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Sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I just let go of control for a little while. Lost my composure, maybe got drunk or high, or any of those things that “good girls” like me do not do. I wonder if she would be likable, interesting, better than the me that I resign myself to be. I’m afraid though. Afraid she would be just like mom. Afraid she’d be reckless and all too loud about just how alone she feels. I’m afraid of regressing to a child-like state and having to have someone take care of me, bathe my naked body, tuck me into bed, and let me cry on them, the way I did with her when I was barely a teenager. Unlike her, I’m afraid I’ll remember it the next day… Sickeningly vulnerable. But a part of me craves that too. I crave the idea of someone else taking care of me at my most vulnerable. Not a child… but someone. But I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be heavy, when most people are carrying too much as it is. So, I take control- hold all my shit together as best I can. Even when I was suicidal from the ages of eight to 23, it was just a control tool. A controlled ultimatum in case it ever became too much. I try to control it all. They see it too… A prude little white sheep in a black sheep family, ostracized for seeming too uptight. But really I’m just trying to keep in control, to not take up space- to give them all the space there is, as they dig their graves. In the hopes they will crawl out of them and take the space I’ve saved for them. It’s exhausting though, if I am honest with myself. It’s a struggle to maintain the control, to fold myself up so tightly- they require so much room. I want to take up space. I want to let go and be emotional and reckless too. Just once, I want to unfold. I want to be that me, just for a moment.