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1 day ago
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It was 1991, I was in my early 40s, living in the south of England and trapped in a marriage that had long since curdled into something quietly suffocating. My husband had become controlling, first with money, then with almost everything else: what I wore, who I saw, what I said. It crept up so slowly that I didn’t quite realise what was happening.
We had met as students in the early 1970s, both from working-class, northern families and feeling slightly out of place at a university full of public school accents. We shared politics, music and a sense of being outsiders together. For years, life felt full of promise. When our first child arrived, I gave up my local government job to stay at home. That’s when the balance between us shifted.
Because he earned the money, he began to see himself as the decision-maker. By the time we had our second son, what began as discussions turned into edicts. I remember once saying that one of the boys needed new shoes and him replying that we couldn’t afford them, only for him to spend the same amount on something for himself. Those small humiliations chipped away at my confidence until I barely recognised myself. I felt isolated, but I told myself it would be worse for the children if I left.
Then one evening, about 15 years into our relationship, a friend suggested we go to the cinema. It felt like a rare escape. The film was Thelma & Louise, which everyone was talking about. As soon as it started, I recognised Thelma’s husband – the blustering, bullying man who treats her like property. When Louise turned to Thelma and said: “You get what you settle for,” I felt it like a punch to the chest.
That line lodged itself in my head. For months afterwards, it echoed through my thoughts as I went through the motions at home. I told myself I was staying for the boys, but it dawned on me that if I made myself ill and depressed with unhappiness, as I was doing, I’d be no good to them anyway.
A year or so later, just before Christmas, I’d been out shopping with a neighbour when her car broke down. We were late getting home. I had phoned to explain, but when I walked through the door he launched into a furious tirade. I remember standing there, still holding my coat, and that line coming screaming back. Suddenly, I heard someone say, “That’s it, I’m leaving.” It took a moment to realise the voice was mine.
By the end of the following week, I’d found a basement flat through a small ad in the local paper. I left with just a suitcase and my younger son – my husband had emotionally blackmailed our older boy to stay with him, something that still hurts to remember. I had no money, no family nearby, and no real plan beyond survival.
Within days of leaving, though, I felt a lightness I hadn’t known for years. I remember bumping into a friend I hadn’t seen for a while, who said: “What’s happened? You look incredible.” I was struggling in every material sense, but for the first time in decades, I could breathe. I began to see my friends a lot more, and poured my love into those relationships – something my husband hadn’t allowed me to do.
A few years later I was diagnosed with breast cancer. By then, the boys were older and wonderfully supportive. It was a horrible time, but I remember thinking: “Thank God I’m not still married to him.” That thought was vindication.
After 20 years on my own, and in my mid-60s, I moved back up north, closer to my roots. I got involved in community arts work, I met a widower with a love of art, too. I hadn’t been looking for love – after my first marriage, I was very wary of meeting someone else – but something about him felt different. It was just lovely and safe. We married three years ago, in a small, happy celebration surrounded by friends and family.
Looking back, I sometimes think of that night at the cinema as the hinge on which my life turned. I will always be grateful to Thelma & Louise, and the friend who took me to see it. That single line – “You get what you settle for” – changed everything.
In the UK, call the national domestic abuse helpline on 0808 2000 247, or visit Women’s Aid. In the US, the domestic violence hotline is 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). In Australia, the national family violence counselling service is on 1800 737 732. Other international helplines may be found via befrienders.org
