Chasing Amy-Lou

Ever since as far back as I can remember I’ve been fiercely independent; I moved out of home to go to University and briefly came back for a year after graduating, before finding the constant arguments with my brother and the incessant nagging of my mother all too much to bare. Since 2007 I have not needed the familiarity of the family home and have either house-shared or lived alone. Seven years, two cities, a surrendered career and countless jobs later, I find myself back where I started, and I can tell you, my feelings towards this co-habitation with my nearest and dearest have not changed. Not.one.single.bit.

Before I press on let me just say, if I wasn’t going away in September then this post would be a hell of a lot more depressing than it actually is. By now you’re probably aware that up until earlier this year I had a decent career as a Firefighter working for the Scottish Fire and Rescue Service in Glasgow. I did this for almost six years after failing to pursue a career in Journalism (which in hindsight I should’ve done, but we all know what a wonderful thing hindsight is, don’t we?). In 2013, following a trip to China I had a mini life-crisis and decided to quit my job and move back home in order to save money so I could go travelling….you know the rest.

Anyway, what you probably don’t know is just what it’s like to move back home after living independently for such a long time. Well, I can tell you, it’s pretty shit. There you go dear reader, moving back home to live with the parents, when you’re fast approaching 30 is pure and utter crap (no offence mum).

Don’t get me wrong, it has its good points and I’m not saying that while I lived in Glasgow I didn’t miss home and want to be back within a 30 mile radius of my family and friends but moving back to sharing a living space with people you haven’t lived with for over seven years; having to adapt to their habits; having to remember that ‘it’s not your house’; is really quite trying. And frustrating. Highly frustrating.

Ok, so I don’t pay rent (thanks mum) which is handy because if I estimate my annual income now, from the range of menial, boring jobs I’ve been holding down since returning to the mothership, then I’m earning a grand total of…fuck all! Haha, no, that’s not exactly true but I am pulling in roughly a third of what I was on before. Grim.

Occasionally, I get my food cooked and my washing done for me, but only occasionally, as being the total weirdo control freak that I am when it comes to food (look up ‘obsessed, long-suffering dieter’ in the dictionary and you’ll see my slightly chubby mug grinning right back at’cha), and having issues about anyone even touching my delicates before consulting me, makes it kind of difficult to allow this to happen on a regular basis.

I also have the comfort of being able to turn to my mum for a hug when I have a) man troubles, b) life troubles, c) man troubles, d) money troubles and e) did I mention man troubles?

That aside though, there’s nothing than can detract from those feelings of total self-loathing, sheer inconceivable loss of identity and the complete and utter, daunting realisation that in the action of moving back home you have somehow failed at life.

Where I was once this headstrong, independent woman (cue Destiny’s Child song) who didn’t mind leaving the house a tip because I knew I’d be the one to clean said tip up; who found sanity in being in control of my own bills and finances; who could whip up a curry in less than half an hour; who could decide when to come home after a night out and with whom; I’ve now found that I’ve regressed slightly and morphed into this monstrous, stroppy teenager who, when faced with not being able to do things MY WAY, throws a tantrum. NOT a good look for a 29 year old, I can tell you that for free.

I’ve also found that sleeping in a single bed in what once used to be my brother’s room is not only bloody uncomfortable but it’s also soul-destroying. Gone are the days when I’d be able to star fish across the vast space of a luxurious king-size, spread myself out, and roll over if one side of the mattress became a little lumpy. Now, if I even attempted to aggressively manoeuvre for a much needed stretch I’d be facepalming with the floor, a pair of straighteners eyeballing me at point blank range.

Sticking with the bedroom theme, moving back in with the parentals has other drawbacks too. Say, if by some devine stroke of luck, I happened to want to bring a male suitor back to the manor (which is highly unlikely seeing as a) chance would be a fine thing and b) I have an uncanny knack of being absolutely shit at relationships, unable to hold one down for any period of time…ever) then not only would it be very uncomfortable for him, sharing a single bed with my wobbly backside but it would be sooooo embarrassing if he, or I, or both of us happened to ‘bump into’ my mother, her fiance, or my brother which, in a three bed semi, isn’t very difficult. I’d also be running the risk of clattering headlong into that whole ‘meet the parents’ scenario – something nobody wants when they’re potentially at the beginning of a new relationship, or even just entertaining a one night stand. Awkward.

Now, you make think that by approaching the ripe (young) age of 30 that none of that would matter, it would be expected of me to want to have some fun, some space and some rules of my own: clearly I’d be able to respect my parents values and vice-versa. However, it never usually works like that. When I first moved back home I had the constant nagging: “where are you going?/who with?/what time will you be back?/do you want any tea?/what are you doing tonight?/where is your washing?/are you going to leave that there?/how long will you be with that?/could I just get in here to make?/will you just?…” NO MUM, I WON’T JUST…!

Yes, I appreciated it was difficult for both parties. And yes, I appreciated my mother was only doing and acting as any natural mother would, but there are boundaries, boundaries that became apparent after having ‘a talk’ with my mother approximately three months into my stint of being back home. It was tough, it was irritating and it was bloody annoying, but eventually, and finally (maybe slightly too late now as I leave for Australia in two months), we came to a mutual understanding that we had to let each other get on with our own lives as much as we could; no interfering, no nagging.

It may sound like I’m placing the blame for this difficulty in adjusting back into family life solely on my mother. I can assure you I’m not. We both had to get used to having each other around again. I had to get used to living with her fiance too. I also had to learn how to live with my youngest brother again, who was no longer a shy little twelve year-old but a strapping 19 year-old with teenage angst of his own.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that moving back home is bloody hard. Whatever the circumstances. I didn’t need to quit my job. I didn’t need to move home. I was doing quite well, plodding along, living a mediocre existence…. I chose to move home because I wanted to change my life, and I knew it wouldn’t be easy. There are however, plenty of twenty-somethings, there’s even plenty of thirty-somethings out there who are forced to move back in with their parents every single week.

Young people move back home for a number of different reasons, be it financial, emotional, cultural, medical, whatever. In 2012, YouGov carried out a survey on behalf of the Charity, Shelter, and in October of that year it was reported that 1.6million people aged 20-40 were still living with their parents; in May of 2012, the Office for National Statistics stated that 2.9million people aged 20-34 were still living with their parents (Source: BBC News. For full story click here).

This is a growing trend throughout the UK (and overseas, see this article from USA Today back in 2012) and it doesn’t appear to be getting any better. I suppose I should count myself lucky. I didn’t return to the family nest out of necessity, I did it because I wanted to so I should be more grateful than most out there, to my parents for accommodating me, if only for a short period of time.

Living with the parents at any age is trying, but all you can do is learn to compromise. I empty the bins when I remember. I change the toilet roll when it runs out. I buy milk (sometimes). I wash the dishes (providing most of them are mine). I will ask if anyone has clothes to launder when I’m about to bung a load in. I try to create my own space in a house that seems tinier than when I was 18. And, I’ll be respectful of the TV, recording all my programmes and viewing them at unsociable hours just so my mum can watch Coronation Street at its normal time (thank the Lord for Sky+).

I’ll soon be moving out but this time it’ll be so I can pursue my dream of travelling. There has been the odd occasion when I’ve really enjoyed being back in the old home, cosying up on the sofa for a family film-a-thon, but then I snap back to reality, give myself a shake and tell myself to get a grip; it’s not an episode of The Waltons, and yes, it really does still suck.