Content Warning:
This post discusses trauma, control, and real-world abuse.
This is not BDSM, roleplay, or consensual.
If this piece brings up difficult emotions or memories, please consider reaching out to someone you trust or a professional support resource.
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I don't know what Thomas's motive was—maybe to catch me slipping, maybe some twisted test—but when he told me “one day of freedom,” my mind went straight to proving him wrong. I was ungrounded, and there were no more punishments.
"For today, unless I mess up again," he said, " get rid of my stashes.
Eat whatever you want. Get rid of your stash spots around the house.
Just one day to act normal, no restrictions, no hiding. I clarified a few things, repeating his words to ensure I understood correctly, buying time to gauge whether this was a trap.
He wanted me to show him all my hiding places—the spots where I'd tucked away wrappers, crumbs, evidence of survival.
It was hard to remember them all on the spot. I'd adapted so well to the house's shadows, slipping things behind furniture or under cushions until I do my chores or out of sight to throw my trash away. But I revealed the main ones or any spot I remembered, handing over that sliver of trust (whatever you want to call it).
I was testing him. Would he explode? He didn't. Just nodded, told me to throw it all away. I did, cleaning every corner, feeling the weight lift a little.
No more pushiments.
I was not grounded.
I just can't fuck up again, and everything will stay like this.
I just had to follow the rules.
Had my mind racing... I could eat food freely. If I get hurt. I could still have comfort. I didn't have to steal.
Before making food, I double-checked: "Pantry? Fridge? At my own will?" He said yes, even took the locks off. Freedom tasted like possibility. I made a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich, sat at the kitchen table, and ate it slowly, savoring each bite. No rush, no fear. I felt good—happy, even. Cleaned my plate and put my dirty dishes in the dishwasher as if it were nothing.
Thomas watched, confusion creasing his face like I'd shattered his script. "Why aren't you raiding everything? Going wild, eating it all?" he asked, almost disappointed. I met his eyes, steady. "Why would I? You're letting me eat when I'm hungry. There's no need for it, no reason to hoard." It was that simple to me. He scoffed, looked away, like my calmness was an insult. I ignored it. I didn't understand what he wanted. Plopped on the couch and watched whatever was on the living room TV he had turned on.
That day ended on a good note for me. There's no way I am going to mess this up, and I didn't want to. I was trying, but tomorrow snapped back to chains. I'd forgotten one scrap of trash in the girls' bathroom, tucked under towels in the linen closet, which my siblings found and told Thomas about it. That tiny oversight was all he needed: grounded again, back to being his shadow, the freedom a fleeting tease.
I was grateful for my two PBJ sandwiches and whatever else I ate.
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What do you see? What purpose did this serve, besides testing me to see if I failed when I didn't?
What I am starting to see:
Looking back now, trying to understand why Thomas gave me that so-called “day of freedom.” It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t trust. It wasn’t a reward. It felt like a test more than anything else. A way for him to measure how much control he still had over me.
It felt like he wanted to see if I would fail.
It felt like he wanted to see if I would panic without restrictions, or binge, or grab everything in sight like I would lose control or act out — just so he could say, “See? This is why she needs punishment. This is why I do what I do.” It felt like there was a version of me he expected to see, the one where I was the problem, not him.
It felt like he was trying to prove that his control was ‘necessary.’
That his rules made sense.
That without him, I would fall apart.
That day was never about freedom.
It was about validation — his, not mine.
I remember feeling like I was being watched closely.
It felt like he expected me to break
He expected me to embarrass myself so he could feel right.
But when I didn’t?
When I ate calmly?
When I didn’t hoard or sneak or panic?
When I proved I could handle freedom better than he could handle losing control?
When I didn’t react the way I used to, it seemed to catch him off guard.
Because the truth was simple:
I’m starting to understand that I wasn’t the problem in the way I was made to believe.
It seemed like he didn’t know what to do...
It felt like he didn’t know how to handle my calmness…
It felt like being proven wrong caught him off guard…
So instead, he waited.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Looking for something — anything — to use against me again.
And the moment he found that tiny forgotten wrapper in the girls’ bathroom, he used it immediately.
Like he had been waiting the entire time to say,
“There. I knew it.”
It wasn’t about the trash.
It was about reclaiming power.
That day taught me something I didn’t realize then, but I see clearly now:
I’ve come to realize that people like him don’t fear failure — they fear losing control.
They fear being wrong.
They fear being seen.
And for one day, I proved he didn’t own me the way he thought he did.
That’s why he took it back so fast.
That’s why one wrapper became a weapon.
That’s why the freedom ended the moment he needed to feel powerful again.
He never wanted me free.
He wanted me contained.
But the truth?
I passed the test he hoped I would fail.
And part of me feels like he knew it.
That’s why it scared him.
To know a man who was like this and supposed to be a father to protect me... never did... never loved me... and that left me feeling like I had no value in his eyes.