I'm really trying so hard....

A New Home; A New Life

I have a fear of confrontation. It is a deep-seeded fear, reaching back to my starting days as a teenager. My weak attempts to rebel were met with hours-long lectures and yelling, eventually convincing me that my individual ideas were not only wrong but would also result in a quick and imminent death. Or homeless prostitution.  Or something to that degree.  I became the obedient child, never straying far from the upstanding citizen my parents had raised me to be. I attended no parties in high school; did not sneak out of the house after dark. I never tried, nor will try, drugs of any sort; I have never smoked and never will.  I was convinced drinking a beer (one singular beer!) would make me vomit, that the smell alone would make me ill. I avoided it at all costs (my fear of throwing up being the driving force). I reluctantly tried a bud light somewhere midway through the second semester of my freshman year of college, after my roommate’s friend BEGGED me to keep her company at a friends’ apartment on THE HILL.

Any mistakes I made in college were weighed heavily upon me by my parents.  My decision to move into an apartment off campus was clearly THE WORST THING I COULD HAVE DONE TO MYSELF WHAT WAS I THINKING. So, I moved home. My decision to drop out of my interior design program was A WASTE OF YOUR TIME AND OUR MONEY YOU SHOULD JUST TRY HARDER YOU ARENT TRYING HARD ENOUGH. I switched schools.  My decision to work in Natick continues to be met with WHY ARENT YOU WORKING CLOSER TO HOME YOU ARE WASTING MONEY DRIVING AND YOU SHOULDN’T BE OUT THERE. Despite these decisions I’ve made, I’m no closer to the homeless prostitution I was clearly promised with any idea that was against their own plan for me.

Which brings me to now. Back in October, my father asked what my plans were with James for the future. I mentioned engagement, a home together and marriage; in that order. He re-tallied with YOU CANT MOVE IN BEFORE YOU MARRY IT IS A SIN AGAINST GOD. Not much was mentioned after that. A few weeks ago James and I discovered the apartment below his grandmother would be vacant soon and that we could live there FOR FREE. The perfect opportunity for us to start our life together and still be able to afford what we needed and save for a house. We patched and painted the ceiling in our new home, bounced on sofas in furniture stores, dreamed of the possibilities. I spent the past month dreading what my parents would hold over me if I announced my plans. Would they leave me with the gargantuan bill of my student loans, threaten to not pay for my wedding? I came to terms with the loans, knowing that I would make it work on my own if it came to it; James assured me that we would be able to pay for our wedding if need be. 

This past Saturday, he mentioned to my parents his moving.  I choked. The words “I’m moving out” caught in my throat. Every opportunity that arose with each day came and went by while I remained silent. I constantly pictured the words coming out of my mouth, like big cartoon cement blocks, hanging in the air for them to see, SOMETHING THAT COULD NOT BE UNDONE. I resolved to say something on Wednesday; dad spent the evening sick in bed. I resolved to tell them yesterday. Again, dad lay sick in bed. My mother and I sat at the kitchen table watching the Travel Channel. And then I said it. And it hung heavily in the air. And my mother said next to nothing, I think she was watching tv at this point to keep from crying. I have yet to hear my father’s opinion, but I already know the words that will be uttered. And the hours-long lecture that may ensue, but this time I will not be recanting my decision. I will not regret this one bit.