I can finally breathe. I know that sounds awful. I know. But it’s true. It’s been… what, two months? And for the first time in my life, I can make a plan and not have it instantly blow up because someone fell, or needed a doctor, or just needed to be waited on hand and foot. My whole life was just… waiting. Waiting for her to wake up, waiting for her to eat, waiting for her to need me. It was all I ever did. I was her arms, her legs, her brain sometimes, honestly. And everyone would say how GOOD I was, what a saint, what a perfect son. Yeah, a perfect son stuck at home while my friends went to parties and got drunk and lived their lives. I missed EVERYTHING. I tried to go away for college, really I did. Got accepted, even got some scholarships. But then the calls started. “Who will help me?” “I’m all alone.” “What if something happens?” And I felt like a TOTAL piece of shit for even wanting to leave. So I stayed. Did some classes online, but mostly I was just… there. Making sure she was okay. Making sure she didn’t run out of anything. Making sure she wasn’t lonely. I cooked, I cleaned, I did all the grocery shopping. I bathed her, helped her dress, helped her to the toilet. I became her nurse, her maid, her social worker, her entertainment. And I hated it. I HATED it. Every single day was just more of the same. And I felt like the worst person on earth for feeling that way. Like, how could I hate helping my OWN mother? Now she’s gone. And I’m not saying I don’t miss her, because sometimes I do. But mostly… mostly I just feel FREE. I can go to a real campus. I can get a job that isn’t just caring for someone who can’t care for themselves. I can stay out late, or sleep in. I can eat whatever I want for dinner without someone complaining it’s not what they like. I can just… BE. I can just be ME. For the first time ever. And it feels amazing. And I’m so, so guilty for feeling amazing about it. But I don’t care. I honestly don’t care anymore if that makes me a bad person. I just want to live.