Countdown To Family Chaos!
I found out this morning that my sister, her husband, their 8-year-old son, 5-year-old daughter, and 15-year-old cat are very likely moving into my parents’ house come this August. Now, this wouldn’t necessarily affect me, except that I too live in the house. Well, sort of.
My bedroom is a glorified gardening shed (yes, literally) in the backyard. Those close to me affectionately refer to it as my Unabomber cabin. When I go a little loopy, certain folks inquire how my manifesto is coming. It’s all meant in jest; but then again, *they* don’t have to live in it. With the bugs. Oh, lordy, the bugs!!
I have a smaller-than-twin sized foam mattress on a wood platform, a slightly narrower desk area, two single-paned windows, and a little bedside table thingy. When I need to access the main house, like to use the bathroom, visit the kitchen, or get dressed, I have to cross the backyard. Luckily, it’s not a huge yard. But when it’s the middle of the night, when I’m drunk, or when I’ve just awoken in the morning, it can get a bit dicey.
Most often it’s a sea-legged trek across the yard, due to a foot defect I was born with that has left me with jacked up feet, toes that don’t point forward, and a serious lack of balance. It’s like drunk walking all the time. Quite comical for others, I’m sure. Not so funny when I really have to pee and end up wobbling off the walking stones and twisting my ankle. But I digress.
As I write this, I’m realizing that I’m not actually anxious about my sister and her family moving in. I’m anxious about still being here myself when they do. Oh, how I wish I could afford rent on my own. It makes me question why I went back to school to get my degree. I mean, wasn’t that shit supposed to help me get a well-paying job? I graduated on June 14, 2014, I moved back in with my parents two days later. In twelve days, I will have been here a year. I haven’t lived at home this long since the mid-1990s.
Holy damn, I really miss living alone! But I’m also enjoying not being a miserable anxious mess all day every day. A forty-hour work week is not meant for everyone, ya know. I have a part-time job at a local bank (an excellent one), and right now it’s about all I can handle. It in no way allows me to pay rent in the California Bay Area, but my anxiety levels have been at their lowest in years. Double edged sword, I guess.
I’m calmer and happier overall, but I’m 10 ½ weeks shy of 37, and I live with my damn parents.
Hmmm…maybe it’s time for a GoFundMe campaign to help me get money for rent. Or maybe I should just chill the fuck out and roll with the punches. My voices can’t seem to agree at the moment.
My bed area (I heart my black dream catcher):
My desk area (yes, that’s Jessica Fletcher on the iPad):