The Gilded Cage, or How I Lost Myself in Marriage
When I was born, my mother named me Alice. She believed the name was bright and cheerful, hoping her daughter would be smiley, happy, and loved. Little did anyone know that, over the years, my smile would become sparse, and happiness would just be a facade for others to see.
It all began when I met Him. Simon. Tall, well-built, with a confident voice and a gaze that seemed to stir butterflies in my stomach. He was everything a real man should be—the perfect life partner I had imagined. I didn’t see that beneath his outward confidence lay a cold control. That his charming gestures hid an unyielding will. I simply fell in love—naively, youthfully, with eyes wide open and a heart full of innocence.
We got married quite quickly. I thought then—if a man loves you, he rushes to make you his wife. How wrong I was… He did want to make me “his”—in every sense. His. Subservient. Obedient.
At first, everything seemed perfect. Restaurants, travels, expensive gifts. Winter getaways in the mountains, summers by the sea, parties with his friends. On the surface—an idyll. Envy from friends, likes on social media. But inside me—emptiness. Because amidst all the outward glitz, I was losing myself more and more.
Decisions were made without me. He chose where we would go, what we would have for dinner, how we spent our weekends. But that might have been the least of it. More importantly, he decided how I should look, what I should wear, how to style my hair, and even the tone of my voice.
— Darling, this dress is too plain, don’t embarrass me.
— Why wear jeans again? A woman should be feminine.
— You’re not working in a factory to wear a t-shirt.
I tried to joke, to persuade, but each time I met a cold wall. He never yelled. He never hit. He just looked at me as if I were a disappointment. And I felt ashamed. I wanted to be good. I tried. And gradually, I stopped being myself.
Worse still was when I brought up the topic of having a child. I was 30. I had long felt the deep desire to become a mother. But it seemed he always knew he wouldn’t allow it. His response stunned me:
— Why have a child? You’re enough for me. I love you. I don’t want anyone to interfere in our life.
Love… Yet I felt like a prisoner. He didn’t want to share my love. He wanted a monopoly on it. He didn’t need me to become a mother. He wanted me to be just a wife. Convenient. Beautiful. Obedient.
More and more, I felt like I was suffocating. Despite the comfort and outward glitz, I wasn’t free. Every step I took was under control, every glance watched. My own desires were forbidden. My own feelings were invalid. I could only be “his.”
One day, I tried to talk to him seriously. I said I wanted children, that I was tired of being a doll in a beautiful house. He listened silently. Then he hugged me and said I was imagining things. That everything was fine with us. That I was his happiness. His treasure. And that if I had a child, his treasure would be taken away.
It was frightening to hear. Not anger in his voice, not pain. But a fanatical determination. As if he truly believed he had the right to decide for both of us. That I was his possession. Loved, but still a possession.
Since then, I’ve not raised the topic again. But the fear that I might remain a hostage to this love forever doesn’t leave me. I’m 32. I want a child. I want a family where I can breathe. Where I’m heard. Where I have the right to an opinion. Where I am needed not as a picture, but as a person.
I’m writing this because I don’t know what to do. I still love him. Or maybe I love the man he was at the beginning. Or who I wished he could become. I don’t know. But I know for sure: if this continues, I will break. I will cease to exist as an individual.
Tell me… how do I explain to a man that love is not a cage, even if it’s made of gold? That family is not a dictatorship, but a partnership? That I don’t have to choose between “loving” and “living”? How do I speak, when he listens only to himself?
I don’t want to leave. But I can’t live like this any longer.
