Loopy, Lonely and Lost

“I don’t wanna live in my father’s house no more…”

Posted on: July 19, 2015

I feel like my life won’t really start until I move out of my parents’ house.

I’m coming up to another birthday in the next few weeks, and I can honestly say that very little in my life has changed in the past 5 years. This is depressing. I don’t think I’m depressed, but it is depressing. I know that change for the sake of change isn’t always a good thing, but this stagnation…it’s so tiring.

It’s not even that I hate my parents. Despite what I may have written about them over the years, it’s not that. Of course we have our problems. My mother in particular is very hard work, and I refuse to pretend otherwise (a lot of the most traumatic things that have happened in my life are directly connected to her and the way she is…if I deny her nature then I deny my experience, and that will only lead to confusion and unhappiness), but they’re not driving me away.

It’s just, while I’m here, I can’t move on.

The times when I am truly alone are rare and indescribably precious. When there’s no-one else in the house, I can finally relax – the rest of the time I’m on edge. Even if I’m in a different room, there’s always the dread that someone will say or do something that causes my mum to cry and scream and shout and accuse. Peace and quiet are vital to happiness – to my happiness, at least – and I get so little of them here.

I have this idea that I could move out and change my life. I know that lasting, positive changes are hard to come by. I know I might not be able to do everything I want to do, but if I felt less trapped then that would be a start.

I could get healthier. Take charge of the food that’s in my house, and exercise more. I don’t care about my appearance or being competitive or anything like that, but I’d like to be fitter. I think that would help me feel better. Living here, it’s harder. My mum would want to bond over it. She’d take me to Weightwatchers with her and make me stick up a weight chart next to hers. It would be an implied competition and she’d talk like she understands me, like we’re the same. (One example out of many possibilities: I didn’t wear shorts for about 5 years after she told a teenage version of me – very loudly, in front of many people – “Oh my God, look at your thighs! They’re bigger than mine!” This is an old resentment. I fear I’d be unable to play nice if she pushed it.)

I’d see how things went, what my life was like, and maybe I’d sign up for a course. Something at a local college, or the Open University. Something small, and maybe if it went well I could do other things too. I feel that education and I aren’t through with each other yet. I messed up the last chance I had, and I’d like to make amends. If I could manage it, I’d like to learn more things. I think it would make me feel more interested in the world and life, and maybe I might feel a bit proud of myself too, instead of ashamed. But in order to do this, it would have to be a secret. (Is this just me? This need to keep everything hidden? Everyone in my life seems to be so open, but I can’t do it.) People knowing would mean expectations and interest and enquiries, it would make it something important, it would have to have some sort of consequence, rather than just something I’d be doing for me, to learn more about the world and make me a better person.

And sometimes…sometimes, when I get caught up in imagining I’ll really do it, when I’ve been scouring property websites, calculating costs and imagining colour schemes…sometimes, I start Googling therapists in my area. I feel – finally, hesitantly, and not without reservations – that maybe I have reached a point in my life where speaking to someone may be of some real value. When I had counselling before, things were too bad. A few sporadic appointments were never going to be enough to help me come to terms with my rapidly dwindling education prospects, an entire childhood in the power of my mother and whatever was going on in my head. Was I ill? Fuck knows. I’ve given up trying to label or understand. But I was suicidal, terrified, confused. Out of control and out of my mind. What could I have got out of counselling when that was going on?

I think I believe that times of distress and despair are actually the worst times to start thinking about getting help for your problems. How are you supposed to concentrate or understand when your brain is trying to kill you? I think it’s probably best to put in some work on your mental health when you’re feeling more or less alright, when you have a bit of energy to spare so you can actually think without every thought being drowned out by fire alarms in your head. I think maybe if you build up strength and resilience and understanding when you don’t really need them, hopefully they’ll be there for you when you do.

Don’t get me wrong, I know it wouldn’t be easy. I am never going to be comfortable talking about my feelings. There is something twisted and knotted inside me that will never come undone, the part of me that puts up so many walls and locks feelings up in so many tiny boxes. But I think it would be easier. Easier now, when things are calmer, than it was back then. I feel that talking might be good, that I could go past simple complaining and actually work on learning to cope and move on.

But how can I even think about getting that kind of help when I’m living here? Here, I wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret. And everyone would want to know why, and my mum would cry and dig and push me to admitting that part of my problem is that I don’t know how to deal with her…there would be so much stress, so many recriminations, and I just can’t face that.

I am an adult. I should be able to do this.

A part of me is afraid that maybe living alone would actually be bad for me. That I might fall out of my routines and find myself staying up all night again, living in the dull twilight of insomnia and getting out of the habit of being a normal human being.

And…I don’t know where to start. I know it sounds stupid and that all day every day there are people moving house. But I don’t know what I’m doing.

I could ask my parents for help. I’d need to talk to them about it anyway, I wouldn’t want to leave under a cloud, storming off without their blessing. But whenever I mention it in my mum’s presence, it becomes an argument. She hears “I want to move out” and she takes it personally, cries and insists I must hate her. My dad doesn’t do that, but I don’t think he believes I really mean it.

So as ever, I feel stuck. I always feel trapped. Sometimes I think I’ve had my life. Everything that was going to happen has happened and now I’m just waiting for the end.


1 Response to "“I don’t wanna live in my father’s house no more…”"

Glad to see you’re still going strong. Reading your blog is always like reading a chapter in out of my own book, except my book would lack your incredible writing abilities. & it is actually funny, because I’m dealing with wishing I could move out of my parents, too. I can’t afford it yet, but when I can move out, I think swift & immediate change will be an easier transition than planning & overthinking the little things. With my mood changes, I wouldn’t be able to feel good about an idea for long before depression hits & suddenly that idea that had seemed so good, suddenly feels like too much for me. That’s just me. Be well.

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My name is Laura. I was once told that I have cyclothymia. This blog is mostly where I write about living as a person with extremes and instability of mood, and the history of a life that led to the development of those symptoms.

I complain a lot, I'm very repetitive, unreliable, and I tend to contradict myself.

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