For years, I became very good at minimising. Explaining things away. Taking moments in isolation instead of stepping back and seeing the bigger picture. Because when you pull one thread out on its own, it can look small. Petty, even. Silly. Not enough to explain why you slowly stopped feeling like yourself.
I found it hard to explain to people because individually, so much of it sounded insignificant.
He didn't stop me going to work.
He didn't lock me inside the house.
He didn't tell me I couldn't see my friends.
But somehow, over time, things changed. Quietly. Gradually. Almost invisibly.
The difficult thing about coercive control is that it often doesn't arrive loudly. It doesn't always announce itself in obvious ways. Sometimes it builds slowly, piece by piece, until one day you realise your world has become smaller without you noticing it happen.
I think back to the beginning a lot.
The beginning didn't feel dangerous. It felt exciting. Intense. Passionate.
My previous relationship had been calm. Looking back now, probably calmer than I appreciated at the time. I used to joke that my ex-partner was so laid back he was horizontal. Life was complicated. We were complicated. There were things I needed that maybe he couldn't give me, and things I probably didn't communicate properly either. But at the time, I told myself something was missing.
Then came somebody who felt completely different.
Everything happened quickly. Really quickly.
He told me he loved me within a week.
We spent every night together almost immediately. We bounced between my house and his flat. There wasn't space to miss each other because we were never apart long enough to. He gave me a key. He talked about the future. He spoke to his family about me. He made me feel wanted in a way I hadn't experienced before. Chosen. Prioritised. Important.
I thought intensity meant certainty.
I thought passion meant love.
I thought somebody fighting for me meant somebody valuing me.
We argued. A lot.
Not massive life-changing arguments. Not arguments I can even clearly remember now. Little things. Misunderstandings. Taking things the wrong way. Tension that seemed to appear from nowhere.
But afterwards would come the apologies. The calls. The begging me not to leave upset. The messages asking me to come back.
And however much it would have been better not to have had the argument in the first place, part of me felt flattered. Wanted. Important enough to fight for.
Only years later did I ask myself whether I had confused somebody fighting for me with somebody fighting with me.
There were no alarms going off in my head. No dramatic moment where I knew something was wrong.
Just small moments. Small compromises. Small adjustments. Small things I explained away.
Things that didn't seem big enough to count.
Things that, in isolation, felt silly to even say out loud.
But lives don't change in isolation. Relationships don't happen in isolation.
The bigger picture matters.
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