me. I so desperately wanted to return the relationship back to “normal.”

My friends and family, charmed by his charisma, oblivious to his deranged, chameleonic demeanour would often say to me: “He is such a wonderful man, you are so lucky!” Trapped in a cage of confusion I couldn’t verbalize my concerns and uncertainties for it was only behind closed doors that his charm swiftly evaporated as if on cue.

Any time I ‘disobeyed’, he gave me the silent treatment. My pleas for reconciliation and attempts to appease him were ignored, the weight of guilt overpowering. When he decided we were speaking again, he would say, “You are such a perfect girl. Why are you like this? I am hard on you because we are soul mates and I want what’s best for you.” It was disorienting. I was constantly scurrying to do everything I could to make the “King” happy but to no avail. I completely lost sight of what was truly happening.

Then, on the most romantic day of the year, when he was towering over me, telling me off for something I had done, with my head bent down, eyes welled up with tears, I stopped listening. I looked up and concentrated on his eyes. The sight frightened me: they were filled with darkness, hatred, and contempt. This was not the behaviour of someone who cared about me. A voice, reaching out from the depths within, broke through the layer of depression that had crept in over time, landed on the coating of my dejected heart and whispered: “Get out.”

This is how, instead of celebrating what was left of our relationship, my rose coloured glasses slid off and shattered on the hardness of reality. In the broken pieces, I saw my former self; beyond the shrapnel, I saw the “King’s” crown without tinsel.

Behind the façade of a respected entrepreneur, educated man, and generous philanthropist was a hateful and manipulative man. All the sad stories about his horrible and ungrateful ex-girlfriends suddenly made sense. It was a rude awakening, an ice-cold shower during a heat wave.

A bitter cherry on top of this unsavoury cake was served that evening, as I was getting ready to sleep in the guest room. I heard moans coming out of the bathroom and finding the door unlocked, I peered inside. My “tough” forty-year-old ex-boyfriend was sitting on a closed toilet seat. The “King” was sobbing, slouched, his face glued to the palms of his hands. He was muttering under his breath, words that were hard to make out but became obvious with repetition. “What did I do wrong? Why is she kicking me out?” Stunned by the sight of a grown man who had used to punish me for expressing my own feelings resorting to such nonsensical theatrics, I tapped the door shut and let out a sigh of relief.

All the “King” ever said about himself was a lie. All he ever pointed out in others behind their backs was a projection of his own insecurities. He is an empty shell, a sad excuse for a man, a failed attempt at what manhood and manliness – or humanity, in fact – should represent. He is a fake. The Gucci bag sold from a rusty trunk in a blind alley is more real than he ever will be.

While men were lining up at the flower shops and purchasing chocolates in abundance, the “King” left the “castle.” On one of the most romantic days of the year, I decided I had enough: of romance that was never true, of love that never existed.

On Freedom Day, I dethroned the “King.”