Elle Vampa

Of all the things I’m ashamed of about myself, living with my parents scores highest on my loser-list.

Especially because I strongly believe in the illusion that the second I move out (if ever that day comes) I lose my loserness.

(Go read that twice, hah!)

Naturally, I understand other failures will then claw their way up to the surface of my attention. But for now, everything else I keep in my loser-collection is being overshadowed by this.

The most painful thing about this is when I face ghosts from my past who ask me all kinds of silly questions such as “How have you been doing?”, and: “Do you still live around here?”

I try to ignore my shame by not lying, but my reward is a never failing look of pity and misunderstanding on my conversation partner’s face.

And I can’t blame them.

What follows is usually an incredibly toe-crunchingly awkward explanation as to why I ceased to move out.

Which is funny, because up until I started this blog and made my shame-list I never really thought about it. I merely assumed I was born to be a loser. A coddled one, but a loser.

(The only difference between me and the stereotypical adult-living-with-their-parents being I don’t inhabit the basement. Purely for the fact we don’t have one, really.)

But what if… it’s not ALL my own fault?

Most people move out when they go to college. Not me.

For one, my country is small. Moving out was not necessary at the time. I could just hop on a train or borrow my mother’s car to get to class.

Second, I’d developed a depression during high school. One that lasted for well into my university years, increasing its power over me by every breath I took. It made me believe I was worthless and should stop living – I’d even “made plans”.

This was the worst mental state I’ve ever been in, and I don’t want to think about what might have happened if I had lived alone.

Third, after I got better, my mother got sick. C-sick.

I’d just finished college and in an attempt to travel, I’d quit my job. So, I thought it was only natural I’d stay home and take care of my mom.

When she’d recovered, we were in an international crisis, I had run out of money, and nobody wanted to hire me for a decent job. I went from petty job to petty job, doing some saving and travelling in between, trying to break this new cycle yet – duh! – failing miserably.

So is it my fault I still live with my parents?

The answer is yes. I could have made different life choices and be out on my own.

Or dead. Or even more ashamed of myself for running away instead of taking care of someone dear. Or heavily deprived of travel-experiences (HELLO! I did hold a panda! A dream come true, thankyouverymuch).

I made choices that were good for me, my family, and my heart.

And they all lead me home.

(Unfortunately?)