9/9/08

I moved out of my parent’s house when I was 18, about 2 weeks after I graduated high school.  I never really intended to do so, that is, I never thought to myself, “I can’t wait until I can get out of here!”. 

Living with my parents was, for the most part, a nightmare.  Especially the last year.  We were poor, really poor.  While my mom managed to keep the water and electricity on, other things sometimes had to go.  One of those things was the heat—she simply couldn’t pay the gas bill, so we lived through a very long, cold winter with no heat.  And without going into specifics, let me assure you that I did live in a very cold place—north of the 45th parallel. 

You’ll notice that I refer only to my mom in the previous paragraph.  This is because, at that time, my father was employed sporadically, mostly not at all.  Mostly, he just drank a lot.  The hostility between them was almost tangible at times, especially when my dad did something particularly stupid and expensive. 

But on to moving out.   One of the other things that had to go was mortgage payments.  Apparently, my mom stopped paying that one in 2003.  A few years later, it had finally gone into foreclosure.  When my mom told me that she had lost the house, I was angry.  Furious, even.  But I couldn’t tell her that, as she felt badly enough about it already.  Is anger even a rational response to that situation?  I don’t know.  I know it was selfish of me, but it doesn’t change the fact.  I was pissed off.  I decided that I would rather leave my home than have it taken away from me—it seemed to me that it would be easier somehow.  So I got an apartment with my sister across town.

After I moved out, my parents moved into an apartment.  Two years later, I moved away to attend a different college, and suddenly, it became clear.  My parent’s new apartment had only one bedroom.

I know it’s irrational, but it’s felt to me  that they just don’t have a place for me anymore.  Like I just don’t belong in their life.  And it makes going home to visit an extremely troubling experience.

I find so much of it difficult to put into words.  But I want to.  I think I need to.  Because it’s getting harder and harder to bear, and I want you to know –to understand—before it comes to the conclusion.  No one’s ever understood before, as melodramatic and pathetic as that sounds. 

But how can I tell you, when I can barely find the words?  How can I describe this sadness, this sense of desperation, that has permeated my life for as long as I can remember?  How can I describe the self-loathing, the scathing inner commentary, the compulsion to destroy myself, to cause enough pain to finally make it OK again?

I can’t .  But I need to try, because this has been eating away for almost my entire life.  It is like an infection, and maybe, just maybe, purging it will allow me to finally heal.