Everything’s going to be okay . . .
It’s easy to repeat these words to yourself over and over again in the hopes that things might finally stop being awful and start going your way; it’s a whole other ballgame when it comes to actually believing in this mantra.
Fellow readers, I am happy to say that I believe in these words, because things have finally changed for the better in my life. Things are finally going my way, after a long period of suffering. It took both a personal and physical effort on my part, as well as the fortuitous changing of circumstances that isn’t always in a person’s control, but now I am absolutely confident that everything really is going to be okay.
During the final two weeks of January, my mother and I not only found an apartment that we truly loved – brand new, 3 bedroom, 1 1/2 bath, wide-open floor plan, nice location – but we applied and we actually got it! After such a long period of apartment hunting, when the apartment vacancy rate is truly below 1% where I live, words cannot properly express the relief I felt when I learned that we actually had our own place to live, away from my grandmother’s house and from the grasps of my all-too-evil aunts.
My mother and I spent the final week of January moving our things into this new apartment, with help from my boyfriend as well as various family members. We were determined to be out of the house before the 1st, because we couldn’t afford to pay another month’s rent for my grandmother’s house on top of the rent & security deposit we had to put down for our new place.
The packing & purging of items itself wasn’t the most stressful part of that week, although it wasn’t entirely easy either. What I struggled with the most was having to collaborate with my family members whom volunteered to help us without expecting anything in return. Specifically, we had my older brother helping us, as well as – *groan* – my father. My brother and I have always butted heads, because the two of us think and perceive things very differently; he’s much more of an advocate for tough love, and has never truly grasped the ways in which my mind is wired differently than the typical person. I’ve stated numerous times that my brother would benefit from some sort of sensitivity training – it could really be useful, he works as a paramedic for Christ’s sake – but nobody I have shared this opinion with has ever fully agreed with me.
I won’t go into the entire history between myself and my father, but to sum up our situation briefly, he cheated on my mom for over a year before anyone actually found out about it, and I was 18 when we figured out what was happening and my mom actually kicked him out. What followed was an agonising process of my mother trying to get a simple separation agreement, which is typically a quick and painless process when one party isn’t being insanely difficult and dragging out the painful and expensive process for almost 2 years. They eventually were able to get divorced, but that only happened because my father wanted to get married to the woman he had cheated with. Even before my dad was kicked out of the house, the two of us hardly got along. He’s a gruff and stubborn man, and my mother often commented that we butted heads because the two of us have similar personalities, which I will begrudgingly admit is true. But he made my childhood entirely too miserable.
Side Note: I don’t want to make any false claims or imply anything that isn’t the complete truth, so I will state this clearly and for the record: My father never physically abused me, and that is not at all what I mean when I say that he made me miserable as a child.
The single instance I can remember (aside from being spanked when I was little – which I later learned that my mom had no knowledge of him doing, and which made her retroactively furious) is when my dad was picking me up and was driving a friend of mine home from high school. I remember making some sort of snide comment to my friend over my shoulder about my father’s driving and road rage, which she had just become witness to during the ride to her house, and my dad smacked me in the back of the head before yelling at me.
This memory is probably made more negative when you consider that a classmate of mine was witness to all of this, but when you consider that he was constantly either angry or downright miserable, I know that I’m probably fortunate that I was both born a girl and the youngest child of two, which probably helped me avoid any other memories of physical abuse. That isn’t to say that my dad hit my brother on any kind of regular basis, but I do have a few vague memories of my dad losing his temper with my brother and taking our his frustration on him.
I was fortunate that I didn’t have to communicate with my father during the first day that he was helping us, but I was forced to interact with him on the second day. At first the conversation was relatively harmless; he made some comment about the awful weather outside (my mom and I were gifted with the nastiest and coldest weather during our moving week) and I responded. If it were left at that then everything would have been fine, but then he started asking me about the state of my room and whether or not all of my things were packed – and of course he wasn’t speaking to me in a kind way, but in the exact same way he spoke to me growing up.
I’m telling you, hearing his voice and the tone he used brought me right back to when I was a child, sobbing on the floor of my bedroom because he was forcing me to clean up my room and he wasn’t allowing me to do so with the door closed so that he could keep an eye on me – I’ve always had a thing where if I’m doing any sort of big cleaning job I get really uncomfortable while doing it somewhere that I might be observed, even fleetingly, and that source of anxiety still exists to this day. He had zero compassion for my feelings as a child, and I hated that even though I had cast my father out of my life after everything he’d done to make my mother suffer, but just by talking to me he had me feeling as powerless and victimised as he did when I was a little girl.
I hated that we needed to accept my father’s help, but he was very helpful in getting a moving truck packed up to the brim and then helping to unload all of our boxes and furniture into the new place – he’s a skinny guy, but he’s like a machine when it comes to physical labour like that. The entire moving process was incredibly stressful, and having to endure the freezing cold temperatures while we loaded and unloaded cars didn’t make the process any easier.
But by the Thursday of that week, we had everything moved into the new apartment. And, sure, there were boxes everywhere, and even now there are still boxes waiting to be unpacked, but now that we’re out of my grandmother’s house, we’re not facing any sort of looming timeline, so we can take our time and not feel pressured to get the apartment looking 100% perfect as quickly as possible.
I suppose I have a decent-enough excuse for being inactive on the blog lately, wouldn’t you say? XD But I do have a few other posts planned that I’m hoping to share with you soon. And I’ll do my best on keeping you all updated. Once I have my room completely set up, there are so many projects that I’m hoping to start working on, and I’m sure that excitement will help motivate me to make that goal a reality.
I want to quickly thank all of you who have been following my blog and liking my posts lately, I really appreciate it 🙂 Feel free to leave a comment if there’s ever anything you want to ask me or tell me, I’m an open book. But please don’t forget that this is a safe space, and I want anyone commenting on my blog to be kind and respectful.