My space v/s Our space?

Arnav's post this morning reminded me of my very own intimacy v/s privacy debate, shreds of which penetrate every relationship I have, and more so in recent times, and the crux of which invaded my relationship with my parents probably before I learnt to define these words. I love my parents, without doubt, and they've loved me so unconditionally I don't even want to think about it lest it gives me guilt pangs. But my relationship with them has always been confined to strict limits and lines which I drew and kept since and for forever, I think.

As a child I was one of those who have the bane of growing too soon for their age thrust upon their shoulders by destiny, and though most people wouldn't believe it, I was more of less really quiet. Talkative in friends, but quiet. Both my parents work, and I lived in a creche since I was about four months old, and till the time I was old enough to take care of myself and my younger brother in the absence of my parents. During those 11-12 years, though I don't remember the first few of those at all except my dad teaching me alphabet and poetry and me ruining the whole house's walls with a pen in hand and some such shredded memories, I became comfortable in a life in a shell around myself sufficiently enough that I never needed to step out of it.

Now, for the last five years I've been living outside home, and my fortnightly visits are essentially about a lot of sleep, food, TV and a little banter and during the week I almost never call up home, and my mom calls every 4-5 days. I argue almost endlessly with my mom at times, sometimes bordering on rudeness but mostly playfully. I'm not interested in any of the stuff going on at home so half the time I'm not even listening, and I'm absolutely not interested in divulging more than a minimum amount of what I do here even if they ask. And as a result of this, my parents know very little of the person I've become in all these years. They know I'm opinionated and rebellious but my mom was shocked a few days back when there was a hint of sensitivity (which is all her domain in my home) in something I did. They don't know most of my friends, they don't think I do anything other than studying and a little bit of extra work here and never step out of hostel after 9pm, they don't know I write much except a couple of articles or poems they might have seen sometimes, and they don't know what goes in my head at any given point of time. Now you can call it tragic, but that's just the way I've liked it to be, all these years.

Except today, reading Arnav's post made me realize I've never gone to them with a problem, at least never ever with a personal/emotional problem, and I never try calling home if I'm lonely, or down. The one time I screwed up a course horribly and psyched out completely over it, I eventually cried out to them and they were immediate comfort. I don't even tell them if I'm ill because they worry, not even when I want someone to worry. I've become so used to the independence that I can't really live at home for too long, though it's become better in the last one year. In fact there was a time I used to be outright stifled, because at my home I can't wake up late, can't talk on phone, can't go anywhere (not that I've any friends there) and can't even just keep to myself and my novel for too long. My brother, I can still talk to him sometimes, and I often regret not being around for him, but that's primarily because I'm protective of him.
Otherwise, I'm just so sadly, fiercely independent I feel sorry.

And contrast it with the other relationships I have. 2.5 years ago I actually opened up to people to let them come close enough, and trusted them enough so they mattered a lot in my life, and since then more or less I've looked at them for support when I needed it, approached them with problems and found the few I could relax enough with to just be myself to them. That period's almost past now, but in them, during those years and with those people, I craved for intimacy, and doted love a bit too much so it became intrusion in their privacy.

I juggled around this thin line between the urge of being there for them all the time and still allowing them the space they so fiercely protected so much that I probably pissed them off too many times. I just don't have the absolute answer of maintaining this balance, so I kept getting pained in their pain which I wasn't allowed to share, and in my pain which I so strongly wanted comfort for, till I just gave up.

And hence the eternal debate found a new question as well. When we, the funny, erratic, baffling humans can't really ever get to understand and adjust to ourselves and our own uncertainties and eccentricities, how could we ever live with and adjust to somebody else's uncertainties and eccentricities, at any measure of close-distance?

Reminds me of the Calvin quote: Why did evolution give us something like a sense of humour? Because if we couldn't laugh at things that didn't make sense, we wouldn't be able to react to most part of life.