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.

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

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 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 was out chilling with my mates when my phone rang. It was her, and she sounded really messed up, saying she’d hurt herself if I didn’t come back.

When I got back, I found her in the bathroom, knives lying there like some horror movie. It freaked me out big time.

After that, I felt like I had to stay close, like I was responsible for her. I couldn’t even hang out with my friends without worrying about what might happen when I wasn’t there.

He didn’t even bother to ask. He just went ahead and sold our home, uprooting us from everything I knew. We left behind my friends and family, the people I relied on for support and love. It hurt so much.

He called it our “new life,” but it felt like he was tearing me away from everything that mattered. It left me feeling lost and alone, I had nobody else but him.

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.

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.

Clothes On Bed

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