Prove Where You Are
After Glencoe, after the stairs, after the bed coming down on top of me, you would think there would have been some huge moment where I finally understood:
This man is dangerous.
There wasn't.
Instead, there were more good days.
More apologies.
More laughs.
More normality.
And then another explosion.
That's how my life started working.
I wasn't waking up every morning thinking:
I was waking up wondering:
What version of him am I getting today?
And increasingly, the answer depended on whether I could prove I hadn't done something I'd never fucking done in the first place.
The Rules
When I went to work, the rules continued.
FaceTime.
Messages.
Immediate replies.
If my phone went?
He wanted to know who it was.
If I didn't answer quickly enough?
That became suspicious.
If I was somewhere he couldn't see me?
That became suspicious too.
Then I had training one day.
He physically dropped me off.
He knew where I was.
He knew what I was doing.
He knew I couldn't sit using my phone during it.
You'd think that would be enough.
Nope.
Calls.
Messages.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At some point, the lovely:
He wants to talk to me all the time
had quietly become:
I better fucking answer.
Another Bed
My shift that night ended up being cancelled.
He didn't know that, so I went home to relax.
He took what he called his TikTok phone into the bath.
When he came out?
Raging.
Again, I was accused of messaging men.
By this point I'd already deleted social media.
I'd deleted men from my phone.
I'd allowed him to go through everything.
There shouldn't have been anything left for me to prove.
Except there was always something.
Because nothing was ever enough.
Again, the bed was launched with me on it.
My elbow, which was already injured, was cut and scraped again.
And after that?
We still went to the gym.
Because apparently that had become normal too.
Get accused of cheating.
Get hurt.
Go to the fucking gym.
And I always had to go to the gym with him.
Why?
Because he didn't trust me to be there alone.
Send Me a Picture
One night we went for dinner.
I took him back to his because he was working in the café the next morning.
When he left for work, I stayed in his bed.
Nothing remotely interesting happening.
Sleeping.
Alone.
Except apparently even that required evidence.
He woke me before he left.
Later?
I had to send him a photograph showing that I was still in his bed.
And alone.
Read that again.
A grown woman.
Sending photographic evidence that she was lying in a bed alone.
And it only got worse.
Five Minutes Was Too Long
I came home.
I was on the phone to Dad.
He messaged me.
I didn't reply immediately.
So another message appeared.
???
I explained:
I'm on the phone.
Then came the video calls.
I asked him to give me five minutes.
Just five fucking minutes to finish talking to my dad.
No.
Who was I talking to?
“My dad.”
More video calls.
Then the passive-aggressive:
“Leave you to it. Crack on.”
So when I finished talking to Dad, I called him back.
Now?
He ignored me.
Another argument.
And how did I end that argument?
Proof.
Of course.
Life360
I had to send him a screenshot from Life360.
Proof I'd been home.
Proof I hadn't gone anywhere.
Then later that night?
Another picture.
Me in my room.
In bed.
Alone.
This became my life.
Not:
How was your day?
But:
Where are you?
Who's there?
Who messaged you?
Show me.
Send a screenshot.
Turn the camera around.
Prove it.
And every time I provided proof, I thought maybe this would finally be the one that made him realise:
I'm not fucking cheating on you.
But proof didn't reassure him.
It just taught him that he could demand more.
My New House
Then something happened that should have been exciting.
I went to view my new house.
After temporary accommodation and everything that had happened with my marriage, I was finally looking at somewhere that could actually become mine.
A home.
A fresh start.
Something stable.
I should have been excited.
Instead?
Afterwards, I had to drive down to him.
First I had to screenshot Maps.
Proof of my estimated arrival time.
Then I had to stay on FaceTime for almost the entire journey.
Four and a half hours.
Think about how insane that is.
He didn't just need to know when I'd arrive.
He needed access to me while I travelled.
Because apparently somewhere between Scotland and Sheffield I might magically stop the car and have an affair.
And when I arrived?
Apparently my actual body became evidence against me.
Apparently He Was Now a Gynaecologist
He accused me of sleeping with somebody.
Why?
Because apparently normal female discharge meant another man's semen.
Yes.
Really.
I wish I were making some of this shit up.
I tried explaining basic female biology.
It didn't matter.
Logic didn't matter.
Evidence didn't matter.
My word certainly didn't matter.
If he decided something proved I'd cheated?
Then in his mind, I'd cheated.
And that's something I slowly started learning.
I wasn't defending myself against facts.
I was defending myself against whatever he'd invented in his own head.
And how the fuck do you prove something didn't happen when the other person has already decided it did?
Then He Took My Car
I drove back that night.
He came with me again.
I went to work.
That weekend?
He took my car back to Sheffield.
So I had to get lifts to work from a workmate who lived near me.
And, obviously, that created another opportunity for suspicion.
Who messaged me?
Screenshot.
Who was picking me up?
Photo.
What was I doing?
Proof.
I was trying to arrange broadband and electricity for my new house.
Proof.
At home?
Proof.
At work?
Proof.
There was practically no part of my day anymore that didn't require some kind of evidence.
Show Me the Empty House
The next morning I went to my new house.
He was meeting me there.
I had to stay on the phone while I travelled.
Then, when I arrived?
I had to send a video of the house.
Why?
To prove I was there alone.
Room by room.
Evidence.
Because apparently saying:
“I'm alone.”
wasn't enough.
My word meant nothing.
And the really frightening thing?
I was becoming accustomed to it.
That's what control does.
It doesn't necessarily arrive as one enormous ridiculous demand.
It grows.
Give me your passcode.
Okay.
Who's that?
Explain.
Delete him.
Fine.
Delete Snapchat.
Okay.
Delete Facebook.
Fine.
Send me a screenshot.
Okay.
Turn your camera around.
Fine.
Show me the room.
Okay.
Show me the house.
Okay.
Show me you're in bed alone.
Fine.
And every time you comply, yesterday's completely unreasonable demand becomes today's normal.
Then came the withheld number.
Put It on Loudspeaker
We were sitting in our usual café.
My phone rang.
Withheld number.
I answered.
Immediately, he wanted the call put on loudspeaker.
We were sitting in a busy café.
I said no.
It was a call centre.
They were looking for somebody with a completely different name.
I told them:
Wrong number.
End of conversation.
Surely?
Nope.
We left the café.
And once again, something completely innocent became violence.
He pushed my head into the passenger-side window.
I lost an earring.
Then he pulled over.
Dragged me out of the car.
And threw my phone into a field.
I had to go and retrieve it.
When I tried getting back into the car?
He kicked the passenger door into me.
Then he drove further down the road.
Stopped again.
More screaming.
Then he punched the windscreen.
And cracked it.
And after all of that?
I went to work that night.
The Red Car That Wasn't There
By then, I was on Life360.
Except anybody who's used location tracking knows it isn't always perfectly accurate.
I was inside my workplace.
But the app showed my location slightly outside.
In the car park.
And that tiny GPS discrepancy became another accusation.
Apparently?
I was sitting in somebody's car.
A red car.
Having apparently already developed qualifications in gynaecology, he had now also become a private investigator.
So what did I do?
I took videos.
Videos proving the red car wasn't even fucking there.
I tried explaining that Life360 could be inaccurate.
At one point, according to the app, he'd supposedly been standing in the middle of the road outside my house for hours.
Obviously he hadn't.
Surely that demonstrated the problem?
No.
Still wasn't enough.
Then?
He appeared at my work.
Lovely.
With food for me.
And that's the bit that completely fucks with your head.
One minute I'm desperately recording a car park to prove I'm not secretly shagging somebody in a red car that doesn't even exist.
The next?
He's bringing me dinner.
Being lovely.
Caring.
Normal.
So your brain starts doing it again.
See?
He's not horrible.
He cares about me.
He brought me food.
And somehow that little act of kindness starts competing in your head with the fact that hours earlier you'd been forced to make a fucking documentary about an empty car park.
And Still, That Old Message
He continued obsessing over the young guy I'd told:
Do not contact me again.
That message wouldn't disappear.
He insisted it counted as cheating.
I even sent screenshots trying to explain that telling somebody not to contact you is quite literally the opposite of having an affair with them.
He wouldn't listen.
Because by then, I was starting to understand something.
This was never going to end with me finally presenting the perfect piece of evidence.
There was no:
Ah, okay, I believe you now.
Because as soon as I disproved one accusation?
There would be another.
Then Came My Money
Next?
Money.
His money was going into my account.
But he spent constantly.
Often more than he actually put in.
Then he'd look at the balance and decide there should be more money there.
So guess who had to explain it?
Me.
Bank statements.
Transactions.
Balances.
Where money had gone.
What had been spent.
Why there wasn't more left.
My finances became another thing I had to account for.
My phone.
My location.
My social media.
My friends.
My work.
My car.
My body.
My money.
Piece by piece, things that belonged to me stopped feeling like mine.
And all the while?
I kept trying to prove myself.
Because I still thought trust was the goal.
I didn't understand yet.
Trust was never the goal.
Control was.
And soon, the violence would escalate again.
Because there would be another bed.
Except this time?
He wouldn't just throw it.
He'd pin me down.
Sit on my chest.
And I would start learning just how terrifying it feels when somebody takes away your ability to breathe.
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