Unwelcome in your own home

For me, home has never been a place. It has been a feeling, a thought. More often than not, it structures itself into a mould of brick and mortar, and a house becomes a home.

 ***

Anyone that has ever been close to me knows that my relationship with my parents has been transactional at best. I know of a lot of people who are really, really close to their parents, and are their best friends. These people share everything about their lives with them, from when their report cards to their relationships to even their experiences with drugs, I know of quite a many friends who do share everything with them.

I could never bring myself to do this. Mainly ’cause whenever I did try, it ended badly for me. For example, my parents are teetotallers, and condemn drinking as an atrocious act- that is definitely out of the window. I told them about a relationship once, and they thought that she was the reason why I had become the person I am (an adult with a logical and functioning brain). Even as far back as early school, my parents never really showered their love- it was something that they simply didn’t consider. For them, they were always parents and not friends. I suppose this did manifest itself to a plethora of situations I find myself in today.

I’ve come to realise that my parents and I work best when I’m away. I left home to come to Uni mainly because things at home were getting volatile, and if I’d stayed another couple of months, the roof would have blown off (this is an anecdote I’ve told everyone). Thus, the distance, in addition to the fact that they sponsor every morsel I eat, became a very comfortable exercise for me, at least. My mother did mention that my father missed me in bits, but there was never any explicit statements regarding that.

Now that I’ve been at home for nearly two months, I realise, everyone misses only the good bits about each other (a quick realisation of that helped me massively while trying to get over my ex).  When it actually comes down to it, things are always the way they were- gritty and hurting.

I’m a very welcoming person- my parents aren’t. This causes a fair bit of friction, as I’d like to help my friends out whenever I can, but then, time and again, I’m reminded of the fact that I’m staying under their roof. There are rules to be followed, and I should be mindful of them. To which, I only had one rebuke:

When did we become ours and theirs?

Last I checked, I was still part of this family, right? I still had the common surname, and my DNA (hopefully) matched too. Then why the division?

I’ve been told that it shall pass. It’s been a good three years, and I’m still waiting.

Truth is, I am heavily dependant on them, and more specifically, their financial support. I will always thank them for everything that they’ve done for me, but after a point, their expectations of me to repay their obligation gets on my nerves.

It’s supposed to be this analytical, right? Right?!

***

I always thought family was more about selfless love, and going the extra step for someone, even though they may not necessarily do that for you (hello, ektarfa pyaar). You do that not because you expect the same in return, but because, these people have enriched your life in a different, more fulfilling manner.

Alas, I may have different ideas of home and family than most people. Would I change it if I could? Yes. I’d like to have a family with whom I could have lesser turmoil. I’d like to have a home that welcomes me at any hour. However, this is the way I’ve experienced it, and this is the way it shall be.