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6….5….4

The floor indicator blinks at you, a bead of sweat forming in your brow as the numbers minimize with each passing moment. But it’s not moving fast enough for you.

4

The number now glares at you as the elevator stops to pick up people on the floor just two above your room. If you could just make it to the room it’ll be okay. You bounce foot to foot, hoping it’ll relieve the ever-building pressure in your tummy.

“Are you okay, baby?”

Lately, I’ve been completely enamored with the idea of my caregiver taking away my glasses privileges.

Little ones can’t be trusted with contacts—too much picking and prodding at their eyes—so all I’m left with are my big, awkward glasses. The frames swallow my face whole, and my prescription is so strong it makes my eyes look comically huge. And sometimes, when I’m naughty, Daddy takes even those away, leaving me utterly dependent on him.

Mornings change immediately. I’m no longer waking Daddy early, begging for pancakes or a diaper change. Instead, I lie awake in my crib, anxious and squirming in a soggy diaper, unable to get out on my own. I can’t see where I’m going. I have to wait for him to come get me.

Potty training regresses almost overnight. Daddy finds himself changing far more dirty diapers throughout the day because I’m too nervous to use my training potty. I can’t judge the distance to the seat, can’t tell how close I am, and the memory of tinkling down my skirt—more than once—makes me freeze up entirely.

I’m stuck in a near-constant state of whining, crying, and tantrums. I can’t find my toys, can’t tell where they’ve gone, and panic sets in as I’m convinced they’re lost forever.

New bumps and bruises appear from misjudged steps and unseen obstacles, from getting too close to the bars of my crib without realizing it.

The anxiety is worst when Daddy isn’t right there. If I can’t make out his fuzzy shape, how do I know he’s nearby? How do I know I’m safe? How do I get where I need to go? Daddy becomes my eyes, my legs, my everything.

He notices his back aching more than usual now. I’m constantly tugging at his pant leg, reaching up for him, begging for “uppies” just so I can get around without panic of hurting myself.

Even out in public, the dependence follows. The humiliation of not being able to read a menu at a restaurant, my face burning as the waitress asks what I want. I sputter, stumble, then turn to Daddy so he can answer for me—because he chose for me, because I need him to.

It’s raw. It’s humiliating. It strips away independence and presses directly on my anxious attachment. And that’s what makes it feel like the perfect punishment. 🤍

︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶