I wasn’t allowed on the bed. Every night, I’d try to sneak onto it, hoping for a moment of comfort, but she’d always shove me off. I made it as comfortable as I could, with a cushion and a blanket, but it still felt like I was being treated like an animal. Lying there, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being less than human, undeserving of even a basic place to sleep.

Sleep on floor

At first, it was a joke.

“You take up too much space.”
“You fidget too much.”
“You snore.”

Little comments, said with a smirk, a teasing nudge. I laughed along. It was normal, wasn’t it? Everyone had their little annoyances with their partner.

But then one night, she told me not to get in the bed at all. Just like that. No fight, no lead-up, just a casual statement.

“You can sleep on the floor.”

I thought she was joking.

She wasn’t.

I remember standing there for a second, waiting for her to change her mind. Waiting for her to roll her eyes, sigh dramatically, and say, “Fine, but stay on your side.”

She didn’t.

I tried sleeping in the armchair, but that wasn’t allowed either. “You’re not sleeping out here,” she said, barely glancing at me. “Go in the bedroom.”

It was a control thing. That much was obvious. I wasn’t allowed to be comfortable. I wasn’t allowed to choose.

So I made do.

I folded a blanket over a cushion and lay down on the floor beside the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Every night, I’d try to sneak onto the mattress, just for a little while. Just long enough to feel like I was still a person, like I still had some right to be there.

But she always woke up. Always shoved me off without a word.

I don’t know what was worse—being pushed away, or the fact that she didn’t even seem angry about it. Just irritated, like I was a dog that wouldn’t stay off the furniture.

Lying there, on the hard floor, I realised something.

It wasn’t about the bed.

It was about making sure I knew exactly where I belonged.

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UNSEEN ECHOES - Objects of Domestic Abuse | Photography Project & Exhibition

I still remember that belt. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.

He used to leave it in plain sight, moving it around so I couldn’t escape seeing it. I knew exactly what it meant – the consequences if I made even the smallest mistake.

I began receiving cards in the mail from my friends, filled with well wishes for a speedy recovery. I was so confused, I wondered why they thought I was sick. Turns out he had told all my friends that I was sick and couldn’t see them.

It was like he was isolating me from the people who cared about me, manipulating them into believing his lies.

He boiled a pan of water on the hob. He kept telling me that I had to stop upsetting him. He said it over and over again, but wouldn’t say what I was doing.

Then he called the dog over and held it near the water. He kept telling me to stop upsetting him.

I couldn’t. I didn’t even know what I had done wrong.

She’d snatch my phone every chance she got, always poking around in it, reading my messages, and checking who I’d called. It felt like I had no space to breathe, no privacy at all.

My phone wasn’t just a device anymore; it was a leash, and she held the other end tight. Freedom? Forget about it.

I was at work one day when she sent me a photo of a clown. It was not to be funny, but she said it looked like me.

She was always saying bad things about how I dressed. I couldn’t forget it. I kept thinking, maybe other people think the same. It made me feel bad, like I was not good enough.

At first, it was just a bit of harmless fun, just a game we played.

But he started leaving for longer periods. He would go to the pub. I was scared. I dreaded his return and what he might do. I didn’t know what state he would be in.

Sometimes he would bring other men home. To use me for fun or to pay off his debts. I would lay there. I couldn’t run away.

I wanted it to stop. I wanted to die.

Sleep on floor

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