Control freakiness as a way of living: Trust me, it is not worth it.
How much can those minor traumas that we all go through in some periods of life affect ourselves, our desires, thoughts, and decisions?
I told myself that I would write more this year. What nonsense. I knew I wouldn’t because I haven’t been inspired by much in recent years. I needed a few nervous breakdowns, a few glasses of wine, a lot of toxic conversations, and a couple of confirmations from those closest to me so that maybe, just maybe, I could get rid of this block that has been bothering me for the 5th year in a row. Or not. Perhaps none of that was necessary; I should have moved again to where everything started — to the world of dreams.
Yap, it sounds crazy, and a little bit, it is. When you actually live your whole life in your head and not in real life, it gets weird when real life hits you. You feel awkward, strange, and, in my case, entirely emotionally, physically, and mentally uncomfortable. Let’s face it, I was doing excellent in that real life, and it’s still going on, but any city in this world can’t replace that imaginary life of mine; no other person, nothing, absolutely nothing can take the place of that my little world in which I have been living for as long as I can remember.
My therapist would say it must be part of my childhood trauma. I must have many because we often turn to them. We all have some, and I had a pretty good childhood. Sometimes, I feel like I have no rights to my childhood scars. Someone must have much bigger problems than me and better cope with life than me. In fact, I wonder how much those tiny, insignificant traumas actually left a mark on the person I am today.
How much can those minor traumas that we all go through in some periods of life affect ourselves, our desires, thoughts, and decisions?
Let’s turn this into a joke because it already seems dark. At the tender age of 28, I was diagnosed with anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder, recurring depression, fear of uncertainty, need for control, panic attacks, fear of crowds, self-doubt, daddy issues, mommy issues, all the possible issues out there a therapist can find one for you. I am thinking now if I wrote them all down when they established them for me, the list would be so long that it could not fit in this small text. What’s funny here? Indeed, probably 99% of this planet could identify with me at least at some point in their lives.
The little traumas
My anxiety stems from the fear of losing control, which manifests itself directly through OCD, which has been present for more than half of my life. It sounds scary, but it’s just like an annoying grandma who won’t let you stop eating. I fear living in reality because my world, tucked away and beautiful, has always been much better for me. This world I see is gray and black, rude, ruthless, and bitter, and it does everything to make you feel bad. Looks like my OCD, hehe. This world is cruel, and as long as I exist in it and don’t live in it, I feel like it’s beautiful. I imagine it fragrant, sunny, and full of lovely and happy people, the kind they certainly don’t promote today.
I didn’t need any of the reasons mentioned above to start writing; I needed to get out of the world that someone else imposed on me and back into my own. I needed a warm bath and a memory from the past to remember why I started, wanted, and had to write.
My emotions, whatever they were, never knew how to come to the surface. Except for the anger, it always knew and was very clear and loud. All the rest were buried, just as they are today, as I write this text in a darkened, poorly furnished room on the seventh floor of an old Portuguese building in Lisbon. Some would say that this city inspired me, but it only made me return to myself, to my peace and my dreams.
Control is a fucking thing.
Mine, they say, originated because I didn’t know how to communicate what I needed (plot twist — I still don’t know); I closed in on myself and thought that I could only and exclusively rely on myself. That happy side tells me that I’m a freak, that I’m poisoning myself with stupid things, and that I have many people I can and must sometimes rely on and trust.
The second one, which I prefer, says yes, but who did you rely on entirely at one time? That’s where my control friend comes in, to take matters into her own hands, bang her head through the wall, but make sure She and I are fucking alone. Yap, it happens every time, without fail.
And still, as the last addict, I return to her. Because She keeps me grounded, loves me, lets me enjoy the fantasy world we created, hugs me tight when I feel like I’m falling without telling her, and, most importantly, doesn’t let me depend on anyone. She’s doing well; I’m still addicted to her. I wonder, will I ever fly?
