When I ended my relationship 5 months ago and chose to “temporarily” move back in with my parents, I complained that I was retreating deeper into my own hellish limbo and ever farther from the “real life” I’m supposed to be living. Well, I suppose that means I should be thankful for the healthy dose of the-shit-just-got-real I received just a couple days ago.
My father, on any given day, is playing one of, say, a dozen characters, and there is no warning signs for which version you’ll be dealing with: dancy-and-goofy-and-creepily-tickly Dean; long-winded-lecture-that-has-no-point Dean, sullen-and-wordless Dean. Frankly, none of them is pleasant. Or tolerable. Or vaguely mimicking normal human behavior. But when his manic-depressive tendencies take him on a downward trend and he’s had a few too many Budweisers and a very fickle blue moon hangs in the sky, you get irrationally irate Dean, and he is the worst. He is the version that screams with rage at my mother about such earth-shatteringly important topics as loading the dishwasher and overripe fruit. He is the version that shatters the glass fronts of the china cabinet and breaks the framed wedding photo of himself and his wife over his knee. He is the version that strangled me when I was 17.
This is the Dean that makes me wish I was adopted. I don’t want to believe I share any DNA with a man that psychotic.
Well, that Dean made an appearance Thursday. I knew I should have just gone for a walk when I could almost hear the spit flying out of his mouth as he yelled at my mom about nothing of significance, but I did not. I stayed in my bedroom, stupidly believing that if I just stayed quiet I would be left alone. Alas, I was horrifically wrong.
Dean came into my room to talk to me about the tires I was going to purchase for my car. And though I knew, I knew he was not going to be capable of an adult conversation, I did my best to stay calm and have a discussion with him. But every time I tried to answer one of his (increasingly aggressive and loud) questions, he’d bellow, “Shut the fuck up and answer my question!” I made the mistake of pointing out that one cannot at once shut up and answer; trying to use logic with Psycho Dean is NEVER wise. This lead to…ugliness. The fine points of what was said are irrelevant, but, basically, he screamed, while red as a wine stain and wild-eyed, that I am a bitch and a mooch and I will never become anything and I will not take responsibility for the pathetic excuse for a human I have become.
And then he said he didn’t care to have me around.
So I left.
And I am not going back.
I am now, for all intents and purposes, homeless.
OK, now, fear not: I am not sleeping in my car. I have been overwhelmed by the willingness of my friends and family (and my ex-boyfriend and his family, even) to take me in for a night, a week, or an extended period. I am clearly, clearly loved, really and truly loved by many, and I am crying just thinking about it. I have some extraordinary people in my life. As I type, I am sitting on a stool in my aunt and uncle’s kitchen, because before I could even ask for a place to crash, the bunk bed in my cousin’s room was offered to me. And I know I have shelter for at least two weeks, with many offers of couches and spare beds for the time following. So everything will be fine.
But GOD, I was kicked out of my HOUSE.
This, I believe, is what we call a shitty situation.
And it also feels very very real. Like the sort of “real life” you’d see on TV. Or read about in a women’s magazine. This is a whole new kinda limbo in that I seriously don’t belong anywhere, which makes me feel like it’s at least a legitimate form of limbo, which thus makes it more real. The more fucked up your life is, no matter how lost and aimless you are in the process, the more legitimate your existence. Life is hard, but at least I am legit. Like I have street cred or something.
Haha, just made a joke. In this midst of this clusterfuck that is my life, I am still laughing. Because even though this pretty much sucks, it could be worse. That’s called perspective. That’s called growth. I must be leaving limbo if I’m acting all adult.