The Curved Opinion Short Stories Part 11: The Woman Who Could Not Speak

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”.