Until my mom went into the hospital in July, I lived with her. I know, I know, a 35 year old woman living with her mom doesn’t sound great, but we split bills and it worked for us. I had lived with roommates before and briefly considered living by myself after grad school, but decided against it for financial reasons. As time passed, however, I realized that I did not want to live alone because I was concerned about how my mental health would fare. I didn’t want to live with strangers again, so I stayed with my mom. It worked out for both of us; she gave me the privacy and freedom I needed while ensuring that I didn’t live alone and I helped her as much as I could.
A couple of weeks after she was admitted and it became clear that she would not be coming back home even when she was discharged, I realized that I was essentially living alone for the first time in my adult life. While I was still in our old place, it was easy to pretend that it was only a matter of time before Mom came back home, but when I moved to my current apartment, I had to face the fact that I really was living alone now. It was easy to deal with that when Mom was alive but it has become substantially harder to cope since she died. Sure, I have the dogs and they do bring me a lot of comfort, but our conversations are one sided.
Each weekend since Mom died has been mostly lonely, with me rarely, if ever, leaving the apartment or at least the complex. Maybe it will be easier once religious school comes back after spring break, but I just can’t muster up the energy or desire to get out.
The desire will happen in its own time. Deep breaths, and no worries about it. Love and hugs.