I wake up every morning curled up closely to the edge of my queen-sized bed. Before I was with him, I had a bed this size for a decade or more. I had shared that space with other people, both romantic partners and platonic friends, and never struggled to spread out when I was alone. He made me so small, so timid and afraid, that even though it’s been six months (or more by the time I post this) since I’ve slept beside him, I still can’t find the courage to spread out.
Abuse is so rarely about the physical. It’s in the moments they break you down until they have control. They don’t stop until it’s complete control or you’re dead. And I learned there was never an argument too small for him to stop asserting that control.
He walked through our small apartment as if he was the only one there, expecting that I would duck and move to allow him space. If I didn’t move, either to hold my ground or because I didn’t notice him, he’d lumber right into me and then get angry and wait for me to apologize to him.
He was almost a foot taller than me and constantly got angry at me for walking too fast when we were out somewhere (especially if my pace was being set by emotions he didn’t want to deal with). I wasn’t allowed to have any spaces in my home set up the way I wanted them, even though I was the one responsible for cleaning and using most of those spaces. Before my anxiety led to the loss of my license, I wasn’t allowed to drive. I wasn’t allowed to decide what we ate. I wasn’t allowed to pick the music. I wasn’t allowed to choose not to smoke marijuana. I wasn’t allowed to invite people over (but he could). I wasn’t allowed to cope by zoning out on my phone (but he could). I wasn’t allowed to watch educational shows like TED Talks or documentaries. He had complete control of the spaces I was allowed to occupy and how I was allowed to occupy them.
He complained almost daily about the amount of space I took up in his bed. When I was pregnant and had to sleep with a maternity pillow, he seethed constantly and even though I still needed it during my postpartum period to help with nursing and recovering from a cesarean birth, he threw it out with glee just as soon as he saw an opportunity. I went back to being allowed less than a foot of space on the edge of the bed. I got used to sleeping with one hand extended in case I fell out. I got used to sleeping with a spare blanket on the floor beside me because I wasn’t allowed to pull the blankets back. On a few occasions when I fell out of the bed, I just slept on the floor where I was allowed to take up space on the cat bed that rested there.
And in the early morning, when I was awake hours before him, I wasn’t allowed to be on my phone or to get out of bed. He required me to be ready and available for his “love” when he woke up, despite being so exhausted that I could no longer tolerate his touch. He didn’t care. I was space I wasn’t allowed to occupy—I was his.
My best friend, we’ll call her Meriadoc, has taken to reminding me regularly of the spaces I am now permitted to occupy and actively recognizes and applauds the moments I assert myself in any spaces. Good friends make all the difference in the end.
