Control

“Grow up.”

That was a theme you used a lot throughout my years. Each time you spouted something related to those hate-filled words, I felt a piece of my heart vanish, the pang bringing that well-known emptiness never failing to shake me, but I would never dream of crossing you. I learned to know better than that.

When I was five, for example, I learned how to swim. You were always a good swimmer, and since you learned from an early age, I needed to as well. You threw me in the pool the moment I closed the gate door.  My body shut down for about three seconds as I processed the feeling of being completely enclosed before I realized that if I didn’t do something soon, I would drown.

Relying on the few memories I had of watching you swim laps in the early morning hours, I waved my hands wildly, desperately trying to reach the surface before my oxygen ran out. My eyes burned like coal as I searched everywhere I could for something to grab on to despite being in the middle of the pool. 

Finally, right before I passed out from the water intake, I broke through the surface. I took as many breaths as I could as the water pulled me back under, repeating the whole process over again. By the fifth time I reached the surface, I started to push my arms opposite the wall, slowly but surely making my way toward land. My limbs were beyond sore, but I kept moving, as I knew that if I stopped, I may never make it out of the water. Eventually, my fingers brushed against the wall, and I used all of the strength I had left to thrust myself over the pool wall and onto the deck.

I sprawled out onto the warm wooden surface, gasping like a fish out of the water as my rapidly beating heart threatened to burst right out of my chest. After a minute or so, I finally gained enough strength to sit up and crawl toward the gate. My chubby fingers were inches from the gate when you wrapped your arms around me and lifted me back over the pool, a disappointed sigh escaping your lips.

“You can’t stop until you learn how to swim.”

We repeated that process ten more times, and I only passed out twice before I could make my way back to the wall in only twenty seconds. It was okay, though, because you prepared me for the world, even if it meant risking my life.

When I was seven, I braved the dark. I typically slept with the door open and my bedside lamp on since I liked to be as aware of my surroundings as much as possible, even on the darkest of nights. You didn’t like the waste of electricity, however, and claimed that I had to get over my fear of the dark soon or I’d be bullied over it. 

A week after no change in my sleep process, you stormed into my room, tugged the lamp plug out of the wall, and slammed the door shut, locking it behind you. I immediately ran toward the door, rapidly pounding my fists against it as if a lion were behind me, ready to use me as a midnight snack. I screamed until my voice was hoarse and dry, but you never came back. I slumped in the corner, shaking violently as my eyes darted around every corner of the room. Even as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I maintained my panicked state. Suddenly, everything I found normal was something to be suspicious over, whether it was a robe on the doorknob or the beady eyes of my dolls staring back as if they had souls of their own. 

Without even realizing it, I broke out into quiet sobs, my shoulders hunched over as I curled up into my shaking figure, worried that my dark surroundings would swallow me whole if I even spared a glance at the rest of my room.

I cowered in the corner for so long that I didn’t even realize the light was peeking out behind my curtains, signaling the start of a new day. You came in shortly after that, grinning proudly and going on and on about how I wouldn’t even need a bedside lamp now and that I was finally starting to grow out of my childish fazes. I bit back my tongue as I debated on reminding you that I was only seven.

You locked my door for a whole month after that until you were sure that I was okay with the dark, and I never got my lamp back.

When I was ten, I faced my fear of storms. You had a group of friends over to watch a football game, and I was finally old enough that you let me hang out with you. As the first quarter neared its end, however, a loud rumble rang out, causing me to stiffen. I quickly tried to relax again, but I knew it was useless as your eyes locked on mine, a small smirk growing on your face.

“Scared of the storm, are you?”

I tried to shake my head no, but you were out of your seat in a flash, your grasp tight on my wrist as you tugged me out onto the patio before slamming the door shut. You gave me a teasing wave before returning to your spot on the couch, where your friends barely spared a glance at me before turning back to the game.

I, however, was not doing so great. I turned toward the rest of our yard, swallowing once before slowly lowering myself into one of the folding chairs. As soon as I sat down, however, a large boom rang out, accompanied by a flash of light brighter than the Sun. I instantly let out a yelp, standing up out of my chair and turning toward the door to try and signal to you that I couldn’t take it. You, still finding the whole situation amusing, just shook your head and gave me your award-winning grin before turning back toward the television.

I sat back down, closing my fingers into tight fists as I mentally scolded myself for being so childish. I mean, things could have been worse. The porch at least had an overhang that shielded me from the rain, so it was like being inside, but the sounds were louder. So I ignored the fear that threatened to take control of me and sat as still as possible. After all, the last thing I wanted was to make a bad impression on your friends. I was better than that, and you would be disappointed if I didn’t face my fears.

The next boom sounded, and I made sure to hold on tightly to the metal edges of the chair and bite down on my tongue. Thankfully, I only let out a little squeal that was not loud enough for you and your friends to hear.

The storm lasted for another thirty minutes, and you left me outside for a full two hours until finally clicking the lock off and allowing me back in.

“Did you learn your lesson?”

I quickly nodded my head, but you still let your lips form a frown.

“You’ve got to be better than that. I thought you said you wanted to grow up, yes? Well, start acting more grown-up then.”

You sighed and walked down the hall, slamming your door shut and leaving me alone.

I promised myself that after that, I would conceal my fears more. You were depending on me to give the family a good reputation, and showing weaknesses only weakened our image more. From that moment, I knew that I would make an effort to never disappoint you again.

When I was fourteen, you wanted me to become more of an extrovert. I spent the morning watching the television in my room, my favorite show blasting out of my speakers. You were just about to head out for your morning run when you peeked your head into my room, a frown plastered on your face.

“Spending your time in your room again? I think it's about time you stop being such an introvert.”

I should have argued back. Sure, I really didn’t leave my room. Most of my time was spent watching the television scrolling endlessly through articles on my computer, desperately trying to find something to waste time on. I did have a guitar once, but you ended up smashing it, saying that no one wanted to be friends with a band nerd.

Still, I could never find it in myself to reach out to people. Everyone already seemed to have their group of friends, and they made it clear that I wasn’t allowed to be a part of that group. So I spent my time with someone who actually enjoyed spending time with me. Myself.

“The neighbor kids are outside. You should hang out with them.”

I shuddered at your words. The neighbor kids were a pair of twins, age eleven, and were the most bratty children I had ever met. They always caused trouble, whether it was uprooting a neighbor’s plant or smashing one of the street lights, and they always seemed to pin it on me, whether I witnessed it or not. I learned pretty quickly not to hang out with them, but you always tried to drag me toward them anyways.

Before I could find it in myself to respond, you had pulled me outside and over to the yard next to ours. The twins simultaneously glanced up at the sudden noise, grins growing on their faces as they realized who was approaching them. 

I glanced up at you, despair clear in my eyes as I tried to signal to you that I did not want to spend time with the twins. As you always did, you rolled your eyes and wished us a fun day before turning away and starting down the street. I verbally groaned before turning back toward the twins, who were giving each other looks that meant nothing but trouble. Of course.

The day went exactly how I expected it to go. The twins dragged me from house to house, always seeming to find something that they didn’t like and either taking it or ruining it. Each time, I did everything in my power to prevent them from doing so, but they knew I was outnumbered and took full advantage of it. After that day, I signed up for the basketball team and the cooking club, vowing to fill my time with as much busy work as possible so that I would never have to spare a glance toward those brats ever again. And for once, you seemed pleased, so I guessed that I was doing something right.

Now, I’m eighteen years old. I just graduated high school and am about to head to college to major in film. You begged me to study in something more ‘stable,’ but I just laughed at you and turned away. 

In the past year, I’ve reflected on my skills to figure out what interested me to prepare for college. I ended up coming up with a list of things that I knew you wouldn’t be pleased with, which caused me to delay even bringing up college around you more and more for fear that you would be disappointed in me. And that’s when I realized what I’d been missing my entire life. I realized that all this time you’d been forcing me to face my fears, my ‘character flaws’, as you liked to refer to them, I didn’t face my biggest fear of all.

You.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how controlling you had been over my life. At the end of the day, I didn’t have to know how to swim, be friends with the dark, enjoy storms, or even be an extrovert. Those weren’t flaws, and they never had been. They were just you trying to build what you thought was a perfect person. But I don’t have to be perfect, and your images of perfection are far from what I would ever want.

So I laughed, and I continued to laugh, even as you sent me confused and angry glances. Because I finally didn’t care what you had to say. I know who I am. I’m not you. I’m not an image of what you wanted. I am myself, and you can’t decide what I can and cannot do anymore. So here’s to the biggest ‘flaw’ in my life.

Letting you control me.