Ella Cole

Mrs. Filc

English 11

30th April 2021

The Nature of a Connection

The phenomenon of codependency. “Excessive emotional or psychological reliance on a

partner, typically one who requires support on account of an illness or addiction.”, as the

dictionaries would define it. I characterize this word by the sound of beer bottles slammed

against the wall, smashed into thousands of glittering fragments as invective is spit from my

mom's boyfriend's mouth through his wrath. My mom attempted to hold any sort of peace

together while watching someone she loves morph into a different person. She watched the

normalcy in the family disappear, while I tried to disappear behind the stable walls of my

bedroom door as the unstable foundation that was my family fell into pieces.

My objective isn’t to throw myself a pity party or inject pathos but rather to tell the

genesis of how my love for the arts formed. I could not control that my father's life was taken by

a heart attack. I could not control my mom, who would let herself be used as an emotional crutch

and punching bag for a man she feels that she cannot be strong without. There was unlimited

amount of worries in the world that I could not control, so I controlled what I could. I let my

hand fall on the milky white paper, my brush following close behind. Verdant greens and vibrant

reds splashed against the page, seamlessly creating a magnificent picture that was under my

jurisdiction. For the first time, I was not carrying resentment around like a weight on my

shoulders. Resentment toward my mom, or her boyfriend, or god for deciding that taking my dad

from me was the best plan. I could let myself escape into the paintings I created. I loved how
different people from all walks of life can find a common connection through art. Soon after

discovering my love for art, I picked up a fondness for literature. Instead of sitting in my bed

with endless racing thoughts piling up like a college kid's laundry, I could pick up a book. “A

reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.”– George

R.R. Martin once said. Reading the elegant ink scripted along the sunlight stained pages supplies

me with perspective of multiple lives thus expanding my knowledge and openness of mind.

Reading helped me understand that others are going through similar things I have experienced in

my life. I started to cultivate my own stories. My hand sat propped up upon the delicate paper as

I hastily scribbled ideas down in my journal promptly whisking me away. Escapism is a pleasure

I tended to divulge. Not only did escapism help heal me, but it became commodity I thrived

upon. I don’t claim to be any sort of artistic prodigy, but I have found motivation and a driving

force. A release from the chains that resentment binds me to and it is liberating. When my mom

finally found the courage to leave her boyfriend, I saw as she was freed from the shackles that a

codependent relationship can pose upon a person. I saw a new relationship form, but this one was

between my mom and herself. Finally, my mother was independent. Independence can be

defined as “someone or something free from the influence or control of another.” As I watched

this transformation unfold, I was taking notes.

I will not let myself be tethered down by anything. I will continue to expand my

knowledge and open my heart to the experiences of others. I have a tool that can help me

navigate the emotions I face. A passion that keeps me afloat in the sea of worries of the world. I

have seen the darkness that humankind is capable of but I cannot stay in despair for long because

I have also been lucky enough to experience unconditional love and joy. I may not be entirely

healed, but I’m not losing my tenacity any time soon. The challenges I have faced are only a
chapter in a long novel that I hope could impact the hearts of others as others have impacted

mine.