Lately has been disgustingly claustrophobic– in the one room in the big house grandma keeps building rooms in, this is the only space I can stay comfortable in, and it has a draft. Venturing out means repeating the same conversation with grandpa every time he sees me (“Have you eaten yet?” “Yes grandpa,” even when it’s four in the afternoon), means tense silences with grandma or her criticisms at my disrespect (because she doesn’t know where I got my mind from, a mind to disobey, when she’s long-since schooled her son to be silent and stoic and just this side of slow). It means going to mother’s room and having fun joking around for a couple of hours then being disappointed at because I had left something in the room and she didn’t like me intruding on her space (she’s only got the one room, also).
I have a space, cramped with stuff and used from corner to corner, but I can breathe in it. It’s just that sometimes, it got a bit cold, that’s all.