The Orphanage Inside - A story of surrender

by Chelsey Johnson  Nov 6, 2014

SURRENDER NOIREWhen someone asks me a question, I am often tempted to ask them who they want to respond. There are all these options on the panel. My master, the one with the wisdom and clear sight who only wants what is true. My little one, with the playful and unconditionally devotional heart that lives for connection. My addict, whose every cell rattles with desire to hook other people in a fairytale bondage of desperation. These are a few of the more clearly developed voices and I can navigate who is who through tone, their identity transparent in the thoughts that want to fall out my mouth. I can call upon them, too, conjure them to the surface with a snapped finger. But they cannot compete with my control freak, the first responder, the one who wants to ask the question.

I have an incredibly sophisticated control freak. What looks like freedom, free-falling, complete surrender, and the breaking of all rules can mask a delicately choreographed management of all the elements so that I can retain my ability to think. Once, I controlled everything unapologetically. The oldest child, over-responsible and under-parented, I started working at 11 and never looked back. Nothing inappropriate, no action indefensible, everything planned. Even my partying days were carefully crafted to fit into my schema of acceptable behaviors - the liquid excuse to follow repressed desires. Now, I try not to be so controlling. And by try I mean effort, and by effort I mean control. I control how controlling I appear.

As I moved into this orgasmic life, my control freak... freaked. I began to say yes to my desires, to my aversions, to the breaking of rules. I began getting my pussy stroked. I didn't do the logical things - I did the things that felt right and good, even if they were scary. And as I denied the part that ran the show for most of my existence, it went deep undercover. It learned how to play a subtle and elaborate game that even I couldn't nail. The vulnerable things I said were neatly packaged into lessons. The leaps and risks carefully were weighed and balanced for their freeing potential. I battled to drop out of my head and into my body. It looked messy, and yet, the chaos was a deliberate experiment, somehow always within manageable levels of sensation. My OMs had the flavor of almost... as though there was a paper thin barrier over my clit. I never really lost my shit, even when I was losing my shit. People would comment on how gracefully I was moving through things, and I tried to get full on their approval while I evaded the nagging sense that I could go deeper, the sense that somehow there was still some untouched piece that remained in the fog.

The awareness of my controlling subterfuge didn't happen in one event, or a magical epiphany. It developed slowly, over months, as I collected the sensations and gave them names. I had moments that took me out of control and began to have a reference point for what it truly felt like. My understanding started as an inkling, then a joke, then a way to beat myself up, until it grew into something I could fully sit with. And then it became rich with meaning.

Like any alienated or shadow aspect, the more I deny my control freak's desires, the less congruence I feel. Surrender in this way isn't about letting go as much as it is about accepting, bringing in, loving it all.

And so I have decided to embrace it. I am taking my orphaned control freak and making her a part of my hodgepodge family, giving her a spot on the panel. I will allow her a voice, name her as she speaks, love her up, and, listen. Coming out from the fog, she can play in the sunshine and be revealed, acknowledged, freed. And as I continue down this ever shifting path towards more and more truth, the undeniable involuntary, I continually choose surrender. I surrender the fight against my desire to control. I surrender to the process of surrendering.