I really envy people who moved out early and somehow managed not only to survive, but even to thrive. I still have no idea how you can get started with your own life if it's not on your parents' terms, unless you just walk away empty-handed into homelessness, and probably into starvation or worse if you're not much more streetwise than me---which, admittedly, isn't saying much.
I don't even know if simply walking away would have granted me freedom---for the time it'd take me to starve to death or to be killed by someone, that is. With my Asperger's diagnosis, my history of always being considered mentally defective in some way or other since I was in kindergarten (basically, my parents have always ascribed anything they didn't like about me to my mental disorder, whatever that might be), and my whole life having always revolved around how to "cure" me, rather than giving me a chance to develop pursuing my true interests, like a normal person, I don't know how many legal resources they might have to stop me, arguing I'm insane and they have the moral responsibility not to let me act on my madness, for my own good.
screen_name wrote:
I'm not telling my kids what to do when they become of age. We are saving money for their futures, but I'm not pretending to know the best way for them to spend it. They are different people who will come of age in a different world than I did.
Well, since the money is yours, it's your inalienable right to tell them they're not having a cent of it unless they do exactly what you order them to, nothing more, nothing less, isn't it?
You can further justify it by maintaining that it'd be insulting to the wisdom you've earned with your life experience for them to think they know what's good for them better than you do, so, if they're going to be so disrespectful to you, and deem themselves so capable of doing well in life disregarding your views, they'd better just walk away and not ask anything from you ever again.
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The red lake has been forgotten. A dust devil stuns you long enough to shroud forever those last shards of wisdom. The breeze rocking this forlorn wasteland whispers in your ears, “Não resta mais que uma sombra”.