At age 35, I still live with my parents.
It wasn’t always this way.
I used to be fairly independent, travelling the world alone and going off to graduate school.
I never did finish graduate school, because I got pregnant while living abroad instead.
I didn’t even know I was “with child” until I returned home, weeks passed, and my period was officially M.I.A.
My daughter will be ten this year. She has only ever lived with me and my parents, together.
I could have tried to make a go of it on my own, of course, but I was ill-equipped to financially provide on my own. Nor have I ever glamorized the “girl boss” or “single mom” lifestyles. I think they both suck balls.
In my fantasy life, I’m a sort of trophy wife. My kid and I are taken care of. I don’t have an obligation to work much if at all. My husband is a provider, in the realest sense of the word.
Needless to say, my fantasy life never materialized, and I’ve only recently come to terms with the fact I possess deep-seated intimacy and commitment issues rooted in my mother’s lifelong bitterness.
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My mom was a misanthrope even as a kid, according to family members.
As a mother and wife, she was even more so.
She married late (for the era), in her mid-thirties, and proceeded to pop out four babies in five short years.
She quickly regretted her decision to procreate such a large brood. She made no secret of the fact that she felt she was wasting her life.
She didn’t go out and get a job, however. She stayed home, even home-schooling us for four years after she discovered that the local Catholic private school was including sex ed as part of its curriculum. I guess as much as she resented mothering four needy kids, she resented semi-pervy textbooks even more.
But when we went off to middle and high-school, she remained at home, becoming increasingly hermit-like and embittered. With the advent of the popularization of the laptop, she became obsessed with reading the latest news. For the past twenty years, reading away on her laptop has constituted the majority of her existence. In this way, politics consumed her. Real life held no allure.
My father, a dedicated workaholic, tolerated her from a distance.
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An introvert and homebody, I don’t go out much to meet new people, though, when compared to my mother, I look like the social butterfly of the season.
There were times in the past decade that I did temporarily become more extroverted and dated around, but I dated poorly. I went off pure impulse, red flags be damned. In fact, a sick part of me liked the red flags, believe it or not.
Red flags were an excuse to keep the men I liked at an arm’s length. It meant I could reject instead of being rejected; it meant that even if I were rejected, it would be okay because their red flags had prohibited me fully trusting them to begin with.
Now, burned by too much extroversion in the wrong places, I’ve retreated into my shell, like a frightened turtle. Writing is a safer outlet for my feelings, you could say.
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My sister, meanwhile, an “old maid” nurse who recently entered her thirties, has remained perpetually single for the past decade or so. She says she’s waiting, waiting for the kind of love that happens in Hollywood blockbusters.
Maybe she really does still believe in the preadolescent Disney version of true love. Or maybe, in some way, she has internalized our mom’s fantasy of never having had had kids or a husband.
My bachelor brother in his mid-thirties, meanwhile, is insisting that he is finally ready to settle down and that he’s found the right girl with whom to do that. Still, I have my doubts; I sometimes wonder if the relationship is more to please family and society than it is genuine.
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I am working on becoming the type of person that will make a great partner to another person.
Over the past few years, I’ve been learning to cook and bake and to do both fairly decently. I’m learning housekeeping and even plan to take up gardening shortly. When I meet men, I look for cues to evaluate character. I ponder red flags and determine deal breakers. At the same time, I lay in wait for a partner whom I deem acceptable, so that I may become his staunchest supporter and best friend.
Still, I often I feel an old anger surge inside of me, like a cresting wave. Anger at my family, at myself, at the men who remind me of all the reasons men piss me off.
I recognize this anger as a common characteristics of adults who resent their abusive or neglectful upbringing. I see how it poisons their current relationships.
So, I tend to my anger like a willful, frightened pet who is worthy of love despite its fangs. Perhaps facing my own emotions is the first step towards healing, towards an intimacy that lasts.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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