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.
Today, I have a new apartment. There is a shelf in my kitchen. On it is a messy stack of cookbooks, a coffee mug with a chip in it, and a fake flower my daughter made from pipe cleaners. Nothing is aligned. Nothing is perfect.
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. 7 SOE 019 Rape -Sora Aoi-
If it isn't physical, it isn't abuse.
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. I became obsessed with the angle of a ceramic bird
My husband never hit me. Not once. So when people ask, "Why didn't you just leave?" I tell them about the shelf.
Control is control. Isolation is a cage. Walking on eggshells fractures your soul long before your body breaks. Today, I have a new apartment
When I finally called a hotline, my voice was a whisper. "He doesn't hit me," I said, ashamed. "He just... moves the bird."