When Control Masquerades as Concern

Saturday was supposed to be joyful.

There was a puppy Easter egg hunt I’d been looking forward to all week. One of those rare things that actually felt exciting, lighthearted, and mine. But it never happened.

The person staying with me spent the morning planting seeds of doubt.

“The weather won’t be good.”

“It won’t be fun.”

“It’ll make your head worse.”

Over and over again—until all my excitement faded into heaviness. My pain went from a zero to a ten, and I ended up canceling what should’ve been a beautiful day.

Not because I didn’t want to go— but because I was made to feel like I shouldn’t.

And that was just the beginning.

The entire day was tension.

Everything I said was questioned. Interrupted. Challenged.

I wasn’t listened to—I was argued with.

Eventually, I removed myself. I went upstairs and cried—not because I was angry, but because I was devastated. This wasn’t how I wanted to spend my time. I didn’t want to hide. I didn’t want to be alone. But I also didn’t want to fight. And that seemed to be the only option I was being given.

They didn’t come to visit. They came to control.

I stayed upstairs until it was time for Passover dinner at my dad’s. I was hesitant, but it ended up being beautiful. For the first time in a long time, we were all together. It was light. It was full of love. It reminded me what peace feels like.

The drive there was tense. The drive back? Worse.

Every question turned into an accusation before I could even open my mouth. I was called “crazy” for responding to questions I hadn’t even been allowed to answer. I was accused of overreacting for simply setting a boundary.

And then came the Starbucks incident.

We were 15 minutes from home—my head pounding, my dog waiting patiently to go out—and she insisted on stopping for coffee. Not because she needed it. Not because it made sense. But because I needed to get home, and she needed to be in control.

She asked me if I wanted something. I said no.

She asked again. I said no.

Again. No.

Again.

Again.

Again.

I finally snapped, softly but clearly: “Please stop asking. I’ve already answered.”

She rolled her eyes and ordered the very thing I’d refused five times.

I sat there, breathing, silently reminding myself: You are not crazy. You are being provoked.

And then, just blocks from home, my phone lit up with a text from my dad.

She saw the screen and immediately demanded I reply.

When I said I would once I got inside, she pulled over in the middle of a busy intersection, stopped the car, at a GREEN LIGHT, and—without knowing what the message even said—she began responding to my private text herself. This is someone overstepping, invading, due to the need to be in control.

I got out and walked home.

My dog, who had waited patiently all day, was finally taken care of. And as we walked, I heard the same voice call out behind me:

“Should I just go to a hotel?”

I turned back, exhausted.

“No. What I want is for you to go upstairs, go to bed, and STOP ESCALATING EVERYTHING.”

And that’s what happened.

I barely acknowledged anything else. I took care of my dog. I got into my pajamas. I curled up on the couch. And thank god for medical marijuana, because two small hits later, I was finally able to sleep.

As I closed my eyes, I tried not to cry.

I tried to focus on the joy of Passover, the way my heart had felt full just hours earlier.

I reminded myself that tomorrow is another day. That maybe—maybe—this visit could still be soft. Still kind. Still salvageable.

I wanted that so badly.

With Love,

Dana & Nicky.