Let me preface this by saying that I love my family. That’s probably the most important detail here.
Now, with that being said, my family drives me absolutely insane. And while this phenomenon is nothing new, it makes me want to punch a whole in the wall. I’m home now for the first time since Christmas, and for the longest time since my freshman year. When I’m in Boston (or elsewhere), I contact my family almost daily, to chat, to plan, to share grievances (aka complain). My mother is the most honest girlfriend and the best travel partner I’ve ever had. My dad and I are on the same emotional page and can talk about anything under the sun. My brothers… well we all live with our parents and talk about that.
I’ve had friends describe the many benefits of long-distance relationships: You get to have your own life, as does your partner, but you still come back together at the end of the day and share secrets and romance and stories. In many ways, my relationship with my family 11 months out of the year is like the best ever long-distance relationship. I call to check in. I email to ask for money. And for the most part, I’m free to live independently and privately.
But here…
When I moved out, I took everything. I painted over my pink walls (ew) with blue and gave up all rights to my room. I figured that from then on, I would forever be a guest in my own house. And in many ways, that’s true. I sleep on the couch for weeks at a time because we no longer have enough beds. I live out of a suitcase and almost all of my friends are gone. But typically, guests are provided some sense of respect, however superficial. And I’m not entirely sure I’m getting that.
And now to the real vent. Why is it that family is allowed to treat you so much worse than anyone else? It’s like by virtue of sharing a genetic code, they are forgiven all grievances. I know that this concept is not unique to me, but I feel so completely trapped in it. I live on a couch. I have no room to myself and no means of privacy or escape. To add insult to injury, my “room” is now my brother’s project space–despite the fact that he has his own room. My computer is his computer. My phone charger (that I purchased) is his phone charger. I can’t get any quiet, either. Even though he has his own room, and the ever-present option to wear headphones, he insists on blasting his Pandora station on the house speakers (which also play outside).
As we speak, I’m sitting in my front driveway, the only place that doesn’t have angsty music for a soundtrack (unless you count my rant as angsty music?). Also, my butt is quickly going numb on the hard concrete.
I have no means of transportation, so I’m more or less stranded here. And even if I did, my friends are scattered around the country. I’m tired of not being able to think. I’m tired of my gadgets disappearing. What’s mine is not yours (especially when I’ve worked 40 hours a week to get it and you dropped out of classes). I’m tired of finding various bongs scattered around the house. I’m tired of people smoking with various bongs in my bathroom, making my towels smell like ass. I’m tired of being yelled at. I’m tired of being ten feet away when my brother is talking trash about me to my other brother (You don’t even have the decency to pretend to hide it?).
I love my family, I do. I love them beyond sense and logic. I just like them a hell of a lot better when I’m 3,000 miles away. Oy.
