My husband never hit me. Not once. So when people ask, "Why didn't you just leave?" I tell them about the shelf.
For ten years, I thought I was a curator. I thought my job was to keep things neat. To keep him calm. To keep the peace.
Control is control. Isolation is a cage. Walking on eggshells fractures your soul long before your body breaks. 7 SOE 019 Rape -Sora Aoi-
If the bird was facing forward, he would sigh heavily when he walked in. That sigh meant dinner was "too salty" or the kids were "too loud." If the bird was facing right, he wouldn't speak to me for three days. Silence was his weapon of choice. It was colder than any winter.
If it isn't physical, it isn't abuse.
Trigger Warning: This story contains references to domestic abuse and coercive control.
In our living room, there was a small wooden shelf. It held three things: a ceramic bird from his mother, a clock that didn't work, and a small succulent. Every single day, I would dust that shelf. Every single day, I would stand back and make sure the bird was facing exactly 45 degrees to the left. My husband never hit me
I became obsessed with the angle of a ceramic bird. I measured it with my eyes. I built my entire emotional existence around avoiding his sighs and his silence.