This wouldn't be so much of a problem if it wasn't happening every single day of the week.
As you all may or may not know, my family and I are currently in a hotel room waiting for housing (which will probably not happen, with the kind of misfortune we have.). As such, it is a full-sized suite with a kitchen island (stovetop and microwave, and sink) and a bathroom, and two king-sized beds. When we first got here, I was sleeping in one of them, and my stepfather was next to my mother in the other bed. Fine, right?
As of late though, he for some outlandish and galactic reason decided to completely take over my bed. Now before I go any further, let me explain to the clearest extent that he is not a bad person and does not regularly do this kind of thing. I know I've talked crap about him in the past but those were different times with different feelings, which I don't have anymore.
Anyhow, he has completely taken over my bed; he doesn't even bother to clear up one side once I get up to use the bathroom. I get up, relieve myself, and when I get back, he's taken up both sides. I've had to resort to making a palette on the floor, which is FLAT HARDWOOD.
One hundred percent, parallel-to-earth, unyielding and merciless flat hardwood underneath a 300-pound Autism patient with an inward-bent spine suffering from lower back pain if I bend the wrong way. That can not be good for my health at all.
I inquired about why he does this, and he claims to have the philosophy that since he paid for the room, everything in it belongs to him and is under his ownership. Including the beds.
That's fine and good and all, but there's a FIBER THIN LINE between owning property and yanking the rug out from under someone's feet. Yes, you do own the room, for the time begin, but NO, THE OTHER BED NEXT TO MY MOTHER'S IS NOT FOR YOU COMPLETELY!
I don't ask for much in this world. I do my part to help people out. I try my hardest to be a good person. I didn't even ask to be born onto this heaven-forsaken ball of garbage and yet I'm still expected to be content with all that happens to me. This is the part where I start fuming with rage, but then break down crying in frustration because there is no mortal entity behind the happenings whose skull I can turn inside-out for doing such an unnecessary thing.
I love my stepfather. I really do. The man taught me how to fish, literally, he educated me on how to protect myself on the street, heck, he didn't even have to let me into his rented house when I ran away from Gaston County to escape being a bullying victim/house servant to my evil uncle and aunt. But he did, and I love him for that; for God's Sake, he's not even my real father and I still love him!
But why?! Why my own bed?! Why do I have to break my back getting up from the cold floor in the morning? Why did it have to be me?! Why do I have such bad luck?!?! WHY DOES GOD HATE ME?!
Don't bother with the story of Job. I've heard it too many times to relate to it.
As you all may or may not know, my family and I are currently in a hotel room waiting for housing (which will probably not happen, with the kind of misfortune we have.). As such, it is a full-sized suite with a kitchen island (stovetop and microwave, and sink) and a bathroom, and two king-sized beds. When we first got here, I was sleeping in one of them, and my stepfather was next to my mother in the other bed. Fine, right?
As of late though, he for some outlandish and galactic reason decided to completely take over my bed. Now before I go any further, let me explain to the clearest extent that he is not a bad person and does not regularly do this kind of thing. I know I've talked crap about him in the past but those were different times with different feelings, which I don't have anymore.
Anyhow, he has completely taken over my bed; he doesn't even bother to clear up one side once I get up to use the bathroom. I get up, relieve myself, and when I get back, he's taken up both sides. I've had to resort to making a palette on the floor, which is FLAT HARDWOOD.
One hundred percent, parallel-to-earth, unyielding and merciless flat hardwood underneath a 300-pound Autism patient with an inward-bent spine suffering from lower back pain if I bend the wrong way. That can not be good for my health at all.
I inquired about why he does this, and he claims to have the philosophy that since he paid for the room, everything in it belongs to him and is under his ownership. Including the beds.
That's fine and good and all, but there's a FIBER THIN LINE between owning property and yanking the rug out from under someone's feet. Yes, you do own the room, for the time begin, but NO, THE OTHER BED NEXT TO MY MOTHER'S IS NOT FOR YOU COMPLETELY!
I don't ask for much in this world. I do my part to help people out. I try my hardest to be a good person. I didn't even ask to be born onto this heaven-forsaken ball of garbage and yet I'm still expected to be content with all that happens to me. This is the part where I start fuming with rage, but then break down crying in frustration because there is no mortal entity behind the happenings whose skull I can turn inside-out for doing such an unnecessary thing.
I love my stepfather. I really do. The man taught me how to fish, literally, he educated me on how to protect myself on the street, heck, he didn't even have to let me into his rented house when I ran away from Gaston County to escape being a bullying victim/house servant to my evil uncle and aunt. But he did, and I love him for that; for God's Sake, he's not even my real father and I still love him!
But why?! Why my own bed?! Why do I have to break my back getting up from the cold floor in the morning? Why did it have to be me?! Why do I have such bad luck?!?! WHY DOES GOD HATE ME?!
Don't bother with the story of Job. I've heard it too many times to relate to it.
