Control

It’s always been about control. I read a lot, especially about narcissism. As a child, I used books to escape. Now, I read to understand.

With my birth mother, she found freedom for a time, and then, with one choice, she came under the control of her parents, society, convention, religion, and the government. At the moment of my conception, my birth mother lost her rights. That’s a high price to pay.

With Mum, her life was about control: indulging her whims, her standards, her will. She looked to our family to sustain her, without much care and love from her end.

In my life, I am the product of control in one way or another. There was no in-between, and I have struggled to grasp how it all works.

Waking up in our house every morning felt like being in boot camp.Everything was rigid, shaped, controlled, and Mum was the drill sergeant. Every item had its place, and God help you if you moved it. Even in my room, things had to stay the same. That space, my room, was supposed to be mine. It also served as Mum’s office, which meant she had control over my desk drawers. I got one; she had the other two for her house ledgers and paper. Her typewriter also sat on my desk.

At first, it was a child’s room, with a dollhouse and a little nod to my small self, which remained there. Later, it became a teenager’s room, my own posters slowly creeping up the wall. But even blu-tacking those posters felt like a criminal offense. I’d think twice, weighing the consequences. Would she rip them down? Throw them out?

But somehow, I got away with it. She let them stay, though not without grilling me on where I got them. That was easy enough to answer. My friends were allowed to buy Dolly, TV Week, and Countdown. I wasn’t. The 50 cents pocket money I got each week in 1978 wasn’t for frivolous purchases like that; it was to be saved for birthday presents for family members.

Sometimes I got lucky. My friends would give me lip gloss, posters, or other bits and pieces on birthdays or just because they were generous. Those gifts made me feel normal; my friends had no idea how much they were treasured. Every swipe of that gloss on my lips made me feel like I was in the group. Those little gifts, lip gloss that smelled like strawberries, a folded-up Countdown poster tucked into my school bag, felt like smuggled goods. I would keep them deep in the recesses of my school bag and slowly reveal them when Mum wasn't looking. She never needed to say much; her silences were just as sharp as her words.

We lived with an invisible set of rules. Not the kind written down or spoken out loud, but the kind you learned through expressions and a look. You adapted quickly. You knew which version of yourself to be in any given room. It was like living on a knife edge every day. When I look back on it now, Mum’s rules to live by made me paranoid. In the end, I just gave in and barely asked for anything because I always assumed the answer was no.

Control wasn’t just about where the furniture sat or how she continued to make my bed, even when I was sixteen. It seeped into how you smiled, what you wore, who you trusted. Even happiness had to be careful, measured. Too much of it, and you might attract attention. And attention could cost you.

I do wonder, looking back, what made her that way. Was it her father? He was a cruel man by her accounts, the rare times she would talk about her own life growing up in prewar Germany. But then, my trust level was zero, and I wondered if she was lying.She was afraid of chaos, and perhaps that was her legacy.

But then, if everything she did was innocent, it didn’t feel that way growing up. It felt intentional. And sometimes, I still believe it was.

Every school holidays, we’d drive from Sydney to the property on the Sunshine Coast. It should’ve been a break, a two-week escape. Instead, it usually left me bored and desperate to get back to school. The older I got, the worse it seemed. I wanted to be with my friends, or at the very least be parked in front of the idiot box. But neither existed at the caravan in the shed on those 23 acres.

During our holidays, Mum’s controlling behaviour took on a different shape: subtler, more performative.

Our only neighbours were an elderly couple who lived nearby. I loved her; she was kind and soft. At first glance she was rather stern-looking, but once she spoke, you knew how gentle she was. He was different: stern, stiff, and unsure around children, which made sense. They hadn’t been able to have any.

Their property was up a long, winding dirt-and-sand road. You had to be careful not to get bogged halfway up. It had a few sharp turns, and our Combi was no four-wheel drive, but Dad was good at what he did, and he manoeuvred that oblong of a vehicle just enough to always get us to the top. When you did, you came into a parkland expanse with trees, a circular driveway, and a quaint wooden house to the left. Every type of fruit tree, including wild hibiscus that Mrs D harvested to make jam and tea. Mum would gift them her seasonal plum jam in exchange for their goods.

The house itself had been built by Mr. D., wooden plank by plank, when they had just married and bought the land to grow pineapples in the 1930s. In the kitchen, off to the side, was a long, narrow pantry, not filled with tins or cereal, but with jars. Inside each glass jar: a preserved snake. A whole collection, silent and coiled in glass.Some were striking, almost beautiful, and held a strange fascination. But it made me wary of him, this man with a penchant for snakes.

And I always found it odd that Mrs. D. had a severe bee allergy, yet there was no EpiPen in sight back then. Still, Mr. D. was an avid apiarist. He kept hives near the house.

They were self-sufficient, had no immediate family, and had done the hard yards all their lives. Their home was ingenious and unmistakably Queensland. Mr. D. had worked the old wood stove into the house’s design as its central heat source; it warmed the water system for every tap. That stove burned from dawn until late into the night, every day, for over forty years.

The cakes and biscuits that came out of that stove weren’t just delicious. They were the result of vintage baking techniques and a practiced hand.

I would wander around the house, staring out at the beautiful view from the lounge across to Boreen Point in the distance. The house was decorated in a style frozen in the 1940s or ’50s. And at its centre wasn’t a television, but a radiogram with a built-in record player.It looked like something you’d find in an antique store today. Except this one had a distinction. It was handmade by Mr. D. himself in his workshop beside the house, crafted from various timbers and designed in a parquetry pattern. It was exquisite.Even as a child, I could see the workmanship. Years later, after hearing that both of them had passed away, I often wondered what became of that marvellous piece of art in wood.

Mum revered them, and that wasn’t often. She rarely held others in high regard. But with them, it always felt like something more than respect. As I got older, I began to see it for what it was: ingratiation. A quiet sort of manoeuvring. A need to insert herself into people’s lives in a way that felt calculated, not warm.

We’d show up at their place without warning. No phone call, no letter. Just turn up. Mum would act surprised if they weren’t home, but it was clear she expected to be welcomed, no matter what.

At the time, I didn’t have the words for it. I just knew that it made me uncomfortable. That strange sense of trespass mixed with entitlement. The way she positioned herself: helpful, curious, always offering something, a story, a complaint, sometimes even Dad’s services. But there was a transactional feel to it, like she was placing herself somewhere she wanted to belong, but only on her terms.And they tolerated it. Kindly, even. But I wonder now if they ever saw through it.

That was the same feeling I had with anyone Mum called her “friends.” The control extended beyond our family; it crept into every relationship she had. And the older I grew, the more it unsettled me. I didn’t want to be part of it. I didn’t need her control.

As I got older, the rebellious part of me began to push back. When the mood struck, I acted on it. But her control had already seeped in deep. I had internalised her voice, the criticism, the disapproval. It echoed in my head and slowly gave way to self-doubt.It became the precursor to a lifetime of anxiety.

And yet, despite the damage, there were also strengths that emerged. Positives that helped me move forward. I took risks. I walked away from the patterns. And that courage, however hard-won, is part of what brought me to where I am today.

But as discussed in the previous post, my legacy was my own controlling habits that still haunt me, no matter how much I am aware of them. That’s the difference. Mum never acknowledged her behaviours as anything. I constantly strive to better those “quirks” of my nurturing. I often fail. My husband picks me up on it, with a fury sometimes, that leaves me sad and hurt. But he is right when he says, “ you are being controlling again.” And I despite it all, I love him for it.