Day 11

Today is my eleventh day of being back in San Diego and living with my parents. 

If I ever thought I was in hell at any point in my life, today definitely takes the cake. All of the emotional pain, anguish, suffering and misery I’ve experienced pales in comparison to the intense disgust I feel towards the physical living situation I find myself in.

I knew what it would mean if I moved into my childhood home. My most recent visit home before moving back was in March, and I saw exactly how my parents were living. And I still decided I would move home.

In my prior environment, my place was only a couple years old. There was a good amount of light coming in. The place was very clean, although I lived with two roommates (cleaner than any place else where I’d lived with anyone). It was quiet most of the time. (Though I did have a roommate who sometimes liked to play music, louder than I would have cared for.) It felt safe. I could relax, and I truly was at peace living in that space. My parents’ house is quite different.

I have been dreading today for a couple of days because I knew I would be doing some cleaning that I did not want to do. But it had to be done. And an hour or so into it, I walked out of the house on the verge of tears because of my disgust for the levels of bullshit I’m attempting to obliterate.

I walked down to my neighbors’ and cried in my sister’s arms. And as I’m writing this, I’m realizing how powerful and healing it was to cry while someone had their arms around me. And also, how it was slightly uncomfortable to the point that I said sorry unnecessarily, and I was the one to break the embrace out of discomfort instead of out of being ready to let go. I have spent much of my life longing to have someone there to hold me while I cry. During years and years of depression, anxiety, and suicidality. At hard times, like breaking off an engagement, getting in car accidents, being fired from jobs, ending romantic relationships, losing people I thought were dear friends, etc. And today, in this moment of hell, I was able to feel relief, comfort, support and even healing by letting myself cry in the arms of another.

Old me wouldn’t have moved back to San Diego much less moved in with my parents. Old me would have spiraled to suicidality instead of walking out the door, seeking support, crying and talking with others. Old me would have quit a long time ago. Old me wouldn’t be loving myself enough to choose and create a life I want. Old me wouldn’t care about my parents’ quality of life much less take action to make it better. Old me would cower in fear and let life make me a victim. Fortunately for me, I am not that girl.