He was a control freak.
Everything had to be planned, written down, followed like a rulebook I never agreed to.
He made schedules for everything—what time I had to wake up, when I could eat, when I was allowed to sleep. Even my showers had a time slot, a limit. If I ever did anything differently, if I stepped outside the routine even a little, he would notice.
And I was too scared to do anything differently.
If I ate before I was supposed to? “Did I say you could?”
If I stayed up later than my set bedtime? “Don’t mess up the routine.”
If I slept in? “Lazy.”
There was no room for choice. No space for me to exist outside of his rules.
At first, I tried to push back. Nothing big, just small things. Eating a snack when I was hungry, instead of waiting until the time he had decided was acceptable. Staying up just ten minutes later, thinking he wouldn’t notice.
He noticed.
Every time.
The look on his face when I broke a rule was worse than shouting. The way his eyes darkened, the way his jaw clenched—like I had personally offended him. Like I had betrayed him.
And then the punishments came.
Not always physical. Sometimes, it was silence. A cold, empty presence that made the room feel smaller. Sometimes, it was words, sharp and cutting, designed to make me feel guilty for thinking I deserved even the slightest bit of freedom.
Other times, it was worse.
So I learned.
I woke up when I was told. Ate when I was told. Slept when I was told.
I didn’t have the freedom to choose for myself.
Not even for the smallest things.
And after a while, I stopped trying.
Because trying meant punishment.
Trying meant reminding myself of what I couldn’t have.
And it was easier to just exist within his schedule than to fight a battle I was never going to win.