Joy ride

We’d had some wicked fights, more often than seldom.

One memorable fight happened soon after the boys and I moved into a 3-bedroom at the co-op. Moss was 15, Troll 17. I was feeling fairly positive lately because I had a solid plan to get out of debt. My idea was to rent the smaller bedroom to homestay students. I could earn $800-900 per month, less the cost of food. If I could get gals I could clear even more since they usually ate much less than guys.

But soon everything fell into pieces. The boys were digressing daily into a marijuana stupor. The apartment was a disastrous mess, especially the kitchen. They didn’t have jobs nor tried to get one. They weren’t going to school or college or even planning to. Sleeping past one was their norm. I couldn’t invite a student into this miasma.

Coming home late one Saturday night, I opened the door to wafts of the thick, skunky odour of pot smoke. Inside I find a houseful of their ‘friends’ playing music in the living room. A drum set is centre-stage. I was miffed.

I didn’t know most of them and I certainly hadn’t invited them. The look on my face was all they needed to realize that they had to clear out fast. I went to bed deciding to talk to the boys in the morning.

The talk did not turn out well. It was me ranting and saying the same old things over again – get jobs or go to school or get out. They both got pretty angry. They said they weren’t going anywhere because it was their home, too. My retort is I pay the rent, they should follow house rules and so on. I lost my temper when they called me a bourgois money-obsessed capitalist. I shouted my ultimatum that they should both move out, now.

With their 6-foot statures towering over me they said they weren’t going anywhere but that maybe I should. I started sobbing. I knew I was completely useless at following through. Not wanting to involve the police again, I felt trapped and hopeless. Troll suggests that I am having an anxiety attack. He’ll take me a clinic

We’re in the car. He’s convinced me that a drive will take the pressure off. He’s driving under his learners license. Anything I say he takes wrong. He’s angry. He’s driving recklessly. Steering towards cars then veering suddenly away. Now I am really scared.

I feign a breakdown which convinces him to drop me off at the hospital. He then drives away, illegally. I don’t check in but instead try to calm myself in the waiting room. An hour or so later I gather myself together and catch a Broadway bus. Can’t go home. Can’t keep bothering my sister. Nor my best friend with this non-stop drama.

To where from here go I?

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