He hid my tablets, so I had to ask for them.
Sometimes, I even had to beg.
He knew how important they were to me. How much I needed them just to get through the day. How without them, the pain would creep in, twisting through my body, making every movement a struggle.
And that was the point, wasn’t it?
It wasn’t about the pills. It wasn’t about my health. It was about control.
The first time he “forgot” where he put them, I believed him. Thought maybe it was an accident, that they’d just been misplaced. I searched the cupboards, the drawers, under the bed—anywhere they could have fallen. Meanwhile, he sat there, watching. Amused.
When I asked, he shrugged. “I don’t know, babe. You’re always losing things.”
That should have been the first red flag. But I didn’t see it, not then.
Eventually, he pulled them out from his pocket and tossed them at me like it was no big deal. Like I was being dramatic for even worrying.
But then it happened again.
And again.
Some days, he’d make a game of it. He’d ask what I’d done for him that day before he’d “help” me find them. “Come on, it’s not hard to be nice.” As if I hadn’t already spent the day walking on eggshells, making sure not to upset him.
Other times, he’d let me squirm for hours. I’d be in pain, struggling, trying to function while the tablets I needed were right there, hidden somewhere in the house. Somewhere he’d put them, just to see how long I’d last before breaking.
If I got desperate, if I begged, he’d smirk. Like he’d won. Like watching me in pain was some kind of twisted reward.
Then he’d finally hand them over. “See? All you had to do was ask nicely.”
Nicely. Like my pain was just an inconvenience to him.
Like I should be grateful.
It made me feel powerless.
Because he decided when I got relief.
And when I didn’t.
And worst of all? He knew I couldn’t fight him on it. I needed him—or at least, I needed the pills he controlled.
And that was exactly how he wanted it.
