Billy O’Reily and I are not friends. We do not converse on a regular basis nor do we agree on certain political issues. Yet daily, at 8:00 p.m. he appears in my living room and his raspy assertive voice can be heard throughout the house. There is nothing I can do about it. My father, after all, is a Fox News junky and I …. live at home.

After living in Boston, MA for a few years, I moved back to Buffalo (don’t we all?) to “find myself.” But what I found was that it was incredibly hard to find a job and I was forced to live at home with my mother and father. While this scenario may seem to be the perfect situation, it is not and I am sure that many other twenty something individuals who share a pad with their parents can feel my pain. What made it even more complicated was that fact that I knew I was going to have to tell them that I was gay.

I was home for less than a month before the words came flying out of my mouth in blur of words that seemed to be tied to one another at the ends. My mother cried. My father said nothing. But being that I come from a loving home, thankfully, they accepted the news as best as they could. This almost made things easier for a while because neither of them asked me about my personal life nor care about where I went. My father and I managed to find some common ground being that he is a born again conservative and I, well to be honest, have no political affiliation or awareness whatsoever. My mother eventually stopped crying, read a book I had given her entitled, “Mother’s of Different Daughters,” and stopped bugging me about getting married. Things became comfortable and I settled in. Now, I am trying to find a way to settle out.

Chores. Yes, that’s rights, chores. As part of living at home, there exists an unwritten rule that states when to take out the garbage, help clean the house, empty the dishwasher and so on and so forth. Needless to say, I’m not all that good at doing chores. Arguments that arose between my parents and I when I was fifteen are the same ones that I have with them now at twenty-six. It’s dejavu to the fullest. Only this time, I am constantly reminded not of the fact that I am obligated to do chores because I am an adolescent living under my parent’s roof, but I am an adult, living rent free, under my parent’s roof.

I am required to call home if I am going to be late for dinner or out for the evening. I am required to let my parents know the who’s, the when’s and the where’s of what I am doing on the weekends or if I happen to venture out during the week. What makes this incredibly hard sometimes is the fact that I am gay. I realized soon after I moved home that I was going to have to tell my parents. Hiding from them while in Boston was easy because there were 500 miles between us. Now, the space has been limited to feet.

I love my parents, don’t get me wrong, but after living on my own for a few years, it is that much harder to be under their roof again. Living in the bedroom I grew up in as the girl I was in the past and not the woman (hear me roar) I am today doesn’t feel right. I want to be on my own again, in my own space, in my own mess, to come and go as I please, to clean when I feel the need and not when I’m told and to eat whatever I want, whenever I want.

Now that the motivation is there, I think that it is time for me to move on from the parent’s house. Yes, not having to pay for rent or food or utilities is a truly wonderful thing. But the thought of having my own personal space and freedom is worth it.

Weekly Groceries = $60
Rent = $400
Utilities = $100
Not having Bill O’Reilly making regular appearances in my living room = Priceless.

Anyone in need of a roommate?