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Cages of the Past

Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

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Frankie's monologue: the caged blackbird. An experimental piece, warning for themes of abusive relationships, death/suicide, mental health issues and self-harming.

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I'm not a good soul - I'm not going to fucking lie to you. I know I'm not. I'm not a fucking saint. I don't live my life for the benefit of others - hell, I ditched that train a long time ago. I learned that I couldn't spend my life living it for someone else, being at the whims of that bastard. Yet that was wrong too and only one more thing that reminds me that I did what was right - by me, at least. Even if the 'me' in this situation apparently doesn't matter one bloody bit.

Sucks, doesn't it?

But what defines a good heart, really? Is it their actions or what the world thinks of their actions? Your opinion of me, this bird with black feathers that used to slink under the radar, still depends on what circles you trot in, whether you're one of those with fur or scales or wings or whatever makes you inexplicably you in this world where we're not quite what we first appear to be. If you've heard the bad, well, I'm probably a cunt in your eyes. I'm not even sure I mind that, although what I do mind is not having the chance to tell my side of the story. Others think I'm direct and straight up to the point. I like that. I like knowing where I stand with others. It's even more important to me these days after all the lies.

Maybe some think I'm nice, kind of. I like that thought. I'd like to be a nice bird. I'd like to be all smiley and happy and see only the joy in life.

Well, here and now, I'm going to come right out and be fucking honest with you. Then you can make of it what you will. Because that's all we can really hope for in this fucked up world sometimes. That we'll bare our souls and still find some furs standing around at the end of it, waiting to pick up the pieces and help us back to whatever we once were.

My dirty little secret? The skeleton in my closet?

He said he'd kill himself if I left him. I did it anyway.

Now, go on. Have a moment. Take a breath. You're going to need it.

Yeah... Reading that back, without context, is pretty damn bad. Let's add some context, shall we? I thought everything was great when we started dating. Honeymoon phase, rose-tinted glasses. Everything was fantastic, what can I say? But that's how they play the game, reeling you in. Everything's lovely right at the start. Until it turns sour.

I can't remember the first time I was blindsided. I can't remember the first night I stayed up crying and couldn't stop crying. But those events became commonplace, sobbing into a wing, night after night. I remember being told to "cheer the fuck up" when I had a bad day. I didn't understand then why he wouldn't help me smile again. I still hate being told to "cheer up" to this day. Maybe that was one of the early incidents, so small that I wouldn't notice it creeping up with me alongside others.

The water boiled around me, bubbles rising and rising.

He wanted me to be giving him attention all the time. I spent most of my waking hours connected to him, watching that blinking light on the computer screen. He didn't have to talk to me, of course, but he wanted me to be there. He would play games for hours and then demand to know why I hadn't messaged him in that time. Well, he was gaming, so he was busy...right? We didn't have to live in each other's back pockets and keep nagging each other, did we? In a sense that was true. I was just chained and feeding him attention, as desired.

I guess the biggest indicator that something was seriously wrong (if not to me, to my friends) was that every argument was my fault. Every disagreement? Yeah, I caused it. Of course, I did. Because he was perfect and I was so, so very flawed. I didn't understand. How could I be to blame for everything? He'd tell me over and over what I'd done wrong until I was in tears and aching physically from the pain of it. I just wanted it to stop and I'd say anything I had to to make it stop, promise anything I had to. I just wanted the pain to end.

The arguments were the stranglehold, the pressure always increasing, bit by bit. If you put a frog in a pot of warm water and slowly heat it, the frog will not notice that it is boiling to death until it is too late. And, by then, it was too late for me to escape unscathed. The arguments came about daily and I lived in constant fear and dread as to what the next one was. I had a list of changes I had to make about myself. Nothing was good enough. If I gave him something, someone else gave him something better. I had a mountain of improvements to make and, if I loved him, I'd do that. Because it was what he deserved and I didn't deserve him.

I don't think that was ever love.

Writing this makes my chest hurt. I want to go back and drag past-me out of this situation. Tell her that it will get better - that it can be done. It doesn't have to be like that forever. But it's happened and it's done. Now, all that's left to do is to grit my teeth and plough on, fly and fly, far away from all that I once thought I held dear to my heart.

It was relentless. I couldn't sleep. I became wakeful and spent the night walking around and around the town until my feet bled. I could only worry and think about all that I had done wrong, all the terrible things I had supposedly lashed out with, the words I said. He re-wrote my history, told me things didn't happen when I could clearly see them laid out in black and white. If it's in a message history, surely it happened, right? I could see it right there, even if it was a long-distance relationship. Thank god for that. It could have been worse but the mental element, ah, that really was the worst of it. It aws on my screen...but no. I started to doubt myself, twisted by lies until he changed more and more about events that transpired. And I believed them. I couldn't trust my memory. I couldn't trust what should have been an irrefutable log of conversations. I couldn't trust anything.

Walk, walk, walk, walk... Beach at dawn. Wings tucked down to my sides, too weak to lift and greet the sunrise. Maybe I could be happy? Or maybe I could die while the seagulls called, walk into the ocean and let the current take me.

It was nice to dream.

He didn't like me trying to take space for myself.

"Guess you should get the fuck online so we can talk normally, instead of doing this mail thingy, how about it?"

That message came through on my birthday. Speaking of which...

I wasn't allowed to have a birthday. I remember in the year two-thousand-and-twelve (that sounds more dramatic and I need a little stage-drama here), I was having a really rough time at university. I had set up my gaming system and all I wanted to do on my birthday was flop on the sofa and play games all day. Maybe eat some cake. Granted, I was on my own, because that wasn't a good year for me (face it, him wanting me at his whim all the time made me spend less and less time with others anyway), but that was what I wanted to do.

Alas, remember this birthday of mine? That birthday was not about him. So, even though I'd pulled out all the stops for his birthday, all mine ever was was an inconvenience. That year, I was wished "happy birthday" from him. That's cool, that's okay. That wasn't the problem. The problem, and the real kicker here, is him starting an argument - which, of course, was my fault - and spoiling the whole day for me. I didn't want anything special, just to relax and play games. I didn't even need his attention, even if he wanted mine.

No relaxation was to be had, however. The gaming system had to be turned off so that I could give him my full attention. My birthday was not about him and therefore it was a bad thing. And about it all being my fault? Well, everything was my fault. Irrevocably. It even got to the point where I thought it wasn't logically possible for every single thing to be my fault - the rationality of it just didn't add up. But that's how it was, because apparently I was that much of a despicable and loathsome creature.

And now my friends want to fucking do something for my birthday and I'm sweating like a pig. Because how the hell do I convince that nasty little voice in my head that this isn't going to happen again? How do I know? I know them, don't I? They're not like that, I wouldn't be friends with them if they were. It's not like that anymore, brain: why don't you get that? I get to relax. I am allowed to relax. And I'm most certainly allowed to have some fucking fun!

He made me stop working my part-time job at the animal shelter, because it was taking me away from him, cutting into my time with him. That broke me. I thought he was a monster fir forcing me away, for making me stay home. Yet I stayed with him. I wish I could have dragged myself out of that situation back then, but I did not. I should have gone. I really should have gone. I got back to the animal shelter in time, my heart's blood, but a chunk of damage had been done already. He stood between me and them. He wanted all of me. Every last bit of me.

No!

It all came to a head, as it was always going to. I wanted to leave him - I wasn't happy with him. No shit, right? I figured that, if I was so bad, he wouldn't want to be with me anyway so it would be a good thing for him too. That's when the death threats started. Not directed at me - oh no. He threatened to kill himself if I left him. He sent me pictures of his arm bandaged up after he'd cut himself, saying that I was the reason he self-harmed. I never saw blood in the fur but the bandage was there. I don't know if he ever did. He told me that he took pills to hurt himself, to kill himself. Because of me.

So I couldn't leave him. Not if I wanted his blood on my soul. And what kind of being would that make me? That would make me all the things he told me I was. And I didn't want to be...like that. I wanted to be a good one, one that everyone would say was 'good' and 'nice'. I wanted to be the bird I'd always aspired to be.

Only...I wasn't.

"Get back online, or I will kill myself... and this is a promise..."

Don't go, honey, don't go! You've tried for so long, just keep going a little longer. It'll all be okay. Oh, how I wanted to go. Because, I thought that, if I couldn't leave him without his death becoming my responsibility, maybe I should take a different route.

How could I be blamed for his death, after all, if I was already dead?

I'd started scratching, slapping, punching and cutting long ago, carving a path through feathers to get to the skin beneath. Whatever got me my fix in the moment did the trick. But what if I took it further? If my only escape was death...then maybe I had an escape from the nightmare after all. I only didn't know if it would lead me into a worse nightmare.

I was as scared of death as I was of living. But I was desperate. I cut deeper and wished I would never wake up again. But there was still that part of me that wanted to live, that part that clung to the hope that, one day, I could be free. I wanted him to die of natural causes - some higher being to take him instead of me. I wanted him to go so that I could live. Nothing that could be attributed to me, of course, or made to be my fault. I just wanted to live. Because what I was doing for those years sure as hell wasn't fucking living. Was that too much to ask?

I spoke to a friend. I went to the doctor. He gave me anti-depressants. I registered for therapy.

I was a fucking failure.

The medication made me sick. But it worked. I remember the day that sunshine felt good on my skin again and daffodils made me smile. I felt a little better. The band around my chest loosened a notch from the depression he'd led me into, even if the release was medicated. Step by step, day by day. I talked to new furries - all kinds of them. But I knew I was in a bad situation, so I didn't tell them the extent of it. Only a little. What I could. They wanted me to be well too. I'm sure they suspected more.

I kept going. I met more and more, talking when I could. I breathed a little easier. I tried to end my life in April. I sat on the bandstand crying my heart out. The scars didn't fade from my arm that time, the feathers not quite growing back as they should have done. Only his threats kept me from digging the knife in too deep to come back from. I didn't want to be locked up in a mental hospital. I said goodbye to two important lives that night and I still know exactly who they were. I said I was tired and that I was going to bed early. They didn't know I was planning to end it. They didn't know that my goodbye then was intended to be my last.

I was still, blessedly, there to talk to them the next day. Just like nothing had changed.

Move on. I had to go on. I went to a convention for like-minded, geeky individuals and I made the links that I needed to make, friendships and so many smiling faces. I met so many new furries and, maybe you don't know this, but each and every one of you saved my life. You got me out. You, just by doing what you were already, showed me that that was not how a friendship went and it certainly wasn't how a relationship went either. There was more. I kept in touch with furries after that convention and tried to live more and more, travelling around the country as much as life swayed me.

And I started to wonder, hiding under my fluffy blanket watching the fairy lights and wishing to escape, if having a little blood on my hands would be such a bad thing?

Silly bird... We don't have hands. But we don't have paws either, so I can say what I like. I make my own rules now.

And then: could I have what my friends had too? That peace and just...life? Could I live like them too?

Now, don't get me wrong. I wasn't about to wrap my wings around anyone's throat and squeeze, but it felt like the same thing to say the words "I'm leaving you". I tried. Many times. I tried to block him and duck out completely, after saying those fateful words. I thought I could do it. I tried so many times. I thought I was strong. I was getting stronger. But his friends came to me and begged me to go back to him, because he'd kill himself if I wasn't with him. What they really meant was that he would be angry if I was no longer under his control, if I was one that escaped. They never were my friends either - I see that now. Friends don't blackmail friends.

Keep going, honey. Almost there.

And then...I made it. I knew it was either me or him and I'd been selfless for far, far too fucking long. It was going to be me. Me for the rest of my LIFE.

I left him. And I blocked him everywhere. I'd learned my lesson the last time - the time when I'd almost swerved my car into a pole because his friend told me I had to go back to him or he'd kill himself - and blocked his friends too. I suppose I was lucky it was long-distance, really. It meant that there was no one knocking on my door, sinking their claws into me with the grin of a sadist. He could be digitally erased.

He tried to call me, but I left the phone in the living room...and I fucking danced. I could breathe again! I knew that time it was real. That time, I wasn't going back. That time, it wasn't all going to cycle around again. He sent message after message to my phone but I deleted them without reading them. I didn't need to. What more were those messages going to tell me?

He e-mailed me. I read that one.

"You're too proud. You keep telling about your "inner strength" and such, but truth is, you're too proud to even notice someone you loved suffering so much. You're too proud to lean down, help him up, hug him and give the love you used to. You're too proud, and claim that everything else is either a manipulation, because you don't like it... or your "inner strength" when you like it. You're wrong. I am glad you feel confident in yourself, but I am sad that you feel too proud to lean down and help someone you claimed you love to get out of the dumps. ... Where is the line between inner strength and bad pride."

If me leaving him was manipulative, then I will take that deal all fucking day long. The words were designed to make me feel guilty again, to make me realise what a terrible being I was for not staying with him, for daring to want to go. He did not suffer. I know this now. Every word was calculated. Every line had been played out over and over again, because, hey, the lines had worked with me before. He hadn't been sad that day. He'd just tried to argue again and pin the blame on me and...I didn't take it that time. Thank fucking god I didn't believe that e-mail, all the words I'd heard before. Strength to leave him? Yes, I had it in me. That time, I had it. I don't remember him being sad that day, just the usual threats to kill himself if I left him. It's sad when that sort of thing becomes commonplace. I knew I had to do it. I knew I had to go. And 'going' did not mean killing myself either. I had to live. I had to love my life again.

I did things that I'm not proud of. I learned to manipulate and tried using that against him. I threatened to kill myself if he did, thinking that that would stop him from harming himself, if he ever actually did hurt himself. I don't think I believe it anymore, or his supposed terminal cancer that damn near broke my heart. I lied to try and get the pain to stop and to keep him safe. It wasn't worth it. I didn't like who I was back then. He made me paranoid, anxious, and I felt as if I was crazy, out of my mind, most of the time. I was not a jealous, insecure individual who sent such ludicrous, obsessive messages in the dead of the night. But he made me that way.

And then it was over and I had one hell of a lot of re-learning to do. For instance, how the fuck was a normal, healthy relationship supposed to go? I still don't bloody know and I'm four years out of hell. I'll get there, I'm sure, but the road isn't easy still. I've learned a lot and I know what love is now. I know what friends are and I know who I can lean on. I know how to forgive and I know how to forget. I know when someone crosses the line. I know boundaries. I know how it feels to laugh so hard it hurts. I know how to help someone. I know that my friends will always be there for me when I fall and can't get back up again.

He was never there for me. It was a one-way street.

It's been years since that time. The wounds closed and I started to heal, bit by bit. But it was slow. He still tried to dig his claws into me, but I managed to evade his hold and deleted any messages that crept through, handling the nastiness online wherever it sprung up.

Years since crawling back out of hell, huh?

Guess what? I still have the fucking nightmares. I still wake up, sweating and utterly convinced that it's the past and it's all the same and I'm not in bed with my boyfriend, my sweetheart who showed me so much. He taught me to laugh again. My mind will still try to persuade me, sinuous secrets, that I'm still with that bastard, that I'm still under his control. One of his friends tried to get back at me right before I was going on a holiday. He told me how terrible this respected furry in society was doing these days and how I was responsible.

Did you think I was going to be swayed? Not likely. That's when I learned what PTSD was, if a flashback that sets me back in the sights, smells and sensations of the worst days of my life falls under that heading. There's so much in the realm of mental health that overlaps and I would not want to devalue any illness through my ignorance. A flashback - let's call it that. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stop moving. I sweated. I paced the room. Back and forth, back and forth. I was back there, trapped, crazy. My boyfriend found me curled up on the sofa when I finally managed to stop, tears streaming down my face.

But I made it through and I didn't relapse. Not that I would have ever contacted that bastard, despite all my questions. I learned that there are many who only get his story and, well, I wanted the chance to tell mine too. Mine counts too. Mine is important. Even if he told me it wasn't.

Yet my head will always be my worst enemy, playing tricks and darkening days that should have been bright. Worse still, my head will try to tell me that it wasn't abuse at all, that I made it all up and, of course, he was oh so good to me, however could I think that he was abusive in the slightest? Maybe my memory was always that bad. Maybe the saved messages were doctored. Maybe I made everything up. What if I was really that bad? What the hell was I doing still being alive like I deserved to walk around with everyone else?

Yeah, well, the demon is fucking wrong and always will be. Tell me that all you like, but I ain't changing my tune. I got it written down and I got the e-mails, a little shard of the past that I haven't released as yet, if only to cast my eye over and ask myself what I'd say to a friend if they received this message from their apparent boyfriend? With a lot of the things that that prick said to me, I'd have hauled any of my friends away from him by their hair kicking and screaming, if necessary.

But I know that's not the way. Everyone has to come to terms in their own time and, to be honest, they have to make the decision to leave by themselves. Otherwise the narcissist - was it even narcissim? Who fucking knows? - just continues on and on and on. You loop back, snared in their net and you're back with them before you can even blink, wondering why you tried to leave in the first place.

Yet you know. And you know you shouldn't be there either. You should be gone - long fucking gone. But they do something to you that you can't explain and, even though the sleepless nights snarl in the dark, you can't break free of this living nightmare. It doesn't help explain it in the aftermath. Nothing will ever be able to explain this level of bullshit to anyone - not ever.

The questions remain unanswered. I will never ask them of anyone but myself as no one could give me an answer. There is no reason for anyone to treat another like that. There never will be a reason. I can try to make sense of it all I like, but it'll always be a mystery.

I can spite the past by living now though. Even if I have many days ahead of me and today is not my last.

So, fuck the past. You're gone and dead to me.

This needed to be said. Call it a taste of catharsis, if you will. The story of the one that flew away and is still looking back over her shoulder.

I'm still learning. And the arsehole is still kicking around, breathing and manipulating someone else, no doubt. I want to warn others, but that's just why I haven't named names - there's no point. They'll have to come to the realisation themselves, not face an epiphany from the words of a crazy furry on the internet. Or at least I'm sure I'd be crazy to them. These days, I am quite sane. At least, in comparison to that time.

And do you know why that is?

I have a boyfriend who loves me and whom I love dearly. I have a career and I have the world of words to let me slip away. I have hope and I have friends. I have animals that make me smile and a life that I wouldn't throw away for anything.

My past does not own me. And neither does he.