I was so lucky to ever have had a sample of it. A home and a cat and an idea of what I was supposed to be doing.
I bought a house. It looks a lot like my childhood one, the rooms are all roughly the same size and in similar places. I adopted a cat and he looks similar too. The bathtub is nicer though. And probably none of it is a coincidence, like the way this is the first post on my blog that isn’t about getting laid.
I’m re-settling into the childhood freedom of getting to be a weirdo and not worrying what the housemates will think, doing things like taking four baths a day. They help me focus. And the whole process has felt like finishing a marathon I’d forgotten I was running.
The world felt so uncomfortable when I left home. Was this how some people had always experienced it? Was I crazy for remembering something calm, assured, safe? I didn’t allow myself take the sensation seriously.
I asked questions and got some weird answers — “Your dreams can wait until grad school”, “There’s something wrong with you if you can’t get over him”, “Too many baths.”
Over time, I believed I was just having inappropriate responses to things that were normal.
I’ve always sounded defensive conveying that I had a solid plan as an epsom-encrusted teenager running on intuition, largely unhampered by reality or water bills.
“No really! I totally had an idea of what was up! I was so on top of it!”
But it’s true! I had this whole plan for my life figured out and I let a handful of well-intentioned but ultimately wrong people tell me what to do instead. Or maybe it was just that nobody around me had a life that looked remotely similar to what I was hoping for myself and I got scared. Kind lesbians hadn’t stopped and explained capitalism and patriarchy to me yet.
There is a truer, less simplistic, and more sad reason for why my actions and intentions got so misaligned. I let my dreams for myself get wrapped up in another person, and when I got dumped and felt worthless I thought it meant that my dreams were worthless too, and so I was completely disinterested in touching them for a while. Instead, I latched onto anyone who had dreams for me that I could borrow instead. I spent the intervening years trying to find someone who could understand my dreams, as though only then would they be valid.
I wish I could say that I found all the strength I needed to believe in myself inside of me. Instead it took friends bringing me to an EDM festival, psychiatric medication, and a boyfriend who both believes in me wholeheartedly and has a completely separate (yet logistically compatible) dream for himself.
And now I finally feel like I’m safe and ready again. Just kidding, owning a home and a mortgage is scary as fuck. All of this is crazy. And it feels so right.