Living at Grandma’s house was the first time I had ever lived alone.
No roommates. No companion. No spouse.
Just me and my thoughts—who were not supervised.

It was Diana’s house—which my brothers immediately renamed Griana’s House, because they cannot see a perfectly good naming opportunity and let it go to waste.
It felt right. It stuck.

Living alone was liberating.
Also mildly undomesticated.

I could skip dusting if I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t make my bed every morning. I could leave clean laundry in the basket all week like a museum exhibit. Early Blue Era. Please do not touch. Dinner was often something I ate standing over the sink, but if I did use dishes, I didn’t have to wash them immediately. And no one had opinions about it—because no one else was there.

Except my mother.
On Thursdays.
When she came to do hair.
Like a beautifully dressed boundary violation.

While perms processed and color set, she would occasionally wander upstairs and quietly… tidy.
She was bored. She meant well. She genuinely did not think she was doing anything wrong.

I, however, had unresolved boundary trauma and would come home to find my things rearranged and feel a very specific, irrational rage. I tamped it down, reminding myself this was part of the rent—minimal cash, paid partially in emotional tolerance and deep breathing.

Living alone was also lonely.
And being miserably sick while living alone was a whole different personality test.

I believe deeply in the healing power of a scalding hot bath. This belief is not supported by science, but I am committed to it. Emotional exhaustion, physical misery, existential despair—boil yourself like pasta and reassess afterward. Stressful periods in my life tend to coincide with fingers so pruned they have more tread than my tires.

So one June night, sick with a summer cold, I went to draw a bath.
And that’s when I saw it.

Something… moving.
In my tub.

I leaned in, bracing for a spider. A beetle. Maybe a moth with poor navigation skills.

What my brain eventually processed was: CENTIPEDE.
In all caps. With sirens.

Every internal alarm went off at once.

RUN.

I made it halfway down the hall before realizing that if I ran, it might escape.
Then it would be elsewhere in the house.
Loose.
Free.
Possibly multiplying.
Possibly plotting.

There could be a whole centipede army waiting for me while I was ill and emotionally fragile. I briefly considered arson.

“No,” I told myself. “One thing at a time.”

I went back in, armed with toilet paper—because I am brave, but not face your foe bare-handed brave.

It moved. Fast.

I retreated. Regrouped. Struck again.
Contact. Squish. Victory—

No.

It crawled out, mangled but alive, which felt excessive. Sir. Please respect the rules of combat and die.

I escalated. Flip-flop at the ready.

“No mercy,” I yelled, bringing it down like a woman with nothing left to lose.

It took several strikes, and a prayer to whatever god oversees bathroom warfare, but eventually—it died.

I disposed of the body with a ceremonial flush, cleaned the tub, and attempted to bathe while trying not to imagine its relatives planning revenge, sharpening knives, and telling stories about me.

I slept terribly.

The next morning, still sick, I ran for the bathroom and didn’t quite make it. I threw up on the floor.

And here is the thing about living alone—no one tells you this part.

There is no one to pry you off the floor.
No one to help.
No one to clean it up for you.

Even though the room was spinning and I was pretty sure I’d vomit again, I had to find gloves, cleaning supplies, and willpower—and deal with it myself.

That was the moment I truly understood what living alone meant.

Freedom.
Privacy.
And absolutely no backup.

Except… that wasn’t entirely true.

I lived alone, but I wasn’t alone-alone.

My family provided for my needs.

They provided shelter: I was living in Grandma’s house for a song. And Dad even took care of the yard—probably because he knew I would kill everything left to my own devices, including plants that wanted to live.

They provided food: Dad and I had a standing date on the first Sunday of every month—Fast and Testimony Sunday—when Mom wouldn’t eat breakfast. Dad, trying to be supportive, wouldn’t eat in front of her. Instead, he’d pick me up and we’d go to Cracker Barrel for coffee and French toast.

And almost every Saturday, Alan, Jason, and I gathered at my parents’ house for lunch.

Jason still demanded I come over to be fed regularly and sent me home with leftovers.
I got sent home with a lot of leftovers. They all knew I was a terrible cook.

Sometimes I would try to cook, but accidentally swap garlic powder for garlic salt… and eat it anyway. I do not recommend garlic salt toast. Don’t try it. It tastes like regret.

Once Mom sent me home with chocolate cake. Dad asked if I had milk to go with it.

I didn’t. Of course I didn’t.

So, he grabbed a freshly washed mason jar, filled it with milk, and sent me on my way.

When I returned the jar later, I asked Dad what had been in it before.

He looked at me quizzically.

“I think… beets,” I said.

The essence of beets had infused the milk and created a beverage that should not exist.

“WHAT?! Did you drink it?” he asked, horrified.

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “It tasted… like beet milk.”

He laughed so hard he cried and had to grab the counter to keep from falling down. He has cried many times upon being reminded of the incident. It was traumatic for him, and he didn’t even have to drink it.

My family provided the feeling of belonging.

So, I wasn’t alone. I just lived alone—supported by my family, loved by my cats, and constantly monitored by insects.