About 6 months ago, I moved back in with my folks. As a (then) 23 year old woman who had been out of home for a total of two years, I felt this was a step in the wrong direction.
I don’t need to move back, do I?
I am working full time and writing a book and having a life and managing my PCOS and living on $5 a week but I am totes fine! I have my shit together! I get up every morning and go to work even not hungover.
This. Is. Living.
Okay, so there was that time I had to ask my friend to pay for my grocery shop, or when I was late for rent (for the third week in a row), or considering getting a second job, or surviving off canned food or realising that it had been weeks since I worked on my book or that my PCOS was flaring up. No. I guess I was not totes fine. In fact, I was far, far from totes fine.
One Sunday evening, I was over at my family home having dinner. This usually involved me shovelling as much free, high nutritionally valued food into my mouth in a hope that it might sustain me for a least 48 hours while my family looked on, startled at this possessed, famished (although, looks can be deceiving) creature.
“Slow down!” my Mum said.
I looked at her.
She looked at me like only a mother could. Through my eyes and into my soul.
I stared back.
She stared harder.
And then, my tears came gushing down my face like Niagara Falls.
“Uh… uh… I c-c-c-can’t do it… uhhh… uhhh” (NOTE: the “uhh” noise is a combination of my sobs and hyperventilation).
And then my Mother, my darling Mother said it: “I think you should move back home.”
No, ne, nay, nein, non, nada.
For me, moving back home wasn’t an option.
No, moving back home is failing. Moving back home is safe. Moving back home means I am away from my friends. Moving back home is moving backwards.
Fast-forward three weeks. It’s a Saturday morning. I’ve stumbled home from my friend’s party up the road an hour ago. This was my last morning in my home, before moving back with the parentals and officially losing all facets of a life.
I went over to my window and inhaled the inner city fumes, listened deeply to the junkies’ conversations outside and watched the sea of cars drive by.
How I will desperately miss all of this.
Amidst the moment between myself and my home, there was a knock at the door.
The removalists had arrived.
“Ay mate! You’re up with the sparrow-fart! We’re gonna move ya stuff for ya.”
I watched my bedroom, as the men removed my belongings. And as they did, it was like they were removing my memories with it - the boys, the parties, the laughs, the tears, the wild nights and the quiet intimate ones - till it was like it and I never existed.
Bye home. Bye life…
When I arrived at my parents, I paused for a moment at the front door and took that terrifying step backwards.
Hibernating back in my childhood room, I would lie in bed scrolling through Instagram or watching Snapchat stories (damn you Social Media!) and see my friends out and about. Would I be at that pub now? Or eating cheap dumplings too? Maybe I would have featured in that Snapchat story that everyone is laughing about?
So, I’m home now and will not be bringing home any lovers to party with. Instead, it is just me here, subjected to my brother’s long, boring stories filled with the personal pronoun, coping with my Mum’s menopausal breakdowns and occasional (but not occasional enough) sightings of my Dad’s saggy arse. Oh, and the five year old next door is learning the trumpet!
But, I do have extra clothes in my wardrobe and am eating decent food and paying cheaper board and working on my book and beating my PCOS.
So, will I be here forever?
Hells no. And I know my parents would be hoping the same thing. But for now, it’s fine and it isn’t a failure or a step in the wrong direction. To quote my least favourite line in the world “it is what it is”.
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