He would make me drink.
Sometimes beer, other times something stronger, depending on his mood.
It wasn’t about drinking for fun. It wasn’t about enjoying a night together. It was about control.
At first, I tried to refuse. I’d shake my head, say I wasn’t in the mood, make excuses—“I’ve got work in the morning,” “I’m tired,” “I don’t feel well.” But it never mattered. He’d just laugh, roll his eyes, push the glass into my hands.
“Come on, don’t be boring.”
“Just one drink.”
“You know you want to.”
It was never just one.
And if I didn’t drink? If I put the glass down untouched, if I tried to leave? That was worse.
I learned quickly.
Even if I didn’t drink, he still got what he wanted.
Saying no only made things drag on longer. Made him angry. Made him meaner.
So sometimes, it felt easier to just go along with it.
To take the first sip, then another, letting the alcohol dull my senses. To let my head go foggy, my body go slack.
Because if I was numb, it didn’t hurt as much.
If I was numb, I could pretend I wasn’t there.
I could ignore the way his hands tightened, the way his voice changed, the way the room felt smaller, colder.
I could disappear.
And for those moments, that was the closest thing I had to freedom.