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.

Clothes On Bed

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

At first, it seemed harmless. Thoughtful, even. She would leave clothes out on the bed for me, saying things like, “This will look good on you,” or “I love when you wear this.” I didn’t think much of it. I liked making her happy.

But then it stopped being a choice.

If I picked out something for myself, she’d sigh, tilt her head, and say, “You’re not wearing that, are you?” If I put on something she hadn’t chosen, she’d cross her arms, her lips pressed into a thin line, staring at me like I’d just embarrassed her.

So I stopped choosing.

She even picked out what socks I would wear.

It wasn’t just about clothes. It was about control. I wasn’t a person to her—I was more her fashion accessory. Just there to fit her image. Something to show off, something to mould.

I only realised how deep it had gone when I caught my reflection one day. I didn’t recognise the man staring back at me. The hair, the clothes, the posture—it wasn’t me. It was the version of me she had created.

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

And the worst part? I don’t think she ever saw anything wrong with it.

She dressed me like she decorated a room. Everything in its place. Everything exactly how she wanted it.

I wasn’t a person to her. Just part of the design.

But I wasn’t a prop.

So one morning, I did something small. I put on the wrong socks. Something she hadn’t picked. Something bright and ridiculous.

And when she saw them, her face twisted, her voice sharp. “What are those?”

I just smiled.

It was the beginning. The tiniest act of rebellion.

share this story:

More stories

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

He took control of my banking, wanting to know every penny I had and where it went. I couldn’t have my own money. He watched everything. He’d even take cash from my account, moving it to his if he thought I had too much.

I dreamed of using that money to break free, but there was no hiding it from him. Every time I thought I had enough, he’d take it away.

I called it my escape fund, tucked away at the back of my wardrobe, hidden behind my clothes. He never bothered to look there.

Any spare change I had went straight into my secret stash.

One day, I’d save up enough to break free, to find my own place away from him.

I remember having this page in my notebook where I scribbled ‘NOT REAL’ over and over again. He kept insisting I’d done things I hadn’t, trying to make me believe I was a bad person. I scribbled so hard, my pen went through the page.

It was like all the shouting inside me found its way out onto that paper.

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.

He knew when I got paid on Fridays. The money would go straight into my bank account, but he’d make me go to the cashpoint to withdraw it.

I worked my butt off all week for that cash, but I never got to keep any of it. It felt like all my hard work was for nothing, like he was just using me so he could go to the pub.

He was a control freak. He made schedules for everything, even when I could eat or sleep. I was too scared to do anything differently.

I didn’t have the freedom to choose for myself.

Join Our Newsletter

The narrator's lens

Clothes On Bed

More stories