I’m 21. I’ve lived outside my familiar home in another country without knowing anyone else for around nine or ten months. While it’s true that I returned to my home and am still living with my parents who pay school and food and every one of my little creature comforts, I hate being treated as a child.
Sometimes I wonder if I am behaving that way, but all I can say is that there’s no needle stuck in my arm, or some abortion weighting in my conscience. I go out at half past five in the morning, while it’s still dark, to go to school, which is on the other side of the city, and then go to do my social service, and come back home to eat something and fall almost immediatly asleep at around 10 p.m. Repeat ad nauseaum from monday to friday.
All I ask is some time for myself. I don’t even care if I’m too tired, there are two things I can’t give up: reading a little bit, and my boyfriend.
Once again, I don’t give a F*CK if my parents don’t approve our relationship, it’s me, not them, who’ll have to deal with every consequence, good or otherwise. It’s a pity if they cannot see beyond their very cultured noses, but I am really happy.