Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Where it Began... Pt. 2

Quick Re-Cap -  I haven't written much lately because I've been in a funk.  Yesterday, I posted a back story on the funk by explaining that I'm going to pursue going to seminary after graduating this summer.

I don't ask for much.  I got a job at fifteen to help my parents.  I bought my own clothes, paid for my phone and helped them in whatever way possible.  I moved out of my parents house two months after turning nineteen to the big city of Charlotte into a one bedroom apartment.  I've struggled to support myself since I moved out almost four years ago.  I've never gone without, but I've lived a pretty lean life. 

Recently, my parents went under contract on a house.  The house was going to have four bedrooms for my parents and my youngest brother.  As I was figuring out the logistics of getting my Master's degree and the financial debt I'd be in, I began to stress a bit.  Being the overly independent woman that I am, asking for help is humiliating.  But, I've managed to live on my own for {nearly} four years and am still debt free.  Quite an accomplishment, right?  I'd have to "throw that away" to get my Master's.  For weeks, I debated asking my parents if I could move in with them when they moved into their house.

I'd joked around about the whole moving in with them thing.  I was having dinner with them one evening and wanted to make it more concrete.  With knots in my stomach, I struck up the courage to ask them.  The conversation went a little something like this... "So, I'm looking into getting my Master's degree after graduation.  It's going to cost a lot of money.  What do you think about me moving in when you move into your house?"  My mom, dead serious, asked me how much I paid in rent now.  I told her.  She said I could pay one dollar less.  For the next few hours, we argued about this. 

I went home irate.  My parents had to know how independent I am.  They had to know how much it took out of me to ask them if I could loose all of my independence and move back home after {nearly} four years of living under my own roof.  For them to tell me that they were unwilling to support this bold endeavour without a rent check from me hurt more than anything.

For a month, I didn't talk to them.  I didn't call.  I didn't text.  I ignored their calls.  I ignored their texts.  I was stepping out and making one of the boldest decisions in my life.  I wasn't asking them for money.  I was asking if they could allow me to have an extra bedroom in their grandiose house.  Four weeks into not talking to my parents, I began trying to figure out how we could move past this.  I woke up one Sunday to the most hurtful email from my mom, telling me how selfish I was to ask them and explaining how much they already do for me without appreciation from me.

Pinned ImageOne thing led to another, and we ended up "talking".  I yelled. I cried.  It could be said that we "fixed" everything.  While I am pouring my heart out to my mom, about a dream that I have for my life, a dream which she continually tells me will never happen, I was looking on twitter.  The dream that I had, the dream that I was defending, the dream that I was believing God to fulfill, had once again been shot down.  I couldn't tell my mom that once again I'd been passed up for this dream of mine.

Thus began the funk...  

Tomorrow, how deep the funk got...

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