I began to save some of my housekeeping money. Saved it in a jar in Warren’s room, which he seldom went into. But maybe I was too transparent, because when I returned from shopping one day, Tom was seated at the dining table, the money from the money jar spread out before him. “What’s this?” he demanded.
My heart sank at the bust. I scrambled my brain for an answer. “Oh, just teaching Warren how to save money,” I said in what I hoped was a casual voice.
His eyes narrowed at me. “There’s over a thousand dollars here. I counted.”
He counted.
“Well, I told him that if we save over five thousand dollars, and if he didn’t nag me for toys all the time, we would surprise Daddy and buy tickets to Disneyland.”
“Disneyland or … South Africa?” His tone of voice told me that he wasn’t buying my story.
“What do you mean?”
For a few moments, he stared at me. Then he stood, scooped up all the money into the jar, and said, “I’ll put it in the bank. It’s safer there.”
Devastated, I could only watch helplessly as he walked off with my hope, my freedom. It may only have been a thousand dollars to him, but to me it was everything.
After that, Tom watched me carefully and monitored every cent I spent. Wanted to see whatever I bought all the time. He had no problem with me buying stuff using the credit cards; it was just cash he didn’t want me to have access to.
In fact, he loved it when I went shopping with my friends and bought tons of expensive and unnecessary stuff. When I returned home, he’d post-mortem my shopping expedition.
“Who’d you go with?”
“Did she see what you bought?”
“What did she say about it? Was she impressed?”
“Did she buy one too?”
As I said before, we had to have bigger, better, shinier, newer, or he wasn’t happy. In his mind, Tom’s life was one big race, one big competition, and he had to come first, had to win every race, all the time.
“Nobody remembers the person who came second,” he always said. “To be noticed, you have to come first.”
And he was a mean drunk. Whenever he got drunk, which he did after just two Johnny Walker Blue Labels because he hardly ate, he would lecture me on how fortunate I was.
“You are so lucky to have a husband like me. All your friends, they wish they had married me.”
“If I were a woman, I’d be attracted to me, ’cause I am a great catch. No really, I am.”
He was right; my superficial circle of friends thought he was something – man-extraordinaire, doting father (he was wonderful to Warren in the presence of people), loving husband (he always held my hand in public, looked deep into my eyes when we talked, cozied up to me in front of friends), successful businessman (he flaunted his money, paid when we took friends out to dinner, bought super expensive gifts for people), and a super-fit athlete, an iron man (he had a ton of trophies on display to prove it). Don’t you wish your husband was hot like mine?
Meanwhile, with Tom monitoring my spending, my freedom eluded me, and that television commercial haunted me.
After much thought, I realized I needed a credit card to obtain my freedom. One that Tom didn’t know about.
But I was not gainfully employed, so how did I get one? No bank would give me one. Instead of giving up, I decided I would find a way to obtain one. It would be a challenge, but one that I would overcome.
Out of sheer desperation, I lied on an application form about my employment status. Somehow, in a couple of months, I managed to secure myself a credit card! I was ecstatic.
The first step towards freedom. All because of a credit card with a measly limit of just five thousand dollars. To me, it was a key, and I treasured that key.
Now, Tom would search, and if he found the credit card, I would be in so much trouble. To prevent him from finding out, I put the card in a ziplock bag and stuck it in the freezer between the broccoli and spinach.
I went one step further and redirected all credit card mail to my post office box that I rented. Then I rented a storage facility in another suburb. I was excited by my baby steps. Tiny little steps towards my freedom. Hope blossomed inside of me, and it was responsible for the energy I suddenly had.
The first things I placed in my storage unit were certified copies of all Warren’s and my documents. Then I started buying like crazy using Tom’s credit cards. Bags, jewelry, clothing, designer jackets, designer boots – I went on major shopping sprees and chose expensive stuff.
Unlike most husbands, Tom didn’t get upset at my spending; he was happy. “Glad to see you getting out of your slump,” he said. “It’s about time.”
After showing Tom all my purchases, which he demanded to see, I would hang them up in my massive closet and quietly save all the wrapping from the items I purchased. In my storage locker, I saved every single wrapper, box, receipt, tag, manual – anything pertaining to the purchase.
After I left Tom, I would have no money, so I planned to sell the unused items on Ebay and use the money to live on. Because of the original wrapping and boxes, all the items would be brand new.
In my storage locker, I had a desk, a chair, and a laptop. Every second day, I would sit at the laptop and update my inventory. It was something I looked forward to.
Over a couple of months, I had amassed almost twenty grand worth of bags, jackets, shoes, dresses, make-up, toys, and soft furnishings. All designer.
Okay, so I would probably get half of what they were worth, but that would have to do. Until Warren was old enough for me to hold down a full-time job.
Even though I longed to use the money to go back to South Africa, I knew that if I left the country with Warren, Tom would, without hesitation, have me arrested. I would have to live in Sydney, so I needed to find a way to survive.
Each time I took a step towards my freedom, I got more energized, and the pillow moved farther and farther from my face.
Since I desperately needed support, I toyed with the idea of confiding in some of our friends. But Tom had me associating with people he deemed worthy of our friendship. People I found shallow and almost pretentious, and who made me feel small and inadequate. So in essence, I had no real friends, just shopping buddies. However, whenever one of my pretentious friends received expensive jewelry, I made a point of telling Tom how wonderful her jewelry was and how much I admired it.
Lo and behold, my jealous and vain husband/abuser would better that – a bigger diamond, thicker gold, and more expensive. I would smile and store the present away, then stash the box and price tags in my precious storage facility.
The only hope I had in my life was my storage locker. It was like a shrine of freedom to me.
After I visited my locker and worked on my inventory, my spirits always soared.
Once, I was driving home from my storage unit when Nicki Minaj’s “Freedom” played on the radio. I pumped up the volume as tears filled my eyes. I feel free, I feel freedom…
I didn’t mind the profanity – I just loved the chorus. When will I sing those words? I feel free, I feel freedom…
At the thought of being completely free of Tom, tears rolled down my cheeks. One day I would taste freedom. I would fly like a bird and soar with my baby on my back.
One day…
But for now, I would take comfort in the fact that I was already feeling free. Somewhat free.