Clown

He would just sit there, glued to the TV screen. I tried to kiss him, but he didn’t even react. It was like I didn’t exist to him.

He made me feel invisible, unimportant, and unwanted.

We would go places, and she’d tell me I wasn’t there, that I imagined it. One time, we went to the beach, and I had a photo of the sunset.

She said she took it to show her friend because I wasn’t there. But I knew I was. Did I really make it up? It made me doubt my own memories, like I didn’t know what was real.

I had no freedom. I couldn’t even choose what I was going to wear. She did all of that.

She would leave clothes out on the bed for me. She even picked out what socks I would wear. I was more her fashion accessory. Just there to fit her image.

It’s humiliating when I look back at it. I couldn’t be me.

That photo album meant everything to me. He cut me off from everyone, even my own kids. And that album, it was my only escape, my link to happier times. But now, even that feels tainted, like I’m losing everything that mattered to me.

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

I kinda liked doing the dishes. It was like my secret hideout, away from her watching me all the time. I scrubbed away at those plates. The dirtier they were the better. I could take my hate and anger out on them.

I painted the bathroom mirror with black paint. I just couldn’t face looking at myself anymore. He kept saying I was ugly every day. Not just once. Every time he looked at me he said it. I heard it so much I believed it. I couldn’t go out. I couldn’t even look at myself.