Why I’m Moving Out

 

There’s no peace here. I’m writing amidst breaking glass and gunshots. There’s a helicopter severing the air and a man just unleashed a guttural scream. More shots are ringing out and I think my ears just witnessed a murder. It’s all on TV, but it infiltrates my peace nonetheless.

I know I’m late to the party: the live-on-your-own, fun-in-the-city, doing-my-grown-twenty-something-thing extravaganza. But I’ve always been an outlier in my generational data set, so operating on a different timetable is normal for me. If you’ve seen my house and met my family you know why it’s so easy to feel comfortable here. My family is dope, my house is spacious, and I come and go and eat and curse and party and pray as I please. I joke about my reign ending in 2008, but really, I’m still pretty much a princess.

Unfortunately, though, Princess has no peace here.

“You can live here until you’re married. You can stay here forever.” It was kind of a joke that my mother equated those two points in time, my marriage and the end of eternity. I say kind of because it’s also kind of a joke in this house that I’m unyielding, undateable, and certainly not marriage material. But that was the deal: I was welcome to live in my parents’ home, rent free, simply paying a bill, for as long as I wanted. And for a while that’s exactly what I wanted. I was comfortable. I was happy.

One day I came home, removed my backpack and noted that the stress of the day (week? month?) didn’t slide from my shoulders with it. I’d had a long commute, after a long day, after a long workout, after a long night, after a long commute, after a long day, after a long workout, after a long night and that feeling– that heavy, sinking, anxious, exhaustion– didn’t come off when I came home. It didn’t dissolve in the bath. It didn’t melt away to the sound of Maxwell, and when I rolled into bed that night, it wrapped itself around me and whispered to in my ear to prepare for another day. I looked at the walls that I’d painted a happy-go-summer coral and asked myself when I stopped being so happy here. When did I outgrow this space? When did these walls stop constituting the boundaries of my sanctuary?

I remember moving to this house ten years ago and panicking because I’d  soon be 18 and would surely have to leave my castle. After undergrad, when my friends had offered me a spot in their new town home, complete with a craft room (my weakness!), I turned them down and opted to stay in my haven. I was happy. I was comfortable.

That day, when I couldn’t shrug, or scrub, or sleep away the anxious feeling, I finally came face to face with a notion I’d been shooing away for months: I was no longer at peace here. I came home from war only to greet another battle at the door. Not necessarily with the people here, but with myself, trying conjure up the contentment I once felt in this space. My sweet deal had gone sour. I was no longer happy. I was no longer comfortable. Simply put, I had grown.

That’s the thing about growth. We never see it as it’s happening. We can only bear witness to its results. One day, your light-up Little Mermaid sneakers are the joy of your life and the next, they give you pain in your feet like you’ve never felt before. One day that dress makes you look cute, the next, foolish.

I never noticed the growth. I only saw the ways in which this huge space began to feel too tight.  The movie Failure to Launch wasn’t funny anymore. The surround sound for the biggest TV in the house, which also happens to share a wall with my bedroom, drove me insane. My commute went from “doable” to every curse word in the book. I began to feel like flypaper, with everyone’s questions, comments, and general concerns sticking to me as soon as I set tire on my driveway. Hearing a host of people show up unexpectedly stopped making me open my heart, and began to make me close my door. 

After I told my parents  that I was moving out, my mother’s tune changed to “you abandoned me, love don’t live here anymore.” Literally. I asked for some tea once and my mother went Rose Royce on me. I don’t blame her. It’s literally all good.

This move is going to be good. When my friend proposed that we get a place together, I felt every feeling but the sinking one. I was definitely concerned. Will I drop my phone from a balcony that high? Can I make good sink-or-swim decisions? What will I do if my car is acting weird and Daddy isn’t downstairs to fix it? Can I still finesse a luxurious lifestyle (aka ice cream when I want it)? Who will be on the receiving end of my naked early morning tirades if not my sister herself? Who will I blame when my hair brush goes missing? Can I still make it to church on time? How will this affect my relationship with God?

I think the move will do wonders for my relationship with my parents. It’ll give me a chance to miss them. To call to see how they’re doing. To let them know I still need them when I can’t remember my blood type or how many eggs go in a small pan of baked mac & cheese. It will be a good test for me, my ability to adjust, and it will give me the space and solitude I realizeI’ve longed after for so long. 

The big day is in a week and a half. Spiritually, I’m ready. Don’t even ask about logistically (refer to my sink-or-swim decision making concerns).

So here’s to my new place. Here’s hoping that I can build a second sanctuary. Here’s to actually knowing my neighbors’ names (maybe), to having the space between us shrink from acres to inches. Here’s to solitude and good company. Here is to yet another new beginning.