Living at home

Yesterday, after four days, I already disliked living at home.

A big part of it is because I feel like I have no freedom at home. When was the last time you shouted, "Hey Mom, I'm going out, I'll be back by ten!" as you left your apartment in Berkeley? Exactly--never. Well, sometimes, I would say that to my roommate. But she never called incessantly at 10:01pm asking where I was.

Another thing I discovered yesterday, is that my mother and I don't know how to apologize to each other. Over winter break, we argued about whether I should do a Master's program in some sort of biology, or apply to Pre-Health Professions Certification Program. She wanted me to do the former, but I chose the latter. The argument ended with me retreating to my room, stubbornly refusing to appear at family mealtimes. The next day, she wordlessly came into my room with a black shoulder bag, as a peace offering. This is how I know that we reached a truce. Yesterday, we argued about my freedom, or lack thereof. It also ended with me retreating to my room (the guest room, actually), and ignoring her for the night. When she dropped me off at the BART for The Hospital today, she mentioned offhandedly that there was a watermelon in the fridge. My way of reaching a truce was doing the dishes, laundry, and cutting up the watermelon for her when I got home after my shift.

I can't remember the last time my mom and I said sorry to one another.

My mom and I substitute acts of service and offering gifts for saying hard words. I suppose this is why my two strongest love languages are just that--acts of service and gifts. It's been hardwired into my system that when I've done something that disagreed with someone, I can make up for it with a peace offering. Sometimes, this is a good thing. But when it's all the time, something is missing. I hope this is something that this is something I can change over the next year of living under my parents' roof.

Even as I write this, I realize how childlike I can behave. My parents show me so much grace--even after we argue in the car on the way to somewhere, they'll put a $20 bill in my hand as I open the door to leave. Perhaps I dislike living at home is because I see how undeserving I am of all of the support my parents give me, and how I really couldn't survive a day without them.