I don’t like being at home. The food is truly awful, the house is always cold, the shower doesn’t work. I’m surrounded by crucifixes and “Virgin” Marys and a variety of saints and constant reminders of how totally and entirely out of sync with my entire family I am. I have to cede control of the laundry as my mother doesn’t really trust us with the washing, and I have to cope with the truly bizarre timing of meals here. I keep walking in on people praying. My clothes are all in my brother’s room because there is literally no space left in my bedroom and getting dressed takes so much more effort here. I have to face constant reminders of how disappointing my life is to my mother. And I don’t really like living with people anyway, so this 20-day visit is no fun.
Sometimes, though, I remember where I came from. My parents arrived home from their late night mass at about 10:15 pm tonight, and my dad found three different half pizzas in the freezer and a box of microwave chips and we sat around and ate, and my mother told stories about her grandchildren that I’d heard already, and my dad sang “The Rose of Mooncoin”, but assured us that this didn’t mean he was shouting for Kilkenny in the match and then started quoting tracts of Hamlet, while my mother told me about how one of the grandchildren’s handwriting is better than the handwriting of any other girl in the class and then my Dad moves onto TS Eliot, doing whole stretches of “The Waste Land” from memory and starts bemoaning Ezra Pound’s influence on Eliot and I remember that this is who I am and where I’m from and everything’s alright.
(The long and gushy post about moving out of Hall is still being written. It’ll come soon. But I only have 13 days to get this PhD finished.)