the final countdown

It is official.

I am the last of my friends, of my peers and of everyone I know (well the latter may be somewhat, overly dramatic) that is still living at home. I am that girl. That loser child, friend and passerby on the streets who is still residing with her parents. I am the last remaining species of this now purposely extinct breed and I now wear the crown for this God awful title and it is an appellation I need to shake right off.

Somehow.

And though it hasn’t been a sudden, sporadic thing, it has been a gradual process of painfully watching from the sidelines as those around me stood up and exited the comfort of their parents nests and set on to making their very own. From the moment I left high school my peers and playground buddies have all ventured into the property markets, slowly. Hell, even the kids I grew up with down my street have all moved on. My brother included. Even the younger ones, younger than my brother even have also long gone. Shit, my cousin right this instant is telling me how she’s planning on moving out at the end of September and she’s just turned 18!

903ba250b99e7036742a78ca9dd28d55
Image via Pinterest

I guess since I had another friend still calling her parents home, home, it was semi ok. Acceptable even because I had a comrade who happened to be facing the same fate as I so I could deal with this slightly. Share the title even. However just the other week she announced she was moving out. And again that was no surprise considering she’d been talking about truly moving out now that she had a secure job and had set herself a deadline for June.

But last night I got an evite from her for a house-warming for the end of this month.

I couldn’t believe it. And though I was thrilled for her it still hit me like a freaking freight train! I felt everything restrict, contract and tighten within me. That invite officially sealed my fate. It made me that ‘loser’, that older twenty something that we used to poke fun at when we were teens. When we promised ourselves, made pacts that we’d be out of that house before we even hit twenty years old. Yet, here I am, now one of those ‘losers’ who still lives at home well past what we considered to be of an acceptable age. Something I tried ever so hard to avoid. Urgh. I was in a blissful state of denial before I got that invitation and I kind of want my precious state of dissent back so I can stop feeling like this. And at the same time I don’t want to accept it either. I feel such a strong surge to change this somehow, yet short of winning the lottery I can’t see how. My financial record practically bars me from mortgages and rental properties for the next seven years so I can’t help but feel so handicapped in this situation. And now that noose tightens and coils around me like a putrid snake and once again that train feels like it is closer to finally departing, and departing for good this time. Leaving me behind on this barren platform, completely abandoned while I watch on as my peers and friends move on with their life’s journey and I crumble to the ground and play with my shoe laces.

Love,

xxx

 

Advertisements

One thought on “the final countdown

  1. Awe, I feel for you… this time that you have to live like this won’t last forever… things change. Here I am telling you this when I should listen to my own advice… Only mine is of my own making… yours is financial. I do however believe your circumstances will change and you will have your own place… If it was me, I would work two jobs to get out quicker, I hope your week is much better, thank you for your honesty, it’s raw and real… nothing fake :/

thoughts? secrets? leave them here

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s