An expatriate Swede who grew up in Singapore, Daniel Seifert talks about the challenges of living home and the desire for freedom.
(It might not be much, but at least it's mine. Image courtesy of Daniel Seifert.)
There comes a certain point in every young man’s life when he realises that it’s time to leave home before he sues his parents for mental distress. For me, that point was a few months ago, when my father, for the third time in a week, barged into my room without knocking. It’s not like I was doing anything salacious at the time (I was clipping my toenails, if you must know), but a boy likes to have the option to, say, walk around naked if and when the desire springs. Or play his entire collection of Metallica records at full volume. Or, heaven forbid, not do the dishes for a couple of days – because he can.
Little acts of freedom like those above become difficult when you’re still living in Parentville, Population You. I found them all the worse because it wasn’t so long ago that I was basking in the blissful freedom of a graduate degree in the UK and post-uni gap year. Good times. Times when I could wander around in the same boxers for a week, and not feel the pressure to shave just because small animals were nesting in my hair.
I had my own list of Failure to Launch-related annoyances that set my teeth on edge as soon as I moved back home last year. Like how I would find myself sneaking in when I came home late, still in the paranoid mindset of a high-schooler who’s afraid he’ll get grounded. Ok, that’s my own neuroses talking, but it’s still not great for your sense of dignity.
Neither is having to constantly grapple and bicker over control of the remote. I was always halfway through a Lost episode when my mum wanted to switch over to a Diva Universal crapfest. Even if I won the argument, ten minutes and passed and I have no idea what’s occurred onscreen. But the worst Pyrrhic victory is when I have to watch something with my parents. Nary a minute goes by without a barrage of pointless questions: “Who’s he? Isn’t he married to that girl off The Nanny? I remember watching him in a film in…oh, 1976. Or was it ’77? It definitely wasn’t ’78 because I hadn’t met your father yet…” Episodes like this are why my hair is prematurely gray and I sometimes cry myself to sleep.
So moving out was a fairly easy decision. Living rent-free is great, but when it comes at the cost of being able to live the way you want, then hang the expense! That was my feeling, anyway – your parents may be more laid-back. So I found a room-mate (off Craigslist, and no, he’s not crazy) and the bare minimum of house-ware – mainly second-hand from notice boards and acquaintances with junk to spare and moved into a cosy (tiny) place in the East Coast. It might only be 350 square feet of space but it’s mine.
If you’re thinking about moving out yourself, I advise you to consider living with roomies too – maybe even more than one. I found it difficult enough to track down 2-bedroom flats, and once you get to 4- and 5-bedroom places your rent can really plummet while your living quality soars. As a matter of fact I’m thinking of doing that myself fairly soon. Here’s to moving out, moving up, moving on!
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