For most people, the time they move out of their family home is the watershed moment in their life, where they grow and mature and all that stuff. It's something on which they look back and say it was, at that stage of their life, the best decision they ever made.
So why, three months after making that decision myself, has it genuinely proved to be the absolute worst decision I ever made? Here I am in this disharmonious house, where people don't get along, they just co-exist; they don't consider anyone else's feelings, until they're told, Hey, out of line or whatever - and even then...
Not that I'm saying I want to still be in a small house as part of a family of five, noisy and crowded. I realise I should have held off and tried to make it work so that I could have lived alone. Had my own space, worked according to my own schedule. I really just don't like people enough to live with them every single day. I'm homesick for a family home that I cannot live in anymore; I'm frustrated and I'm angry all the time. I'm stressed because I have to depend on too many people, something I always had a rule about not doing...
I have to get out of this place. I have to follow up this writing opportunity I have with both hands, and grab it for all it's worth.
I can't stand this anymore.
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