I’m having difficulty coping with living in a basement apartment. It’s not as though it’s new to me. I’ve been living in this humble abode for almost a year now, and before that it was another dungeon for almost a year.
This renewed dedication to being a basement-dweller isn’t really by choice. After university days, I thought I was through with basements forever. I thought, hooray for me, it’s onward and upward from here, literally. But we don’t always get what we want, what we think we deserve, what we think time owes us. I’m not allowed to rule out living in someone’s basement for the simple fact that housing costs are ridiculous and my wage is barely enough to live on. So here I sit. My sanity grasping at straws, my patience wearing really, really thin.
It’s so frustrating. I know I may have sensory issues (thanks to self-diagnosing on the web, yay!), and I know that the people living above me are not doing anything unreasonable. But I live here too, I pay money to live here too, I pay them to live here too, and I think that means that I shouldn’t be expected to just tolerate constant overhead noise on a bloody hardwood floor. Why do people who rent their basements think it’s okay to have hardwood floors? Not to mention, they have a whole bloody house to be annoying in, why do they have to do it directly above my little bachelor suite?
I’m especially perturbed these days, as it would seem that their little bundle of joy just received a gift for his first birthday. Sounds like one of these fucking things:
So what’s an anxiety-ridden introvert to do?
I’m so tired of just coping.