Damaged Goods: The Road to Surrender, by Lauren Hardy

7/27/2019 Damaged Goods: The Road to Surrender, by Lauren Hardy

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THE ROAD TO SURRENDER

By: Lauren Hardy



o Alex, who has showed me what real, unconditional, and devoted love looks like. I know this will sound cliché, but I truly don’t know

where I’d be without you.

o my sister, Ashley. You are my best riend, and I miss you so muchit hurts. Please move closer someday!

o my Gramma aska, whom I admire with all o my heart. You arethe nest example o a woman o God and beautiul inside and out.

I’m so glad I’ve had the opportunity to get to know you better. Our lunch and cofee dates are some o my avorite memories.

And to my parents — thank you or believing in and supporting me,even when I was lost and deant. You are great parents, and I love

you.



My dad’s eyes burn a hole in my orehead as I sit down atthe dinner table.“Mom, can you bring me a napkin? I orgot.”

“You have two legs. You can go get it yoursel,” Dad says

beore Mom has time to answer me.I never looked orward to dinner, but or once I’m excited

because Mom made one o my avorites, Chicken eriyaki. Whenit’s time to pray, Dad nally casts his gaze away rom me. I sigh in amoment o relie. He mouths the same prayer we repeat every nightand begins to eat, only looking away rom me when he’s ready oranother bite. I wonder what I did to deserve such scrutiny. His eyes

watch my every move with a hawkish intensity, cautiously waitingor me to do something wrong.

I hesitantly grab my knie and cut into the stick o butter.

“Stop! What are you doing? You’re not cutting the butterright! Watch,” he points, demanding I pay attention to his demon-stration. “You cut away rom the stick, like this. You have to makesure you sweep your knie up so you don’t leave a smudge on thedish.”

For Dad, who had worked rom a young age to help supporthis amily, not doing things right led to more than ailure. It led toshame, embarrassment, and potential ruin.



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“Does it matter?” I am close to exploding on him, and Ireally don’t care about the rule anymore. All I want to do is eat my ood in peace.

“Yes, it does,” he says quite matter-o-actly. “Why can’t yoube appreciative when I’m trying to help you? Tese things matter.”

“Oh would you two knock it o!” Mom interjects, startlingus both. On the rare occasion that Mom intervened during our tis,she didn’t say much. She had given up on changing Dad a long timeago.

“Excuse me, Jennier. No. Lauren knows there is a proper

way to do things.”“Shut up!” my older sister, Ashley, screams, hopping out o

her chair. “It doesn’t matter! None o it reaking matters!” Clearly,she had already reached her limit o bickering or the night.

Dad stands up and rushes over to her. “Ashley Marie Hardy,this is not your house. You and Lauren are guests in this house, andso long as you are guests, you will do what we say.”

Ashley stays silent, knowing better than to put up a ght. I she wasn’t going to say something, then I surely would.

“We aren’t guests. We’re your daughters or crying outloud!” I shout and stand to meet him. “It’s only ever about doingthings right with you.”

“Enough! Go to your rooms! And don’t you dare backtalk

me again,” he yells.Ashley and I run upstairs, and he retreats to the basement,slamming the door behind him.

“We have to do something about this,” I whisper to Ashley.“He’s never going to change. When are you going to under-

stand that? You can’t change other people.”

Like Mom, she had also given up trying to change Dad. She

knew there were more important things to worry about.“Well you can be a quitter, but I’m not going to keep living

like this. I can’t! We have to believe that we can change him i we just keep trying.”

“You don’t get it,” Ashley pushes past me, back toward thestairs.

Te Road to Surrender



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I try to stop my sister rom running out the door, but she’stoo ast or me to catch.

“Ashley, please stay with me. Don’t run away!” I squeal. “Just

think what Mom and Dad will do!”“Tis is not up to you. You said you can’t live like this, well

neither can I. And you know what? I don’t have to,” she grabs thehandle, slamming the ront door behind her quickly beore my parents realize what’s going on.

Dad comes upstairs as the door closes. Aer realizing whatrebellion has just taken place, he starts yelling again.

“You girls have no idea how lucky you are or how good youhave it. And this is how you treat me? You are so ungrateul! I neverdisagreed with my ather. I you don’t want to respect my rules,then, heck with you!”

Like his own ather, Dad never explained himsel, and weknew better than to question him. I don’t know much about my Grandpa Hardy, who died when I was 14, but I do know that al-though he was a good ather, he was also strict. Dad told us storiesabout how he used to beat them with a belt i they didn’t nish allo the ood on their plate or disobeyed a rule. Grandpa, who hadbeen through the Great Depression and ought in World War II,wanted to teach them to value possessions and respect rules. Hisopinion was the only one that mattered. Even when Dad was asked

at the age o 12 to work long hours picking cherries and drivinga tractor or an allowance, he didn’t whine or complain. He was aHardy, and Hardys were better than that.

Aer Dad got married, he promised to do whatever hecould to guarantee his amily wouldn’t have to live so rugally. Hedidn’t want us to suer the way he had. He wanted his daughters tobe successul and leave a mark on the world, like he had once tried.

For Dad, what mattered was being in control and ollow-ing the rules. But all I ever wanted to do was wear shoes in my ownhouse, eat on the couch and run bareoot in the backyard withoutgetting yelled at.

I want to go nd my sister. I want to join her, get out, and beree.

Lauren Hardy



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Beore I can think about the consequences, I run or theback door, past the shed, past the neighbor’s dog, across the county road and rolling grass hills and into Wynstone, the neighborhood

where my sister’s best riend, Kylie Kern, lived. I can’t blame her orleaving. I my riend Madison lived any closer, I probably wouldhave run away, too.

***In the basement o the Kerns’ house, my sister and I tremble in ear.While running away sounded like a good idea at rst, we’re not so

sure o it now. We don’t know what will come o our actions, nor dowe want to nd out. Aer Ashley grabs the last tissue in the box toblot her tear-stained ace, Mrs. Kern runs upstairs to get another.

“Now, tell me, what did your dad say to you that was sohurtul?” she asks, coming down the stairs again.

“He called us guests. He said we were guests in his house,” Isay. I want to say more but my shaking body won’t let me.

“Oh honey, you know that’s not true though,” Mrs. Kernhands me a tissue.

“But you should have seen his ace,” Ashley says as shestares blankly at the wall, playing everything back in her mind. Shewas always introspective like this, analyzing every aspect o a situ-ation aer it happened. She preerred taking time to think things

through.Suddenly, the telephone rings.

“Hello?” Mrs. Kern answers as she takes the phone o thehook.

Te next minute passes slowly as we watch her eyes narrow and turn their attention toward us.

“Uh huh,” she says. “Okay. Yes, I see. No, o course. I will,

right away.”She puts the phone back on the wall and her shoulders rise

with a deep breath in.

“Girls, I’m araid that was your mom. You need to go home,”she says through closed teeth.




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Mom was embarrassed by our actions. She worked tirelessly as a ull-time X-ray technologist and devoted mother. She strivedto keep Ashley and I in check, but she also erociously loved us. All

she wanted was or the amily to get along, as we did in our youngeryears, when an argument on the playground was the only bicker-ing that took place. But those days were a thing o the past. Herrustration with her husband and rebellious daughters had reachedan all-time high, and she didn’t really know whose side to take. Sheneeded the drama to end, but we weren’t about to give it up.

“I’m not going back there,” I say, shaking my head. We’d

only managed to stay in hiding or about 20 minutes, which wasn’teven enough time or us to process our thoughts.

“I’m happy to lend an ear, but I will not get in the middleo this,” Mrs. Kern says. “Your dad is coming to pick you up in veminutes. I suggest you are ready to go when he gets here. I’m surehe didn’t mean what he said.”

We walk to the driveway and I stare blankly into the sun,resenting all the rules, yelling and screaming that controlled my amily’s daily lie. My sister claimed we didn’t have to live this way,but with Dad moments away, it sure didn’t seem like we had any other option. Seconds later, Dad pulls in the driveway and quickly hops out o the car.

“I’m really sorry about all o this, Mrs. Kern,” he says. “Te

girls and I had a slight disagreement.”“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” Mrs. Kern looks rst at Ashley,then at me.

With his hand gently on our backs and a warm smile onhis ace, Dad helps us climb into the car, as i we’d never run away.Te car ride home is silent. I can hear Ashley breathing beside me.When Dad opens the garage door, we enter the house and slip o

our shoes. We don’t talk. We wash our hands, put our slippers on,and go straight to our rooms — our amily’s denition o “work-ing it out.” Aer the basement door shuts, he opens the door to hismusic studio, admiring the guitars that hang on the wall beore hechooses one to play. Tey remind him o another time and anotherlie, where control and order didn’t exist: when he was 25 and in

Lauren Hardy



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business with his brother.

Te year was 1979, and Dad had an idea. Inspired by thedrummer in his aer-work band, he started inventing products or

musical instruments. Word spread o his work, and buyers startedcontacting him. Te problem was, he didn’t have enough money topurchase all o the resources required to ll the orders. He neededa nancial backer to help, so he called his brother, who assumed 51percent o the company, Silver Street Guitars. Tings were goingwell — amous musicians were playing and endorsing his instru-ments — until the economy took an unexpected turn.

Te salary Dad’s brother was paying him wasn’t enough,and he was orced to work multiple jobs. During they day heworked in actories. In the wee hours o the night he built guitars.Unable to stay aoat, he asked or a raise. But instead o giving himmore money, his brother kicked him out o the company, tellinghim, “I own you.” From that moment, the next 15 years o his liewere a series o choppy waves. Every time he regained his balance,things ell apart. Hopping rom one job to the next, Dad neverknew where he was going to end up. Even when he married Mom,he was unemployed. Tings were spinning out o control.

He picks up his ukulele, sits down on the couch and beginsto strum lightly like he does every night, letting the memories adeaway. He never wants his girls to ace what he had to. And i thatmeant he needed to control them, then that’s what he would do. Itwas or their own good.

* * *Although he elt they were or my own good, throughout the nexttwo years leading up to my senior year o high school, Dad’s rulesdrive a wedge between us. He sees each act o disobedience as an

act o disrespect, but I’m struggling to keep tabs on everything Ineed to do. Aer being grounded or sitting on my eet at dinneragain, I make plans or my rst weekend o reedom. Since Ashley le or college at Purdue in West Laayette, Ind., three hours romour home, my parents don’t like me to leave the house oen. Luck-ily, this weekend my begging pays o and they let me leave.




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On Friday, my riends, Ashley and Madison, and I head toMadison’s house aer swim practice and dinner at aco Bell. Teradio is blaring so loud, I can eel the speakers beat in my chest as

we sing at the top o our lungs. Aer parking in the street, we runto the ront door, giggling as teenage girls oen do. I wipe my dirty shoes on the rug and bend over to remove them while her ranticdogs greet us.

“You know you can leave your shoes on,” Madison snickersas I take o my Birkenstocks. “Aer all, this isn’t your house.”

She walks into the kitchen, ipping her red hair as she turns

her back on us to open the reezer. My riends knew all about my parents’ controlling tendencies, and they liked to tease me when Iollowed their rules away rom home, which was occurring morerequently these days.

“Sorry, habit,” I apologize, even though it elt like the rightthing to do.

“I still think it’s unny your parents insist on having a sock house,” she continues, shoving a mouthul o Oreo-laced ice creambetween her lips. I cringe as she drips some on the oor. Dad didn’tlike us to eat unless we were at the dinner table -- dripping oodwas a major misstep.

“You know, in a way you’re just like them,” Madison adds.Instinctively, I grab a napkin and crouch to wipe up the

mess. “Maybe we should all eat ice cream at the table,” I suggest.“See? Tere you go again,” Madison laughs.

“So what are we going to do tonight?” Ashley cheerully interrupts us.

Out o the three o us, Ashley was the voice o reason. Shecame rom a single-parent home; the younger o two, she wasa tough cookie, go-with-the-ow kind o girl. When things got

heated between the ery Madison and I, she was always there to anthe ames.“I don’t know, watch a movie?” Madison motions to her

amily’s DVD collection. “We just got Te Hills Have Eyes. Tatcould be good.”

“Isn’t that rated R?” I ask, lowering my voice.

Lauren Hardy



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“So? Nobody cares,” Madison rolls her eyes. She doesn’t un-derstand my wariness. R-rated movies were o limits at my house— another one o my parent’s rules that was, as they liked to tell us,

“or our own good.”“Well, I don’t like scary movies anyways. I don’t want to

watch it.” My response is automatic.“Oh, come on. Don’t make a big deal about it. Live a little,”

she nudges my side with her elbow.“I’d rather not. It’s not right,” I sigh. “Better sae than sorry

anyways.”

“Whatever. Like I said though, this isn’t your house. You justneed to relax,” Madison reminds me. o her amily, rules were morelike guidelines. At Madison’s house, anything was air game. It wasthe exact opposite o my living situation.

Beore picking a movie, we decide to have a dance party inthe middle o the living room. All smiles, or the rst time that day I’m not uptight or worried about anything.

And then my phone rings.“Hello?” I answer.

“Yes, Lauren?” Mom says on the other line.“Uh huh? What do you need? I’m with riends, remember?”

I say gingerly.“It’s time to come home.”

I look at my watch and blink as I read the time twice: 8:45p.m.

“Why? I thought we agreed I could spend the night. And we just got back to Madison’s house. C’mon Mom, please let me stay.”

“Tis is a non-negotiable issue. Come home now, or I’ll getyour ather involved.”

I hang up the phone and sink into Madison’s living room

couch, eeling helpless and deeated.“Sorry guys,” I say while staring at the oor, realizing that I

really was the only one who had taken their shoes o. On the driveback, I wonder i I’ll ever escape the chokehold my parents have onme. Tinking about my shoes, I wonder i Madison is right. Maybe




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I was already a control reak, caught up in always doing thingsright, just like them.

***“How dare you question me in ront o your riends!”

Mom is standing by the ront door when I get back rom Madison’s.She crosses her arms and purses her lips, waiting or an explana-tion. I notice all the lights in the house are still on. I gured shehad ordered me home because she wanted to sleep, but my parentsweren’t even getting ready or bed.

“I wasn’t questioning you. I just don’t understand why Icouldn’t stay and have un with my riends,” I say as I enter the liv-ing room. “It’s not like I do anything here anyways. We eat dinner,argue, Dad goes downstairs and plays his guitar, and you read thenewspaper. It’s the same thing, every night!”

“Te bottom line is, I asked you to do something, and youtried to get around it. Tat is not acceptable behavior.”

She can’t see the iron-gripped hands I eel tighteningaround my neck. As she walks toward the basement door, yell-ing or Dad to come up, I know they are about to squeeze tighter.Disrespecting Dad was one thing, but disrespecting his wie was awhole dierent ball game. His commitment to protect the things heloved was as erce as his need or order.

“Do I hear you disagreeing with your mother?” he asks.“I was just trying to understand why I needed to comehome,” I say.

“What is there not to understand? You were given an order,and that’s that.” His words terminate any rebuttal on my end. Heasks or an apology, and I oblige, shocked when he and my motherend our conversation with a hug. Dad pats my head gently and

brushes my brown, curly hair.“We love you,” he pauses or a moment to glance at my eet.

“Now go put your slippers on.”

I slouch up the stairs as he returns to the basement to play his guitar. We’d avoided yelling at each other, but the conict be-tween my parents and me was still as real as ever. I reach deep into

Lauren Hardy



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my coat pocket and ip through my phone’s contacts until I nd my sister’s name.

“Ashley? Help me…” I begin.

“Sis, what’s up? I’m studying or a test right now.”“I’m so conused. I don’t understand why everything con-

tinues to be so difcult with Dad,” my voice trails o. I long or herto give me answers.

“What have I told you time and time again?” she says. “Youneed to obey what Mom and Dad ask you to do. Even i you think the rules are stupid. Tink about it — you only have one more

year o high school. Ten you can do whatever you want. Just getthrough high school, and keep your short use in check, i youknow what I mean.”

“But the rules are suocating! I have to believe there’s a way to change things.”

“Lauren, calm down. You need to relax and stop ocusingon that. Te only person who is capable o changing our parents isGod, or Mom and Dad themselves,” she pauses. “You can’t controlthem anymore than you can control the weather. So go ahead anddo your own thing, but stop trying to change them and just be asrespectul as you can.”

We say goodbye and I curl up in my beanbag chair. She wasright. I needed to stop lashing out and just do what my parents

asked or the time being. Aer all, I only had eight months untilcollege, when I could nally take control o my own lie and leaveall this behind.

* * *Now that there was an end in sight to living with my parents, it waseasier or me to keep my temper at bay. And then there was Alex

Gaskill, the man I’d been dating since October o my senior year,whom I’d allen madly in love with.

Te rst day we spent alone together, walking through thelocal park, changed my lie. I’d asked him to help me with a photog-raphy project or high school because I needed a subject other thanmysel to be in the shots. What began as a simple stroll turned into




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a much deeper discussion as we ventured arther into the woods. Atthe time we weren’t dating, but that didn’t keep Alex rom showinghis aection or me. oward the end o our walk, and beore we said

goodbye, he kissed me out o the blue.“You’re beautiul,” he told me. And just like that, all o my

cares vanished. Alex had a knack or calming my high-strungtendencies, and he treated me like someone who should be valuedinstead o critiqued.

Our relationship made me a better person; it kept me romgoing o the deep end when things got too hectic at home. I didn’t

want us to go to separate colleges, but as the summer beore my reshman year at Ball State University came to a close, I had toaccept it. He would live two-and-a-hal hours north o our home-town, Elkhart, Ind., in Big Rapids, Mich., and I would live two-and-a-hal hours south, in Muncie, Ind.

I was nervous about moving, but when the day arrives I canhardly keep mysel rom sprinting to my dorm room, even thoughmy arms are weighed down with luggage. Dad begs me to slow down, but my eet keep moving. I could almost taste the reedom.Six argument-lled trips to and rom the car later, we unpack my nal storage bins.

Until today, every moving experience I’d ever been a parto involved my sister. Te last move took place aer she got her

associate’s degree in ashion design rom the Fashion Institute o echnology in New York City. Along with my parents, I helpedmove her out o Chelsea and to the Bronx or a summer internship,beore she completed her Bachelor’s at Purdue. Ashley tried not tocause a ruckus, but moving days always ended in the same unpleas-ant and explosive way: something unplanned would happen, andeverything went to Hell. Tough my sister wasn’t around, this time

proved to be no dierent.“Tat’s not how you put the bed sheets on, Lauren,” Dadscolds. “Do you have to make your mother do it or you?”

Out o some atherly instinct to ensure all was right in my world beore he le, Dad had become more and more particular inour nal moments together. He wants to make sure I will be sae,

Lauren Hardy



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and the only way he can do that is by controlling the aernoon’sactivities. My eorts to shrug it o only make things worse. It wastoo late; a hostile environment had already enguled my new home.

Te one place I didn’t want any tension is now lled with it.“Dad, I can’t do this. You’re stressing me out,” I say. “Tis

was supposed to be a un day. I don’t want to argue with you.”“I’m just trying to be helpul,” Dad urrows his brows.“But you’re not helping, you’re telling me how to live. Tat

was okay in high school, but not anymore.” My comments send himreeling. He tells me he is glad I am moving to college, and without

another word he saunters o to the car.“Why does he always have to be like that?” I lean on Mom’s

shoulder, resting my head in the crevice o her neck.“It’s just the way he is, honey,” Mom whispers. “Your argu-

ing just makes everything worse.”“But I should be able to have an opinion.”Exhausted rom the day’s activities, Mom turns or the door.

“We’ll see you in a couple o weeks? For Fall Break, right?” shesighs.

“Yeah, I’ll catch a ride home or something,” I smile, leaningto hug her beore I’m ofcially on my own.

“You know we love you,” she oers on behal o Dad, who isalready waiting in the car. I watch her round the corner, out o sight

but not out o mind. Our parting is bittersweet. I look out my win-dow at the stream o students ling up the dorm’s center staircase.My sister had been right all o those years. I could never change my parents. Te only thing I could ever worry about was changing andbettering mysel. Tere was no way I could live the rest o my lieas they did; I didn’t want that kind o lie or mysel. Te only way I could keep moving orward was to orce mysel to be dierent, to

be better. And now, no one could stand in my way.

* * *

As I organize my room, the only thing I’m thinking about is what Iwant to do during my rst day o living alone: things I would neverget away with in ront o Dad. I take o my shoes and rub my bare




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eet into the uy rug on the oor. I open a bottle o iced coeeand drink it in bed. I cover my room in a sea o decorations. I laughwhen I spill some coee on my desk. I eat dinner with my ngers.

For the next ew days, I can’t get enough o being able to do thingswithout worrying about doing something wrong.

Te second week on campus I make plans to celebrate abirthday with my new riends, “Te Swag Seven,” as we call our-selves (Alex, Amanda, Ashley, Kasia, LeeAnn, Stasi, and I). I’d metthe six other girls at summer orientation, during our visit to BallState’s Honors College, which we were enrolled in. I didn’t want to

be a part o the Honors College because it seemed boring, but my parents had insisted I join because it would make my diploma moreprestigious than other students.

I reluctantly mingled with the women in the room and wasamazed by how normal and adventurous they all seemed — raretraits or such an introverted environment. Now that we had settledinto the honor’s dorm, we couldn’t wait to nally hang out and havea good time. Our second weekend at Ball State just happened to beStasi’s 19th birthday. No birthday celebration is complete withoutcake, but aer buying the ingredients we realized we did not have apan to bake it with.

“Meh, who cares?! We can just use one o those bendy alu-minum pans,” LeeAnn suggests.

I laugh. “I hadn’t thought o that. It might look weird, but Iguess i it gets the job done, why not!”We grab the pan and old it in hal to keep the batter rom

spreading and pour the mixture into the horizontal section. I amamused by our crainess, but glad that Mom and Dad are nothere to see our antics -- this was no proper way to bake a cake.Equipped with blue rosting tubes, Ashley and I decorated the iced,

conetti cake. For the next our hours, we eat several slices o cake,watch movies and talk about lie. I look at my watch, which readsmidnight, and smile inside. No one could call and tell me to comehome. No one could tell me to take my eet o o the urniture. Noone could ruin this moment.

Lauren Hardy



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College was everything I’d hoped it would be. I dread thethought o going back home or Fall Break. It was too soon; I need-ed more time to be away rom my parents’ rules so I could continue

to make my own.When my ride picks me up the next weekend and drops me

o in Elkhart, I don’t know whether I should try to tough it out ornd a riend’s house to crash at instead. Tere was always the op-tion o hitchhiking back to Ball State, too. Beore I can give it any more thought, Mom and Dad burst out the ront door. With theirmannerisms, you would think they hadn’t seen me in 12 months, or

that I was some long lost, estranged daughter. In reality, it had only been two-and-a-hal weeks since they moved me in.

“So, tell me everything! How is college? Are you doingokay?” Mom is beaming. She hurriedly takes my bags into thehouse and I ollow, waving goodbye to my ride.

“Oh you know, it’s ne.”

Dad motions or me to wash my hands aer I set my back-pack on the oor. I roll my eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”“I thought we’d have homemade pizza or dinner?” Mom

suggests. Ever since Dad lost his job as a marketing manager orone o Elkhart, Ind.’s truck body manuacturers in early 2010, we’dstopped ordering out. It was the most stable job he’d ever had, and

aer 12 years o work, we still didn’t understand why his positionwas cut. Just like the tumultuous years o Dad’s youth, it was some-thing that was out o his control. I didn’t mind the pizza so much;I just didn’t like what it reminded me o — that we couldn’t deter-mine every outcome in lie.

“Er, can we have something else?” I squish my lips togetherin a hal-rown to show my disapproval.

“Your mother and I already planned on having pizza. Youdon’t have to eat it, but that is what we’re going to make,” Dad says.“Have you orgotten it’s not always about what you want?”

“Oh yeah? Well i that’s the case, then why does this househave so many rules? Aer all, you’re the only one who cares aboutthem,” I snicker to mysel, thinking I’ve called his blu.




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My sister would not have been proud o my actions, but inthe short time away I’ve discarded her advice. College had givenme a taste o reedom, and I didn’t want to go back to my numbing

high school days. I sit down on the living room couch and old my arms across my chest, propping my eet up on the table to relax.

“Do not speak to me that way,” Dad says, visibly hurt by my comment. “And get your eet o the table, now.”

“I’ll put my eet on the table i I want to!” I shout. “I am anadult, and that means I have a choice. You don’t get to order mearound anymore.”

I turn to Mom. “Now, back to dinner. How about someBLs? I think that sounds like a much better idea.”

Now that I’ve lived away rom home, the battle or controlwas no longer a question o submission, but a question o power. Iwanted to be in control; I wanted my parents to see things my way.

Dad heads or the basement door. He wants to end the ar-gument beore any claws come out.

“You will not boss us around,” he says. “We are havingpizza.”

Te continuous bickering lingers throughout the rest o the weekend and creates a toxic environment, just like the one thatwas in place beore my senior year o high school. Tree days later,when I’m supposed to go back to Ball State, Dad and I bump heads

again over trying to prove who is right.“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this is not the Lau-ren I know,” he says. “You are so demanding.”

“Demanding?!” I laugh hysterically. “It’s no wonder hav-ing a dad like you! It’s your ault! All those years growing up, why couldn’t you ever just leave us alone?”

I I was demanding, could he really blame me?

“So you want to be le alone? Fine. I’m through with you.Out o your lie. Done. Don’t ever ask me or advice or supportagain, because you won’t get it rom me,” Dad spits the words like

venom at my ace. His words intensiy my anger and transorm meinto an entirely dierent person.

Lauren Hardy



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“I hate you!” I scream over and over again, eeling my aceturn purple and my vocal chords stretch as I run out o oxygen.

“You’re not welcome in this house!” Dad’s voice rises to

match mine.“Fine! I’ll go live with Gramma! She doesn’t care i I wear

slippers, or ollow every single stupid rule. At least she loves me andwill let me do what I want now that I’m an adult!”

Dad moves swily to grab one o the bags I had packed togo back to Ball State and opens the garage door. He keeps yelling atme, but I’m not listening. I’m watching. He takes one, two, three o

my bags outside.“What are you doing?! Stop it!” I shout, running to conront

him.“Have a nice lie,” Dad says as he tosses the last o my bags

on the driveway. “I’m done trying to help you. You’re ungrateul,selsh, and now… you’re on your own.” He retreats to the houseand stands on the stoop where the garage steps meet the door. Hedoesn’t look at me; he simply turns away as he presses the auto-matic button to shut the olding garage door. One by one, I watchthe wooden planks slide closer to the ground, until the last sectionmeets the chilling cement.

I let my body sink to the ground and collapse in silent sobs.Reaching to gather my bags, I’ve never elt so lost and unwanted. I

wanted to be on my own, but I also wanted my parents to like me.I needed to discover who I was in the space between my parent’shome and my new world. I needed to become someone who waslikable.

* * *I don’t say a word when my ride picks me up. And when they ask

me i I’m OK, I keep my gaze xed on the windshield. “Just drive,”I mutter. I didn’t want to accept what Dad did, but I couldn’t deny it. I was the difcult child — always doing things wrong. Even asa child, my sister was easier to manage. I loved her, looked up toher and idolized her. She was the ree spirit I’d always wanted tobe. Maybe it wasn’t my parents who were the problem; maybe the




17

problem was me.

My cell phone vibrates seven times, all seven messages romDad. I glance at the three paragraph texts, and when I’m sick o

reading them, I put my phone in the backseat. Aer ghting withDad, my sel-esteem has hit rock bottom. For an entire month, Idon’t call my parents. Instead, I think o what it is about mysel that I need to change. I look at photos o my sister and I and try togure out what separates us. In my eyes, she was the more level-headed, awless, pretty daughter. Maybe i I were more like her, liewith my parents wouldn’t be so hard. Ten I would be the perect

daughter they’d always wanted.When I look in the mirror the next morning, I don’t eel

pretty or special; I just eel inadequate, unwanted and numb. I usedto look in the mirror and admire my long, brown curls, but now Ionly saw a bloated belly and small chest. Getting a job at the gymonly made matters worse. I started picking mysel apart. Caughtup in this game o comparisons, I became obsessed with doingthings the way I thought they should be done. I I missed workingout or a day, that was one more day to loathe my gure. I some-thing didn’t go the way I had wanted it to, it interered with my plan. Tereore, I had to stay on top o things, making sure nothingslipped through the cracks.

I laugh when my ellow Bible study members make a “Youare beautiul, Lauren Hardy,” painting or me. Yeah right, I think.Tey are just saying that to be nice.

God reached out to pull me closer, but I just kept runningaway and believing the lies. Lie elt like it was me against the world.I start to work out every day, orce mysel to eat only certain oodsat certain times, and create a schedule revolved around school andthose things -- as i a perect outward appearance was the answer to

my problems.When Alex transers to Ball State our sophomore year, I’mstill wrapped up in my pursuit o perection. Tough he’d beenwatching my sadness rom aar, now he was living it with me.

While he and I make our way through Marsh Supermarketone night to stock up on groceries, we can’t decide what to cook or

Lauren Hardy



18

dinner. We pass the pears, bananas and ripe avocados and I ll my cart with almost every kind o produce in sight, consumed by mak-ing sure I get everything on my list. As usual, Alex strolls aimlessly

around the aisles in search o what to buy. Unlike mysel, he detestslists. In the home environment he grew up in, list-checking was nota regular activity. Aer a ew minutes, he waits or me patiently by the deli window, admiring the thick cuts o meat on display in ronto him.

“So, what do you want or dinner?” I smile at him, playully kicking my heel to meet my hamstring.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs.Why do I even bother asking? I think to mysel. “Babe,

would it kill you to choose something or once? Or maybe evenpretend to care? You know I will make you anything.”

“Lauren, it really doesn’t matter to me. Food is ood,” hesays.

“You know that’s not true,” I snap. All I need is or him totell me what he wants so I can do it right.

“Fine. I don’t know, pork chops?” He points to the sets o butteries behind the case.

“Okay! But what are you going to do with them?”

“I don’t know. Cook them on the stove?”“Tat’s not the right way to make pork chops. You can’t

cook them on the stove.”“I thought you asked me what I wanted? I’m conused.”He had nally made a decision, but I was still determined to

carry out the meal as I saw t. No matter how much I loathed my parents, their need or things to be a certain way had weaseled itsway into my DNA. Like my riend Madison had predicted back inhigh school, I was just like them.

“Yes you can, I do it all the time,” Alex says.“But they won’t taste any good,” I say, my voice escalating. I

can eel my ace getting red, my skin tightening across my orehead,my eyebrows urrowing deep, outlining my glaring stare. At thispoint, my controlling tendencies are stronger than my need to be aloving girlriend.




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“Okay, jeez. Please don’t yell at me.” Alex’s eyes widen inshock at my sudden outburst.

“I’m not yelling at you. Yelling would be much louder than

this.” My sternness is undeniable.Unlike my childhood experience, Alex grew up in a amily

that knew how to relax and go with the ow. In the two years we’dbeen together, I could count on one hand the number o times I’dheard his mother raise her voice. It’s not that his amily was perect;they just realized that some things in lie weren’t worth worryingabout or being consumed by.

Last year, I was blessed to go on a trip to Atlantis, Bahamaswith Alex and his mom, Heidi Gaskill. In my amily, every vacationday was planned in advance. But each day in the Bahamas with theGaskills was a mystery. We woke up without an agenda, only know-ing three things: that we were going to have a good time, laugh alot, and get a nice tan. Tey understood that lie doesn’t always goaccording to plan, that there isn’t necessarily a “right” way to dothings, in part because o his dad’s death several years ago. I triedto look to his amily as a model over the past two years, but I wasailing to live up to it.

“Please listen to yoursel and the way you are saying thingsto me,” he soly pleads, never raising his voice to match mine, likewhat I’m used to at home.

I take his words to heart and survey my surroundings. Herewe are in the middle o the supermarket, a ew weeks beore ourtwo-year anniversary, and I was pushing away rom the man I loveover a stupid argument about what we should eat or dinner andhow it should be made. In my pursuit o perection, I was caught upin these invisible rules. I had become just like my dad.

“I only wanted to make a nice dinner or you. But ne, get

the pork chops,” I wheel our cart away in anger.

***We walk to the car in silence, as i nothing has happened. It’s notabnormal to me because in my amily, we never talked about con-ict. We preerred to move on and pretend like nothing was wrong.

Lauren Hardy



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As Alex cooks the pork chops in my kitchen, his words to me areew. Aer tossing together a pecan raspberry balsamic spring saladand steaming corn or our side dishes, I sit on the couch and ip

through my planner to make sure I have all my assignments com-pleted or tomorrow.

“OK. Pork chops are done,” Alex says.I spring rom the couch and hurry to the dinner table, ex-

pecting to bite into a piece o shoe leather. I he had ailed, I couldprove that I was right. One bite into the steaming chops however,and I’m ooded with regret. Alex has successully cooked the pork

chops on the stove. Tey were perectly juicy, probably some o thebest I had ever tasted.

Aer dinner, I leave the room to blow my nose. But when Ireturn to the dinner table, Alex is not there. Quietly, I tiptoe to my bedroom and crack open the door. Tere he was — lying on theoor, clasping his hands gently across his stomach, and waiting pa-tiently or me. Tough I can’t bear the look in his solemn blue eyes,I can’t look away. Tey pierce straight through my soul and into my heart, something only his eyes have the power to do.

“I’m so, sorry,” I stutter, burying my head in his arms.A river o mascara-black tears ow rom my ace to his

shirt, and I silently thank God he’s wearing a dark color.“Something has to change.” His body is rigid to my touch.

“You’ve got to stop being so controlling. Not just with how youcontrol yoursel, but others too.”He pauses.

“I don’t like it when you speak to me that way. It’s not how two people in love should speak to each other. You’re not going tolike this, and please don’t take it the wrong way, but that’s how yourparents talk.”

“Tis is just what I’m used to, you know that. You know Idon’t mean things the way I say them. I just want to help and be thebest girlriend I can.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it okay. We are not your par-ents.”




21

“I know. I think I’m beginning to understand that,” I say.“But I don’t know how to stop controlling things, it’s like an auto-matic response. I want to change, but I need you to help me.”

I wrap my arms around him, and he begins to let me in.Like a time capsule, his embrace takes me back to the rst time wehung out during our day at the park; the rst time in my lie thateverything made sense, and everything elt ree, sae, and okay. Inhis arms, what mattered in lie became as clear as the CaribbeanSea. Surrounded by his amily, I was okay with not having a plan,or being perect, or being in control. I wasn’t caught up in a list

o rules and expectations; I was okay with simply living. I knew Icould be that person all o the time, but clearly not by my own e-orts.

“We’ll work through this. From now on, I just need you totell me when I need to relax and let things go,” I say.

“I tried to earlier today, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“I promise I’m going to be better rom now on. I don’t wantto keep speaking to you that way. It’s not air or okay. I can’t keepgetting upset about petty things and being so on edge.”

“You have to understand that or me, the only thing thatmatters is I love you and you love me. Okay? It doesn’t matter whatwe are having or dinner, it doesn’t matter what movie we watch, aslong as I’m with my beautiul girl.”

I nod my head as he wipes another tear rom my cheek. Iwant so badly to be able to say the same thing — that all that mat-ters in lie is love, and that no amount o control could amountto the joy ound in ellowship with others. But how could I speak those words with sincerity when I was obsessed with being incontrol? I I was ever going to make this change in my lie, I knew itwas time to just let go.

* * *I rolled out o bed the next day, eeling no dierent than the nightbeore, with the exception o one thing: rom that day on, I vowedto think about how and why I say the things I say, do the thingsI do, and want the things I want. I also vowed to respect others’

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opinions, in light o my own; this included respecting Dad, whoI’d rebelled against or too long. Tis journey toward relinquish-ing control was and still is a long journey. And though it can be

rewarding, I nally understand how hard, tiring and rustratingtrying to change yoursel can be. Especially when it’s the only way o lie you’ve ever known.

Nevertheless, the journey has sustained my relationshipwith Alex. When I nally stopped demanding and controlling whatwe did, we became stronger and happier. Laughter has replacedwhat used to be terse argument.

As or my amily, we’ve grown closer, too, in the time sincethe driveway episode my reshman year. We’re beginning to under-stand and love each other better — something I wish could havetaken place beore my sister moved to Salt Lake City in the springo 2012. It’s unny how much you miss people once you realize they won’t always be around. I used to want to be apart rom my amily,but now, I wish or more moments together.

Beore Alex and I le or the Bahamas or Christmas in2012, we nally had one o these moments. Ashley and her boy-riend Korey, who had just own into Indianapolis, met Mom, Dad,Alex and I at the Kokomo, Ind., Olive Garden or a soup and saladlunch.

Seeing Dad light up in the presence o both o his daughters

reminded me just how much he cares or our amily. As he listenedto Ashley talk about her latest developments as a Design Assistantat Maggie Sottero Bridal, and me recount my latest adventures asManaging Editor or Ball State’s magazine, he beamed with pride.He sat in silence and awe — hanging on every word as we spoke.

No memory o our rocky past can cloud or take joy away rom days like these. We are all still a work in progress; no one is

perect. But I also know no one is without love.

* * *

Te next morning, Mom and Dad tiptoe into my room around 4a.m.




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“Good morning, sweetheart! Paradise is calling,” Dad whis-pers over my sleeping body.

I slowly sit up and rub my eyes. oday is the day my vaca-

tion with the Gaskills in Eleuthera, Bahamas begins.“I can’t believe you guys got up, just to send me o,” I laugh.“We’re driving you to the airport, remember?” Mom giggles.

“Oh, yeah! You guys are so sweet. You didn’t have to dothat,” I smile, hopping out o bed.

Dad quickly draws me in his arms to give me a long, warmhug. Few things in lie compare to Dad hugs. He may be a sel-

proclaimed “tough, stubborn Hardy,” but his gentle hugs reveal hissoer side. He never lets Ashley and I arrive or leave home withoutone.

“Wish you guys could come with,” I step back. “Someday,we are going on a amily vacation to Italy, OK?”

“I think we might be able to swing that,” Mom says.

“Well, we better all start saving now,” I say.I try not to worry about orgetting anything as I pack my

suitcase, knowing that when we load the car, Mom will go over amental checklist with me. Te Gaskills arrive and we start puttingmore suitcases into our SUV. Sure, enough, Mom is on top o hergame.

“oothpaste?” she asks.

“Yes.”“Medicine?”“Yeah, mama. Tanks. I think I got it.”“Oh! More than one swimsuit?”

I playully roll my eyes and smile. “Yes, o course.”Alex, who is standing beside me, nudges my side. “Well,

that’s a rst,” he laughs.

“What?”“Usually, you would get all annoyed and start yelling when

your mom does something like that.”

It was incredible how well he knew me; he saw straightthrough my reaction to whatever situation I encountered. I didn’tlike to be bossed around, and in the past, I would have put up a

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ght. It wasn’t like me to go with the ow.

“Well, we know where that attitude gets me, and I’ve de-cided it’s not worth it anymore. I can try to control everything; I

can try to control mysel. But in the end, what happiness would thatbring me?” I say.

“Exactly,” he says as he grabs my hand. I step into the carand asten my seatbelt, anxious to get to the airport. Tings werelooking up, not just or me, but or all o us.

* * *

On our second day in Eleuthera, we drive the rental car to Gover-nor’s Harbour to stock up on groceries or the rst week.

“What are we going to do today?” I ask Alex as we wait out-side or his mom and grandma to nish checking out.

“I don’t know, whatever we want?”

Here I was, on vacation, and a part o me still itched to planand have some control over our daily agenda.

“Oh, okay,” I draw circles in the sand with my sandals.“What do you want to do, love?”“I don’t know,” I say.

One o the hardest parts o giving up control has been redis-covering what I like and why. Because I was so used to abiding by astrict, predetermined schedule, it’s hard to separate what I like rom

what I always did. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, but still eel lostgetting mysel back on track. Te act I eel like I need to workout,even though I’m on vacation, is a testament to this truth.

I walk orward into the sand, on the other side o the street.“I know what I’m supposed to do…” my voice trails o.

“I didn’t ask you what you’re supposed to do. I asked youwhat you want to do,” he says.

“How about we lay out in the sun, take a stroll on the beach,and go rom there?” I grab his hand.

“I think that’s a good start.”Te pink sandy beaches o Eleuthera are a breathtaking

sight to behold. I’ve walked on the black sands o Hana, Maui inHawaii, the scorching, yellow sands o Lake Michigan, and the




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white sands o Florida, but nothing compares to the beauty o pink sand glistening in the sunlight, or glowing in the moonlight. It’s likeseeing the world through rose-colored sunglasses.

Aer sunset, Alex, his siblings and mom, and I race downour rental house’s winding staircase to get to the beach. We’re tiredrom a long day in the sun, but we run around like children atrecess, marveling at how so the sand eels beneath our bare eet.How lucky I was to be here with them. How lucky I was to have twoamilies to share lie with. How lucky I was to have parents whostayed by my side no matter how ar I strayed. How lucky I was to

eel so ree and so at peace.Te smell o brine lls my nose as I take in a deep breath

o Atlantic Ocean air. Waves crash gently up and down the shore,irting with my eet as they ebb and ow back out to sea. I squishmy toes beneath the sand and wiggle them, one-by-one. I it wereup to me, I’d never leave this island. Surrounded by such beauty, itwas easy to give my worries to God and not think about the trivialdetails o lie. It was easy to breathe; easy to simply be.

Alex had been right all along: everything was going to beokay. Nothing could ever come between this beautiul lie and me.For the rst time, I actually believe that. I don’t need to have all theanswers, or all o the power. What I need is to be okay with just be-ing me.

Lauren Hardy

z

Can all your worries add a single moment to your lie?Matthew 6:27



Te Road to Surrender by Lauren Hardy is licensed under a CreativeCommons-Atrribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported

License.

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Photo by Lauren Hardy, all rights reserved.

Damaged Goods: The Road to Surrender, by Lauren Hardy

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