My name is Maria and I am a control-aholic.
I feel better now. Admitting the problem is the first step to recovery, right?
My control issues are becoming worse and I am seriously concerned that friends and family may begin to really hurt me. Like, hit me over the head with a chair, or push me into traffic or punch me in the throat.
Yes. It’s that bad.
My 21-year-old son and I were chatting today about how his father cannot make quick decisions. He wants to buy a used pick-up truck and my kids are frustrated that the process is as long and drawn out as was the Magna Carta compilation.
“Please. This is nothing,” I assured him. “He took four months to decide to buy this house. And, don’t even get me started on our engagement! I had to buy the ring myself. Myself! And engage myself! Crazy, right?”
“That’s insane!” my son concurred.
“I told you, your father …”
“Not Dad! I meant you! You’re insane! Who engages themselves? Who buys their own ring? That is crazy! You’ve been maneuvering him since 1979, Mom. You need help.”
Under my breath: “Well, you little turd nugget, let’s just see who gets to drive that truck, next year, when he actually purchases it …”
As if I needed further validation of my micro-management neurosis, my daughter now refuses to divulge major details about her wedding. You know, the one we’re funding.
“So, what did we decide for the entrees?”
“We are not deciding. Chris and I will decide.”
“OK. So what did we decide for the flowers?”
Silence.
“Music?”
Silence.
“Your dowry? Ha. Ha.”
Silence. Then forceful disconnect.
Please. They wouldn’t know what to do if I didn’t helm the ship!
For example, no one could:
– make potato salad
– talk to Verizon without having a seizure
– use coupons
– fold a fitted sheet
– confront the lady whose dog poops in our yard
– receive student aid for college
– actually attend college
– know when the pasta is cooked
– discern the difference between a cold and allergies
– buy deodorant
I know I’m assertive. Perhaps pushy. OK, to be honest, I’m forcefully, obnoxiously aggressive. I always need to be heard first. I must make the plans, carry out the plans and complain about anyone who doesn’t follow the plans.
I don’t know why I’m this way.
Yes, I do. Everything we are and the ways in which we have been molded take root in childhood. As adults, we are what our psyche has been shaped into a million years ago. I am my mother, as she was her mother before her, in so many ways. Some good, some bad — all Dorothy. My father will read this and balk. But we all know I am my mother. And I have the merciless, overwhelming and uncontrollable urge to regulate every facet of my life and those around me because of her idiosyncrasies and her own fierceness.
My son is right. I need help.
However, where would we be without this personality flaw?
I’ll tell you: Not engaged. Not married. No house. Everyone would be living in a tent pitched on a golf course. Everyone would be fending for themselves and it would be pandemonium. And I would sit on the sidelines in my control-top pantyhose pointing and laughing, re-writing the Magna Carta in my head and finishing all the PHEAA and FAFSA forms.
My name is Maria, and I am one smart, controlling cookie.
