Gravity

I need to say some things.
Moving home is hard.  


I thought moving back to my parents house would be nothing but awesome.  I'd have time.  I'd have fun.  I'd be provided for in every way, shape and form.  And, in so many ways, it really is.  I am very grateful to be living in my parents house.  My sister is awesome.  With a seven year age gap, she was only 10 when I moved out.  I don't know if I've ever had such an opportunity to bond with her.  And my parents are wonderful.  Funny, easy going, self less people.


But post-graduation is hard.  I'm sure it's a common feeling.  I know many of my friends have felt/ are feeling it.  It's the weirdest I think I've ever felt for such an ongoing period of time.  It's not always bad.  In fact, sometimes it's really good.  But it's always weird.  


First of all, career?  What?  No.  


I live in my parents' basement.  I thought I'd have all this time this past summer to organize it and make it my own, but 3 months later, I have not.  I was ambitious at first; I rearranged all the furniture, unpacked all my books and set them up in the bookcase.  But it's reached a point where I cannot move forward.  Though boxes sit unpacked and it never looks anything but cluttered, I cannot do anymore.


Because the basement was once my grandmother's apartment.


I don't miss my grandma (I think I'm incapable of understanding the whole "grandparent" thing).


But I've reached a point where I can't move myself in anymore, because she is not moved out.  In the corner sit a stack of home movies on VHS.  In front of the fire place are boxes of pictures.  In the cabinets are mugs and appliances that could still potentially be useful.  The closet is half full of clothes that are not mine.  The cedar chest at the end of the bed is full of grandma bedding.  The window sill is lined with her snow globes and figurines.  Art work she loved is still all over the walls.  The counter still has weird plates I don't know what to do with.  On top of the cedar chest is a baby doll that was once my mother's.  


Plus the walls are light pink.  


I feel like the space can never be mine.  I don't know if it ever could be.  It'll always be the cache for things nobody really knows what else to do with.  I wonder everyday if this is what it'll feel like until I move out again.  


And on top of that, inside many of my unpacked boxes are things that I don't know how they could be useful in my house now.  Decorative baskets that once held fruit.  Vases.  Art I had hanging in my bathroom.  Shower curtains.  Baking sheets.  Stuff that isn't useful at my parents house.  My parents don't need another shower curtain.  Or baking sheets.  A knife set.  
Where is that stuff supposed to go?  


I think I've literally filled up all extra storage space.  In my defense, it was borderline full before I moved home.  The garage has reached it's max, the shed is full.  The attic.  Eh.  I've even designated cabinets for stuff I just want out of the way.  They're all full.  


My house was not ready for me to move home.  


So "my room" stays not mine.  It is not clean.  I cannot clean it.  The things are not mine to throw away.  There is no place for them to go.  


All this really boils down to is moving back means lack of control. 
I don't control my space.  


I don't control my diet.  I never plan on feeding myself, since normally I'm not expected to.  So when my mom calls on her way from work saying she's popping in and then driving on to Lawrence to hang out with my other sister, I'm so frustrated.  If this was my kitchen, I'd have supplies to cook food I like.  It is not my kitchen.  I don't want to make a meal out of egg rolls and green beans.  I eat out far more than I did on my own.  Not complaining, necessarily, since I never really could afford it much before.  


Until recently, I haven't had a job, so I haven't been able to control my independence.  If I needed new shampoo, I was at the mercy of my parents to take a trip to Walmart.  


This is normal, I know it is.  But it doesn't make it any easier.


I'm not used to living like this.  And it's just as much fun as it is not fun.  


And I want to live here.  I love my family.  My puppies.  I'm getting married in 8 or 9 months and want this opportunity to spend as much time with them as possible.  


But I recognize it's at the sacrifice of a feeling of adulthood and independence.  


And I think living here might be making my transition into marriage somewhat harder.
But I am not in a financial position to support myself.  At 22, that's ok.  But I think it'd be so stupid for me to move into my own apartment.  Although really FREAKING fun, it's not worth the $500 a month or so that I'm not required to spend now.  


So here I am.  Sitting in mom's living room, blogging for the second day in a row (you lucky ducks, aren't I so interesting?).  


And while I'm pouring out my heart and soul, can I just say "blogging" is a grow up word for "diary-writing-for-the-general-public."  


I'm going to be fine.  Having a full time job while help with my sense of independence and maybe inspire my mom to help me organize the basement.  Maybe not, but either way it'll work out.


Also while soul-pouring, I keep getting overwhelmed about my wedding.  The thought of being the center of attention for hours is starting to freak me out.  Which is why my beautiful/ handsome bridesmaids are wonderful.  Apart from hour long phone conversations keeping me from falling to pieces, I know they're going to be my support team the day of.  And that makes me feel better.


Do I feel better after letting this all out?  
We'll see.  
But this was not on my to do list.
And I'm hungry.  And responsible for feeding myself.


You know what I really need?  I need to get back into mentally stimulating reading.  I went through a bout of fiction this summer.  It was good.  (I recommend Divergent!)  But I need to read some non-fiction about the human condition.  


Sigh.  Gravity.


I feel the need to say, "you're welcome."  


Kate