"The Broken Son: Bound by Strings

Chapter 5 The Fraying Web

Being at my brother's stirred a storm of emotions inside me, leaving me trapped between fear and the faintest glimmer of possibility. His apartment was empty for the most part—bare walls, sparse furniture, and beer bottles and alcohol scattered everywhere. It reminded me of a bachelor pad, the kind of place that was more about survival than comfort. But it was a place I could think, a space where I could breathe for the first time in a long while.

As much as I appreciated the break from the chaos, I wasn't free—not yet. I had put some distance between myself and her control, but that didn't mean I could escape her influence completely. It still loomed over me, relentless, like a shadow that never fully let me go. I felt stuck—caught between the person I used to be and the person I wanted to become. The weight of uncertainty pressed down on me, and I couldn't see the next step.

And then, like a sudden flash of light in the darkness, an idea started to form: escape. If I could just get away—find a place where her influence couldn't reach me, carve out a space where I could finally think for myself—maybe I could begin to live again. It wasn't just about getting an education. It was about breaking free from everything she had forced me into, step by step, until I was no longer just surviving. I wanted to be free. I wanted to be me.

That's when it hit me: college. A chance to get out, to step into a life that was mine, to finally find a way to exist outside of her suffocating grip.

But nothing was ever simple with her. The moment she caught wind of my plan, the manipulation began. I had done my research, mapped out everything I needed to make this work. I thought I could use logic, maybe even a little of her own manipulative tactics, to push through this. I figured I could get her to ease into the idea of me going to college, living thirty minutes away on campus. My plan was to slowly detach, letting her think it was on her terms. But as always, she had me beat.

The first words out of her mouth when I mentioned the idea were, "Well, what about church? You won't be able to go." It was the first trap, and I could feel it immediately, like she had been waiting for me to bring it up. A chill ran through me, the all-too-familiar sensation of my reality beginning to crumble.

I explained that I would only be in class for a few days, that I'd have weekends off, and I could make it back to church on Sundays. My plan was to use this excuse a couple of times, then eventually tell her I had to study or finish a paper. But she didn't fall for it. She was already on high alert, her mind working against me before I could even finish.

By the time I tried to lay out my plan, she was fully against it. Her answer wasn't just no—it was a demand. "You can go," she said coldly, "but only if you get accepted, talk to the pastor, and find a way to pay for it yourself." I couldn't believe it. It wasn't about the pastor or anyone else. This was my life. But the conditions were set.

I felt a pang of frustration. This wasn't about logic or practicality anymore—it was about control. She wasn't going to let go without a fight. Still, I pushed forward, telling myself that I had come this far, I had to finish what I started.

When I finally did everything she demanded—getting accepted, making the grades, proving I was ready—things only escalated. The moment I was on the brink of my new life, hell broke loose. Her narcissistic cycle kicked in, spinning the chaos to a new level. I couldn't shake the feeling that no matter what I did, I would always be trapped in her web, one step ahead of me, pulling me back into the suffocating grip I had spent so long trying to escape.

I had thought I could take control, carve out my own path, but once again, she proved how impossible it was to break free. Every step forward felt like two steps back. She wasn't going to let me go without a fight.

As I sat there, staring at the empty beer bottles scattered on the floor, I realized that the battle was far from over. It wasn't just about getting away—it was about learning how to live on my own terms. But how could I ever be free when she was always there, waiting for me to slip up?

For the first time, I felt the weight of what lay ahead. It wasn't just the fight to go to college—it was the fight to reclaim my life, piece by piece. I could only hope that each step forward would be enough to outlast the chaos, but I quickly realized how much harder it was going to be than I ever imagined. After all the work I put into getting into a four-year school, I was forced to settle for a community college that was just 15 minutes away. Instead of the freedom I had imagined, I found myself trapped in a cycle of driving back and forth, four days a week. What was supposed to be my escape turned into an inconvenience, a constant reminder that I couldn't break free as easily as I had hoped.

The manipulation never stopped. It was like an invisible leash, always pulling me back, no matter how far I tried to run. Whenever I had a job, it was her needs that came first. If something important to me came up—whether it was work, school, or even a rare personal moment—I had to put it all on hold to satisfy her. The job I had worked hard to secure? It was secondary to her demands. The schooling I had fought for? It became another burden, another way for her to control my time and energy.

And she never missed an opportunity to remind me of her power over me. She'd say, "Mother knows best," as though her wisdom was infallible, as though I was too young, too naive to understand what was best for me. Or, when I resisted, she'd remind me, "You need to listen to me," as if my thoughts and desires were irrelevant in comparison to her unyielding will.

I kept trying to push through, to make it work, but the pressure was suffocating. The constant demands, the guilt trips, the never-ending cycle of needing to please her—it all wore me down. Even though I was technically an adult, I felt like a child again—pushed down into a seat and told not to get up.

I started to question whether it was worth it anymore. I was on the brink of calling it quits—quitting everything: the job, the classes, and even the fragile hope that I could ever escape her grasp. I wanted to fight for my own life, but every time I took a step forward, it felt like she was there, pushing me two steps back.

I had always believed I was stronger than this, but with every demand, every guilt trip, I felt smaller. My sense of self, who I had hoped to become, was slipping further away, replaced with the endless need to meet her expectations. I was caught between the person I wanted to be and the person she needed me to be, and no matter what I did, I could never seem to break free from her hold. I couldn't help but wonder: Would I ever be able to find myself again?

The doubt was suffocating. It felt as though I was drowning in her influence, gasping for air with each passing day. But then, something shifted within me. A faint whisper, a fragment of the person I wanted to become, started to stir. I wasn't sure where it came from or how to hold on to it, but it was there—tiny, fragile, but undeniable.

Maybe I couldn't escape everything all at once. Maybe the path to freedom wasn't a straight line, but a maze of missteps, setbacks, and small victories. But I had to believe that each step I took, no matter how small, would eventually lead me to something better, something beyond the suffocating grip of her control.

I wasn't sure how long it would take or how many more battles I would have to fight. But for the first time, I felt the stirrings of a new resolve—a quiet defiance that whispered: You are not her. You are more than this.

And as I sat in my brother's apartment, staring at the cluttered mess around me, I realized something. I didn't need to escape everything in one fell swoop. I didn't need a dramatic break to prove I could be free. It wasn't about running away anymore. It was about standing my ground, however quietly, wherever I was. It was about finding my own peace, even if it was small and fragile. Maybe it was just the way I stood up from the couch, the way I ignored the calls from her that I had already answered a thousand times before. It wasn't much, but it was something. And something was all I needed right now.