I’ve learned something about Control in the last ten years. We tend to place Control on both wrists, both ankles and around our necks like miniature life-preservers. We learn from all the times we failed: not prepared enough, not informed enough, not charming enough, not whatever enough, that Control will Save us.
I don’t think this happens all at once, but slowly, over time. Grow old enough with the right set of failures, and these accessories become essential, and you wouldn’t catch us in a moment without them.
What I didn’t realize until my life became unbearable, was these bonds of Control weren’t actually keeping me buoyant like I had once believed; they were pulling me under.
They became enmeshed in my skin. The very thing adopted to save me became my undoing, like a super-hero villain, who wants to stop and doesn’t know how. My life grew too heavy for me to carry.
But leaving Control on the curb, like chocolate, heroine, sugar, and an abusive relationship, is not easy. I would leave it on the curb at night, only to frantically retrieve it in the morning before the trash truck arrived.
When we grow accustomed to something that deeply, we have to relearn how to live without it. It’s like relearning how to breathe. But the air without Control is so fine. It’s worth it.