In today's installment of "insane conversations I had with my mother," we go over my latest attempts to empty out my room in my parents' house.
A while back I posted about just what I'm up against now that I'm trying to finally move out of my parents' house. A number of you rightly suggested that I need to get a u-haul and just take it all back to DC with me.
Why have I resisted?
Well, I've worked pretty darn hard to keep my current digs vaguely clutter-free. I don't want to clutter them up. I even went so far as to offer to give my sister the larger room so long as I could have the smaller one all to myself. At least that way I could have my own space. I would be able to go through my things without having to sort through other people's junk first.
A few of you alternatively suggested putting a lock on the door to keep my mom from hoarding it further. I really liked that idea. I had a conversation with her about this a few weeks back. I said that I needed the room to be mine; I didn't mention the lock, but the idea was in my head. Her reaction?
Mom: "Wait...you mean I can't keep anything in that room?"
Me: "No, mom. Nothing. Just my stuff. Sis's room is less than half the size of mine. There's no room for your stuff and mine. You have over 3200 square feet in that house. Can I have 100 of them for myself, at least for a little while?"
Mom: "Nothing? I can't put anything in that room?"
I gave up.
At that point I knew there was no way I could have my own space in that house. But the idea of perpetually being a guest frightened me. I was afraid that getting every shred of my personality out of that old room would cut the final thread between me and my family. And given that my parents immediately fill up any potential 'guest' rooms with junk, I will forever be staying in a hotel, I suspect.
Wait...we're talking about severing connections from a mother who has let clutter rule her life in every way possible, and a father whose mental health problems made my childhood a scary place I never want to go back to.
I'm suddenly very okay with the idea of moving everything out and staying in a hotel. I think.
My therapist suggested I pick a specific time to finally move out. I found out I have Monday off work for a holiday, so I called my mom.
Me: "Mom, I have a holiday this weekend. Can I come up Sunday and Monday and move out?"
Mom: "This weekend isn't good."
Me: "You don't need to be there. I have a key."
Mom: "I can't have guests this weekend." [Read: there isn't a single inch of floorspace in your bedroom and the bed is buried under two feet of junk.]
Me: I don't even need a place to sleep. I can stay in a hotel. I just need to get my stuff out of the house. I don't care what the place looks like. What's going on this weekend that's so much of a problem?"
Mom: "You can't come home this weekend. I'm not ready." [Read: it's going to take me over a week to clean a path so you could start to dig for the stuff that's yours.]
Me: "I'm going to need to clean out sometime."
Mom: "We can drive all of your stuff down to you." [Read: I don't want you digging through things here. You might try to take something or get rid of it.]
Me: "No. If I need a station wagon to fit it all, then it's too much stuff and some of it needs to go out."
Mom: "We'll talk about this later. You can't come home this weekend."
I have been downgraded to the status of a two-year-old. I apparently cannot do anything without being babysat, or having mommy do it for me.