I just asked Claudius to help me build my own apartment inside the house.
I thought about the things that matter to me about being downstairs. The only thing I can’t really do upstairs is cook. If I take my birthday gift now, in the form of my own DVR and flat-screen television (which were offered at Christmas! It isn’t as if I’m asking for diamonds!) then we don’t need to fight over who watches what. If I have somewhere not my bed to hang out, I don’t have to care whether he has his politics blaring. Bonus: I’ll be able to control the lighting, which comes in handy on days when I’m having sick headaches.
This means we must begin to clear out the back bedroom, and I’ll have to cede either it or my own bed to my aunt in the summer when she visits (likely my bed, because if I had that back bedroom as my living space then I’d only be venturing into my bedroom in order to sleep and dress).
The only other thing we’d need is a futon, and if it costs little enough, I can pay for it myself, especially once my refund comes through. Thank God I’m going to school on the cheap. Forget the pretties: paint, drapes, carpeting. Forget all of the details and look at the bigger picture. I need space. So does he. We can’t share more than a kitchen without wanting to kill each other.
If the solution sounds radical, bear in mind that the state of our relationship is so degraded that I have chosen to nickname my father after the murderous Danish king in Hamlet. Fuck’s sake, it can’t get much worse.