I try to talk about the actual events of my life and moving and whatnot and instead get distracted by more internal squish

Did I mention I moved?

I am now the owner and resident of The Greatest Condo Ever: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, huge, a block away from my old place so I'm still in my beloved neighborhood, and retained and restored vintage details with beautiful renovation. I've been sleeping here for a week. There are no blinds up on the windows yet because I have it in my head that I need a second person and NBF refuses to have anything to do with my moving or new place as he's having all kinds of fun issues with his own impending move and life direction so he is a puddle of useless. I bet I could hang the shades myself. I haven't even tried.


"The check is in the mail."
"I'm two blocks away."
People say and do that sort of thing all the time. It's not a big deal. I don't think it's a big deal. You come to expect it and factor it into the universe, whether you're the one saying it or others are saying it to you.
My parents equate it with murder. These things are lies and once someone lies you don't know where it ends or if you can trust that person blah blah blah.
Things are not that black and white. I have way more problems because I'm too honest and too forthright. White lies are not the end of the world. One of the reasons I write is as a confessional, to undo anything I might have slipped or exaggerated or fudged in real life. Did I say 10 minutes when I knew it was likely to be 20? Two blocks was really eight? Say this is the fifth time I've spoken to customer service when it's really only the third? I do it without thinking. It's not a big deal. It does not make me a bad person. Hell, I learned to lie to my parents at a very young age to protect myself. Make them happy, shut them up, get them off my back and then deal with whatever it is. Because shutting them up was always more important than dealing with the actual problem. My motivation was always the guilt and nagging, not the thing itself.
It's almost my 27th birthday and I'm just starting to recognize that I should make my house pretty because I would like a pretty house, not so my parents will be proud of me. I'm still having a very hard time working on the great battle between my desperate need for my parents to be proud of me and living as myself for myself making myself happy. I'm trying to learn to control the emotional muscles, like a psychological version of learning to wiggle your ears or raise one eyebrow. This is the positive I am doing while the weather changes every five minutes and my head keeps me half-blind and dizzy and in pain day after day. That's another thing I need to remember: I really am excused from being a fully functional adult. I am not faking it. Sometimes I feel like I must be faking it. Like I'm just taking advantage and lazing around all the time and doing nothing. Maybe I am taking advantage of my situation. But isn't that what I should do? Take advantage of the position I'm in because it's the position I'm in and for the love of Everyhing, it's not a fucking puzzle I just have to solve and I'm somehow being lazy and useless by not at least spending every minute physically possible solving the problem. I watch my parents doing everything all at once and feel like I should, too. Obligated, since I've benefited so much from their constant work, that I'm in debt to them and to the universe for this life I don't deserve and struggle to be the person who could somehow repay it when everything in me screams otherwise.
They have chosen their lives. They like their lives. I am a good person. It makes me cry to write "I am a good person," but I believe it. They are not always rational, reasonable, or right, even though they believe they are. They can support me on their terms, but I have to live on my own terms. I have to make my own decisions. They are just my parents. I am a grown-up. They, being my parents, may never see me or treat me like a grown-up, but they try. They were so good on Sunday.
Into the Wild.
There's a reason the children of upper-middle-class suburbia become drug addicts. When the past however many generations have expected upward mobility, but you are given the luxury of exploration around a strange rigid prescription for life and still the assumption that you will do at least as well as your parents, screaming "fuck this" and blowing as much of it away on heroin is a good way to obliterate the bubble.
I don't want to lose my life. I get frustrated as it is losing so much time in the migraines. But those, too, are not as bad as they were at one point. More drugs. More doctors. Who knows? Again, that nagging feeling I'm not doing enough, not fighting hard enough, not spending all of my energy all of the time.
Why?
Why is that the expectation? I have so many expectations for myself. Can't I just be a regular human being? Upward! Better! Faster! Stronger! Fix it! It all goes back to the nagging, the doing things to stop the yelling and the Voices (except my interior voices are so clearly me...). Instead of doing things for their own sake. Changing my way of thinking is important. It is good. I am doing it and I feel good about doing it. I deserve to feel good about doing it.