Control

The first time I fasted for more than 24 hours, I did it to see if I could. The work week blended together in its routine; wake up early, go to work, leave work, drive down to the local deli, get a steak salad to wolf down in the car, then begin the traffic-filled trek home. Stopping to get the salad delayed the drive by twenty minutes, twenty minutes I decided one day to not take. By the time I was home, tired, ready to settle into my night time routine, I had realized I had forgotten to eat. I decided, spur of the moment, to let it roll; I had gotten that far, why not keep it going? 24 hours turned into 48, then 72, then 96. By the fourth day, I just wanted the 100, I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. I wanted to prove to myself that the rumbles of hunger, the panic, the self doubt, was all in my head. I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn’t subject to the wants of anything, not even my body. The longest I did was two weeks, something I felt I could do again if I wanted. On a whim, I learned that while moderation was hard for me, control was easy. I wish I could say I was proud of that. 

I stayed away from drinking until I was 24. I feared losing control, something I had articulated to those I was close with before. The idea of losing my grip on the situation, of the reins being taken from me, was maddening. I was afraid that I would lose myself to vices; I struggled with snacks, why wouldn’t alcohol be the same? Because when my guard is down, I want it down. When I let things in, I want them to come in, and when I relax, I want to enjoy things full-heartedly. It felt like a matter of when, not if, I would fall into the trap of addiction…if I started down the path. So I stayed away. I held on to that image tightly, and tried to be proud of that. The first drink I took wasn’t for me; it was a lie I told myself, told to the people who listened with a raised eyebrow and a tilted head. The first drink I took was foolishly chasing after the idea of love. And even when that fell away, when I grappled with sadness and despair, I didn’t fall into any trap, because I wasn’t ever at risk. I can easily take a drink, and I can just as easily stop. I learned, through a foolish pursuit, that I am not and would not let myself be a victim of addiction. I wish I could say I was proud of that.

One night, pushing boundaries and pushing myself out of my comfort zone, I went to a party. I was invited by a woman I had met at a different party, who told me I should go. I had been stuck to the wall the entire previous party, almost afraid of moving, but determined to not show it. She walked up to me, no fear and no hesitation, and told me that she’d rather be at home, playing video games. She was honest, and I feared that because I wasn’t being honest with myself. I didn’t want to be there either. In spite of every urge in me saying no, the anti-social desires and the homebody nature in me kicking and screaming, I went. I had fun, spent time with the woman who invited me, and when it was time to go, she couldn’t go home because she was too drunk. I got a hotel for us and even though we got close, I knew that she was not in the right place to say yes to anything. I brought her back to her home, kept her safe, then went home myself. When I told this to people later, they said that I should be proud of being a ‘gentleman’, as if not taking advantage of someone too drunk to know up from down was commendable. I learned how low the standards are for men and how I can clear them. I wish I could say I was proud of that.

Breaking away from my ex was one of the hardest things I ever did. Not because there was love left, or because it was a tough decision. It was hard because, like so many things in my life, I was determined to never give up. I used to pride myself on throwing myself against a wall until it broke down, and that every day I got up was proof of another wall I had broken through. Through one shape or another, breaking away from her I had seen as giving up. I had seen it as surrendering, as walking away from a fight, and at the time I was too proud to swallow the pill that this was not something I could break through. When I finally did it, when I finally broke away from someone hurting me and holding me back, the realization didn’t hit me, even when she did, repeatedly in the face. I learned that walking away doesn’t mean giving up. I wish I could be proud of that.

I hold an obsession in my heart about control. I hold on to this so tightly that the people in my life can see it, as if the tension in my body radiates to those who can observe me. It was a point of conversation, among friends, family, people I am close to. But I realized there is no anxiety in the control I hold on myself; I don’t demand acknowledgement on an island of isolation. I am in control of myself because I have been pushed to the edge of temptation, the edge of reason, the edge of loss and never faltered. I have been pushed past when others would fall, would succumb, would snap, and I never did. I hold back the creature that I know I could be, but never would let myself become. And I am proud of that.