I’m totally o.k. with this.
At the end of the workday, and especially at the end of the workweek, I want nothing more than to come home and just be. I’ve been watching a lot of TV, reading a lot of books, spending a lot of time online–all these things that for so long I was told –in one way or another–were wrong, or wasting time, or stupid, or why don’t you help me, or I need you, or don’t do that, or I’m home now why don’t you pay attention to me, or why would you want to do that, or is there something wrong with you, or why do you want to stay home, or we always stay home, or, or, or…
So for so long, whenever I had any chance at all (back when I was with Mr. X), I would stay home alone, if I could–away from the expectations, away from the judging eyes. Somehow, though, there were always insinuations, or outright accusations that something was wrong with me for not wanting to spend my time in a different way. Did it ever occur to any of us that if the rest of my time hadn’t felt like a prison sentence, perhaps I would have felt like doing something other than hiding out at home any chance I got? Well, yeah, there’s that hindsight again.
And then in the months I stayed with my parents, I just didn’t have my own space, it wasn’t mine. I was very much living in someone else’s home, and though I did not have the claustrophobia of an abuser breathing down my neck, I didn’t have much elbow room to just be.
So now, I know I need this. I know I need not to pressure myself, and to socialize when I don’t feel up to it would be pressuring myself. I think I’ve pressured myself enough for ten lifetimes.
So I stay home. When Friday came this weekend, I felt a great sense of relief. No getting up and going to work for two days. No obligations. No have-to’s. No should’s. Just me and what I felt like doing.
And what I felt like doing was spending a lot of time at home, by myself, making up for lost time.