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My whole life, I wanted my own room. I grew up in a huge, red brick house in the suburbs of [city]. I shared a big room with my little sister for a long time, and I never stopped begging for the guest room on the first floor. I remembered imagining a pink canopy bed and pink walls and little butterfly stickers on the wall. I wanted a pink bedspread and a little table in the middle of the room where I could do my crafts. And then nobody could barge in crying, and nobody could come annoy me, and nobody could just walk into my space whenever they felt like it, because it was also their space.
Before moving to [across the country], I shared a room with both of my sisters in the [extended stay] close to our house. My parents and my older brother shared a room, and me and my sisters had the room across the hall. It felt like living in a hotel—every morning there was breakfast at the bottom floor, every night there was dinner there too. I would watch depressing news in the common room next to the kitchen area, where a few of my fellow extended stay-er’s would furiously type on their computers. Somehow, I never minded living there. It never felt cheap, and it never felt too closed in.
When I moved to [city across the country] to live with my grandparents, I shared a room. When we first moved in, I shared one queen sized bed with my little sister. The room was barely big enough to fit the bed with my squat wooden dresser and a deep brown hanging shelf on the other side of the room. This arrangement didn’t last long—soon enough me and my family got the bunk beds I had grown up with out of storage, and I was back with my normal arrangement again. I had always wanted my older sister’s room—a queen sized bed to myself, my own closet, a room where I could sit and cry and nobody would bother me. So often while living there I would sit up at 1 AM and walk outside my room to cry, sitting at the little hallway. Sometimes I would even dare to go to the rickety wooden balcony which my grandparents warned me to never step foot on. I would jump at every creak until I convinced myself I didn’t want to die, and I would careful pad my way inside again like I was treading on thin ice.
Then me and my family moved again to [another city, close to the last one]. For two long, long years my family lived in a 2-bedroom apartment that was far too small for our personalities and our things. By then my older brother had gone off to college, but came back because of a concussion. So I lived in a room with 3 other siblings—A bunk bed against one wall, another one against the other. My bed was too small for me, and certainly wasn’t designed to hold a 14 year-old girl. There was barely enough room to fit me and my older sister’s two dressers. In summer, we would all swelter in the heat, our AC set to 74 and the temperature ranging from 78 to 90. There were nails sticking out of the carpet, the caulking in the shower would get moldy no matter how many times the apartment managers “fixed” it. The temperature would make my nose stuffy to the point of panic attacks. I would complain bitterly, but my dad just hadn’t found it in himself to give us the chance to move out. I felt greasy and tired and poor. Most of the time, I was all three.
I would dream of a big attic room back in [where I was born] with round windows and a deeply slanted roof—I dreamt of deep wood flooring and a tall, golden, intricate mirror sitting on the floor. There would be a handmade tapestry above my bed and I’d have a renaissance-style painting on my ceiling of clouds and sunsets and two hands reaching toward another. I’d paint the walls a pale orange-yellow, and I’d have plants everywhere, and I’d have my big easel with all my paints and brushes in the corner. There would be a little balcony I could sit on the floor of whenever I needed to cry and look at the sky above me. The world would feel like a Studio Ghibli movie. It didn’t have to be big and grand, and I would buy all the new furniture at the thrift store. It just had to be mine.
That dream never came to be, and I don’t think it ever will. I don’t have enough imagination left in me to see it through—I wasted it all on dreams I knew would never, ever come to exist in real world.
Finally, after 2 years of 'we’ll move by next month's and 'it’s not that bad's , my parents told the apartment complex we’d move out. By then I had only 2 years of high school left, and I was practically never able to invite a friend over to my place. I always imagined that in high school I’d have study sleepovers, where I’d invite all my friends to my house and I’d blast music and we’d never actually study. All I got was sweat, and my sisters screaming at each other in their own temperature-induced rages. I got my brother pounding boom-boom-boom-boom on a locked door, and my sister threatening my life if I’d open it.
My mom would try and convince me it was normal. “Boys don’t mature as fast as girls do,” she’d say. “I grew up on a dirt floor,” she’d bite. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll bring out the belt!” she’d roar.
All I wanted was a beautiful life. I don’t think I’ll ever forget to deep feeling of dread I carried then, a little voice that kept hissing in my ear: you’ll never get out of this place.
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We are not entitled to anything, growing up poor is common. Work hard, don't have children and strive for a dream home. Best.
ReplyA lot of us grow up in a poor environment, or someone "not rich" (not rich, not poor) which is why adults should not have children unless-- in my opinion at least-- at least, I repeat-- more than $10,000 to spare each year for your child for classes, and at least live in a big house with privacy.
I may not have it worse than you (I am an only child) but I get it. We all want our privacy. I've always wanted a fancy bed, fancy bedside table, to remodel my room, etc. etc. Though I have it better than you I can kind of understand.
Work hard and have a nice day. Don't have children unless you are actually rich enough--.
I can't really comfort people, but some of us are just not entitled to live in a rich environment, so work hard to strive for a better future.
Reply