On Apartments, Baggage, and Who I Am

I'm a little terrified, but that's all right. I got a phone call yesterday from the lady about the apartment. I'm going to meet with her on Monday when I get out of work.

Why am I terrified?

I'm not worried about living on my own. I'm not worried about being able to afford it. (Okay, maybe I am a little worried about that part.)

I'm terrified of telling my parents that I'm moving out. Somehow they'll turn it around and make it seem like I feel that they did something wrong. Like it's their “fault” that I'm moving out. Um... isn't this supposed to be a good thing? I'm an adult, and it's time to start living like one. They haven't really done anything wrong. (Now, anyway.)

But this is how it's always been with them. I have always been terrified to tell them about things in my life that seem “grown up.” Because, first of all, I'm pretty certain my grandmother still thinks I'm five years old. When she was over for Christmas dinner, she saw me take three of the dogs outside. I heard her say, “Oh it's so nice to see children taking care of the animals like that.”

Okay, what?!

I said, “Grandma. I'm not a child. By the time mom was my age, she HAD me. Was she a child then?”

And she does it all the time. I'm teaching a COLLEGE CLASS, and somehow that's “adorable.”

I collect Barbie dolls, and I might enjoy the occasional bank lollipop, but that doesn't mean that I'm a child. (It just means that I'm connected with my inner-one.)

And my mother feels the same way as my grandmother, I think. At least that's how I've always perceived it. When I was 11, I started hitting puberty. I was embarrassed of my hairy legs. So what did I do? I didn't go up to my mom and say, “Hey! Can you teach me how to shave my legs?” No... I just did it. I used my mom's razor and I did it. And when she confronted me about using her razor, I lied about it. For some reason, it was easier for me to hide the “adult” things and just pretend I was the child she wanted me to stay.

I was, more or less, embarrassed by every “milestone” that moved me closer to adulthood. I remember my mother saying, “Oh, we have a TEENAGER now,” with such seething contempt in her voice. I didn't want to be that. I didn't want to be something that caused anyone any discomfort. This ultimately worked against me because I wound up becoming full of all sorts of anger and anxiety. My dad called me “Katie Ka-BOOM” (like the character from Animaniacs). I resented that deeply.

I never went to her with relationship problems. Not even the stupid little teenager crap. I felt like I was a failure for not dating the boy I had a crush on in the 4^th grade. My mom liked him. His dad was a lawyer. Clearly, nothing else was good enough for me.

Instead, I “dated” (as much as a 15 year old dates) a boy that smoked, went to vo-tech, and bathed in Nautica cologne. It lasted a month.

Then my parents started fighting, and I rebelled. I dated someone they hated just because I knew they hated him. My mom put me in therapy.

So I dated a guy that they liked. And I stayed with him for far too long simply because they liked him. That was stupid.

I didn't even go away to college. College for me was basically glorified high school. Same with grad school. I have a Master's degree, and I still feel like a child every time I walk into my house. I can't bring myself to share a lot of the awesome stuff that's happening in my life... And that's just how it's always been. I've got so much going on for me, but I only tell my family some of it. They don't know who I am, and they never really have. The Lauren that exists in that house is not the Lauren that exists for the rest of the world.

I can count on one hand everyone that knows who I REALLY am. (And four of them are dogs.)

It's not really anybody's fault. I never felt like I had that great “family life.” I mean, it wasn't awful. I wasn't abused or anything. But I always felt more at “home” everywhere other than my house.

I'm hopeful that I'll have a better relationship with my family once I can really, truly deal with them on my own terms. They won't have the “as long as you live under our roof” thing to dangle over my head, and I'll be able to see them when I want to— not when I feel like I'm supposed to.