I came across the perfect statement this morning in an old journal: Stop trying to control everybody and everything.
I’ve spent my life trying to control my surroundings and the people in it. Like a lot of other unhealthy compulsions, I chalk this one up to my alcoholic upbringing.
When you are unsure of others; when you are subject to surprise attacks and monsoon-like changes in the environment, the kind that knock the legs out from underneath you; it is very important to be a student of sudden shifts in the wind. Those who can read the signs and know their meaning tend to fare better than those who can’t.
On summer afternoons, when my brother and I were young, we would stand together at the bottom of the driveway and stare at the house, unsure if we should enter. Without speaking, we would raise our antennas and scan the air, for what, exactly, I can’t describe.
I can still picture the late afternoon storm clouds above, the grey light, the open window to my bedroom, the white-framed screen door half an inch ajar. I can still smell the cut grass, a sign that my father had been “slaving” out in the yard. I can still hear the terrible silence from our house, if you can call that a sound, hanging in the pregnant air. I can still feel it, that sense that all was not right. That gut instinct that, if we knew what was good for us, we’d turn and run, disappear for a couple of hours, then try to return home again. “Danger, Will Robinson,” one of us would say, and we’d break out into a nervous giggle.
Walt accuses me of being paranoid. He doesn’t understand why I see danger everywhere. Why I can’t relax and assume that the Universe is conspiring to do me good, not jerk the rug out from underneath me.
Whenever we come home from a long trip, my jaw tenses; my fingers twiddle, then clench; my eyes dart. I’m ten years old again, approaching our house with such trepidation. I want to say, “Danger, Will Robinson,” but I know Walt won’t get the inside joke.
Part of this reaction, now, comes from having had free-range teenagers for way too many years. I can’t count the number of times we’ve stepped over the ubiquitous industrial-sized Hefty trash bag filled with emptied beer cans, stationed, in a fuck-you fashion, in the middle of our laundry room floor. Or found our beautiful soapstone sink loaded with party fixin’s—Ranch dressing-soaked pizza crusts, bar-b-q chicken carcasses, a petrified container of Chinese takeout—and the counters smeared with…I don’t even want to know.
The other part is that fear that kicks in whenever I’ve relinquished control, whenever I’ve taken my finger off the beating pulse. It’s as though something unseen and dangerous has invaded my space and taken up root.
My antenna quivers like a bitch.
I see the Paine’s garbage can that has been moved 3 inches to one side, which is odd since no one but Walt and I have ever ONCE taken out the trash. And the coffee-can-sized hole in the backyard fence. And the fact that the slider door to our bedroom is no longer 100% closed. And that someone has used our shower. And the guest bed.
I’m not expecting Goldilocks to lift her head; I’m expecting Satan, or that creature from Alien. And, yes, I know how ridiculous this is.
I’ve wanted to manage those closest to me the same way I’ve wanted to manage my environment.
Let’s face it, a ten-year-old has very little control. She is, in many ways, at the mercy of the adults in her life. A grown woman has a lot more options at her disposal. She can draw the lines, call the cops, say no, throw the idiots out, leave, ask for help, hand out consequences, and clean up the mess.
She has tools in her belt. All she has to do is use them.
I have two affirmations written on index cards tacked to my bedroom wall. I look at them every day. Because, despite the hard-won boundary stuff, I still need the empowering reminders.
I relax knowing I can handle it.
I peacefully allow my life to unfold.
This means, regardless of what I find when I walk into the house, I’m going to end up just fine.
There’s no great teaching moment here, I just hope my words help you. Paranoid control freak that you are.
Relax, Will Robbinson, Relax.
