A Love I was Trapped in A Memoir in Fragments, Part 1.

My family was a silken spider web, crafted in tenuous beauty, drawing strength from its silken tendrils. Ancient Greeks used cobwebs to stop wounds from bleeding. It resonated with me to learn such delicate material could staunch a wound.

Within its intricate webbing, so many secrets were wrapped. When my wound started to bleed, my parents taught me how to stop the bleeding, to silence it; all while creating art with their own latticework to make it palatable for me and picturesque for the world.

I’d often think about spiders, working tirelessly with their spinnerets, those silk spinning organs on their abdomens. It was a perfect strategy for them: remaining safe, protecting themselves, preserving their energy, and keeping distance, all while their prey did the work.

This endless creation to entrap what they wanted reminded me of my parents. They spun and cast webs allowing them to pull me into their idea of love. They never had to be vulnerable; they were able to protect themselves while I was lured into their woven delusions of refuge. The filaments shimmered like safety in the evanescent glow of sunlight, ultimately leaving me exposed.

I’d twist and turn, desperately attempting to free myself, burdened with the guilt of wanting out. It was exhaustive. There was an inevitable hopelessness to comply, making me accept whatever they wanted or needed. I was their prey, held captive in their suffocating love.

I was confined within their vision of an ideal family. I wanted to breathe and be me, while still feeling connected to them. The older I got, the more I dreaded the expectations and the darker parts of their love. To get caught in it destroyed the illusion of its beauty.

I didn’t want to fight the webbing that stuck to my clothes, skin, or hair. I loathed the feeling of its sticky parts adhering to me, wanting it off with an intense desperation. I wanted to be saved by them. By anyone. I wanted to be seen and heard. I’d flail about, begging for help, trying to get the webbing off me, the fear always surfacing: What if I lost them if I broke free?

The more I struggled, the more entangled I became, sending vibrations through the web. The act of trying to escape only made my capture more certain and permanent.

I knew freedom came at a huge cost, the loss of something I wasn’t ready for. I didn’t want to be without it. It was safer to accept their possession of me. Their love was an intense entitlement over me. The pain of breaking free was as bad as staying trapped.

They lurked, forever in wait, their spinnerets always moving, while they remained fixed in place. Their love was incomprehensibly complicated. It was all I knew. I didn’t trust it, yet I desperately wanted it. It didn’t feel safe, yet I craved it.

Time and again, I’d find myself falling for their illusions, a prey enmeshed in their sticky web. It was a constant battle, a burning need, to both survive and escape it. If I ever attempted to give voice to the pain hurting me, they’d use the webbing to staunch the wound, spinning an enchanting facade to awe others of our closeness, while I was silenced, despite the brokenness I felt within.

Silence was key. It was what kept everything intact. It defined how I existed in the life I knew.

I frantically searched for unconditional love and safety hidden within the complexities of fear and pain, because I needed to find beauty in the webbing keeping me trapped.

I shrunk in captivity to survive, accepting their version of love, based in disconnection and their own attachment wounds, the ethereal tendrils keeping me caged.

There is no space to be yourself in the chaos of a web. The silken threads kept my family intact, keeping secrets abundant, silence imperative, and me trapped in their web.