For all the time I've spent fantasizing about this day coming to fruition, why is it now that it presents itself in a problematic manner? I have longed for the day I could bid this place farewell, yet somehow I feel the weight of responsibility I no longer have tethered to me, wrapping itself around my legs and dragging me back into this shit-show of a house. I've dreamt about leaving this place since the ripe age of sixteen, but as with most decisions I've made in my life, the guilt of my selfishness has come to drown me, amongst the sorrow and trauma that still hold this 'home' significant to my life. Although, looking back, I don't believe every memory here is inherently bad.

I can recollect rushing in after school, dying to eat my parents cooking, then being able to engage in play afterwards; I used to relish the thought of weekends and being able to do whatever I wanted. That all ended soon enough, though. The emphasis of 'responsibility' parents embed within the eldest sibling is viewed to them as imperative in order for them to 'get by'. It's mesmerising how they thought they were doing me a favour, and yet here I am, twenty-two years later, finally left all on my own, all my siblings grown and entering successful careers, despite the loss of their parents. I dont regret caring for them, however, I do regret not making a life and name for myself, for even now, I am limited as to what I can do, without bearing the weight of the guilt that enevlops me for leaving my 'successful' family, to fend for themselves...