Personal Space and the Lack Thereof

July 11, 2023

I haven't had a bedroom in two years. Some people might think this is silly, they've gone their whole lives without having a bedroom. But I didn't, so it's a new experience to me.

Let's start from the beginning.

Two years ago, I moved back in with my parents. Not an uncommon move, in America's current economic climate - I can't afford rent on top of my student loans (I can't afford anything on top of my student loans, really). So, in a bid to try and not end up homeless, I travelled 1,700 miles (2,736 kilometers) across the country to move back in with my parents.

My parents, from the time that I was fifteen, made it abundantly clear that they had plans for my bedroom when I moved out. Whether it was their intention or not, in my mind, I couldn't tell if I should expect that I would be kicked out once I finished college. So, after my final semester of college, I booked a plane ticket, packed all my things into two suitcases, and moved halfway across the continental US. And it went well! I moved in with some online friends, I got a job (which didn't pay much), learned to budget my money (what little of it I had), and got my feet under me.

So when our landlords decided to raise rent by $500, I couldn't really afford to stick around. So, I packed all of my things back up into a car, and drove the 1,700 miles back to my parent's home with my stepfather. (Don't get me wrong, it was a fun road trip, I just... didn't want to go back. I didn't feel welcome anymore.)

My parents had already gotten rid of my bedroom, which I had expected, so I had to move into my brother's bedroom. It wasn't a problem, I was really just happy to have a bed and a roof over my head at that point, but the two years that followed were some of the worst I've been through.

I've spent the last two years job hunting while working remotely for a company in the southern US, and nothing came of it. I slept poorly every night - I still am sleeping poorly - and a level of fatigue I've never known before follows me wherever I go. True, some of that can be attributed to getting COVID (twice, unfortunately) but there's something that's nagged at me more for the past few years than COVID alone.

I haven't had my own personal space in two years. My parents made it abundantly clear, when I moved back in, that the bedroom I am staying in is my brother's - despite the fact that he moved out two years ago - and that I am under no circumstances to make any changes. So every night, I fall asleep in my brother's bed, underneath my brother's Spiderman poster, surrounded by my brother's belongings. My own things are scattered here and there, but most of my personal possessions are boxed up in the shed, with nowhere to put them.

I can't relax. This space isn't my own, it doesn't feel safe - I'm on guard all the time, waiting for the next shoe to drop. I've all but given up on moving back out at this point, but I'm desparate for a space of my own. Some place I can relax, without worrying about the people around me. Some place I can decorate, make entirely mine. I never had that until I moved out - my parents were the ones who decided how my bedroom was decorated, not me - and now that I've had a taste of that freedom, I'm itching to go back.

I don't know if I'll ever have that again, so for now, I hang the one decoration I own on the wall across from my brother's bed, close my eyes, and pretend I'm home. Maybe, if I'm lucky, one day I won't have to pretend.