None of my things were fully safe. I never knew what
she would grab and toss into the garbage if I was
"bad". It could be a favorite item of clothing, a
tool, or a toy. It would always be unexpected.
Anything could be taken away, if I was "bad" (namely
if I was crying, if I failed at cleaning my room, if I
was slouching, if I was squinting, or "destroying
myself" in some other way.) Right now, I live in an
apartment filled with clutter and millions of things.
It is as if I am trying to protect myself. If I have
many things, each individual thing matters less, and
it won't mean as much when it is taken away from me.
But, of course, it wasn't just the material things
that were taken away.
One day, she entered my room, and took away my songs.
Once, after a minor fight with my mother, I was
sulking quietly in my own room. I pulled out a tape
that I liked, and was listened to my favorite music. My
mother entered the room, and looked at me. "What is
the point of all the songs you are listening to, and of
all the books you are reading, if they are not helping
you become a better person?"
I understood perfectly. It is not okay for me to have
any inner life of my own, unless it is making me more
compliant with Her, more obedient to Her. She had to
be the ultimate standard by which my inner life would
be measured, evaluated, and judged. She would hold my
spirit in her hands, and decide which way it could go.
She would make sure that I didn't have any songs that
were not about her.
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