The Day I Realized It Wasn’t Love—It Was Control

The Day I Realized It Wasn’t Love—It Was Control

I still remember the shirt I was wearing.
It was pale yellow, soft cotton, a bit too big because he liked it that way. He said it made me look “innocent”—his favorite word for me.

We were in the car, driving home from a dinner I had planned for his birthday. I paid for everything. Made the reservation. Even wore my hair the way he liked it—slicked back, not too “out there,” because once he said I looked “too available” when I wore it curly and wild.

I remember I laughed at something the waiter said—nothing flirtatious, just a joke about the weather. But the second we got into the car, his mood shifted. His jaw clenched. Silence stretched so long it could’ve been a scream.

And then:
“You’re always looking for attention.”

I felt it in my stomach like a punch.
That sinking, familiar shame. The kind you carry before you even realize it’s there.

The Illusion of Protection

When we first met, I mistook his control for care.
He wanted to know where I was, who I was with, what I was wearing—not because he didn’t trust me, he said, but because he "loved me too much not to worry."