Before that, I had to ask for permission to hang out with my friends after Uni, or go grab ice cream, or pierce my ears, dye my hair or go on a date.
I had curfew and a number of rules to follow despite paying for my education and having a job that allowed me to pay for my dog, personal care items and outings.
My first sexual encounter was at 18. It required six months of planning, saving and logistics that included a made up Uni field trip, new email address, phone number and photoshopped pictures.
When I was in high school, I went out with my friends four times. Once in 2011, the other three between 2013 and 2014.
Almost as many times as I have fingers on my hand. The reasoning behind it: I just wasn’t allowed to go out with friends. Danger. Danger.
The length of my hair wasn’t up to me. Wanna go to prom? Only if mom comes with me. My parents didn’t miss a chance to go through my phone and journals.
To this day, I keep my phone’s font the size of an ant. It was a way to make it harder for them to look at my phone whenever I had it in my hands.
Shortly before moving from Colombia to Germany, I had a rocky relationship with my parents. I stopped asking for permission, got home after curfew and lied about it.
I stopped telling them with whom I went out, and giving them addresses, phone numbers and locations.
My strict parents turned me into a great liar. Making up stories to stay out later than I was allowed, or coming up with excuses on the spot was no big deal for me. Always ready to shoot.
Last month, I flew to Colombia for the first time since I left almost three years ago. It was wonderful, confusing and a little bit terrifying.
It was so nice to be home, speak in my native language, and see my family and friends. It truly filled my heart.
A few days after my emotions got in place I noticed something, I was treated like an adult.
Imagine my shock and astonishment when my opinion mattered, I was heard and decisions weren’t made for me (like 70% of the time).
It was strange, but I soon realized I’m no longer living under my family’s roof and have been independent for a couple of years now. It felt good, for a while.
That was until I realized why I was truly treated as an adult; I got married.
Last year, I married the most beautiful soul and partner one could ask for. While I loved making experiences with him in Colombia, the strings attached to his presence were a bitter pill to swallow.
My opinion mattered because it was intertwined with his. My desires were heard because they intersected his. My presence was that of an adult because I entered into a contract with a man. A man that I adore, but remains a man, and I – a child or halfway woman.
It’s been almost a month since I came back from Colombia. My heart is still filled with the joy of hugging my family and friends, but my confidence reservoir is hitting critical levels.
By confidence I really mean certainty. It’s taken me years to understand the only certainty out there is that within myself. The trust that I can handle whatever comes my way because I’m an adult woman capable of both remarkable and sordid things.
Every time my voice has been silenced, every time my desires have been diminished, every time I’ve been objectified and infantilized, I have been stripped of pieces of me.
Those who robbed chunks of my wholeness get to walk away unfazed. Yet I am left behind, trying to make up for the missing fragments. It is my responsibility to find myself over and over again. I pay, even though the debt is not mine.
While it is unfair to be forced back into childhood and object-like views, it is the adult in me working tirelessly to keep me afloat. I am whole. I am total. I am a woman through and through.