A two-bedroom townhouse was never meant for a family of five, especially with kids all under the age of twelve. The townhouse I used to live in felt small even when I was under five feet tall, it felt like a long-distance grandparent giving you a huge bear hug, not allowing you to breathe. Fitting four kids into one bedroom was only made possible by the two small bunk beds nearly touching at one corner, only allowing space on the floor of about three by five feet. Having three siblings in a low-income household was bound to be very stuffy, but it is what I had no choice but to grow up in. No wonder I had grown up to be claustrophobic.

I admire people who live in RVs for their entire life and travel to all of the places they want, whenever they want, but that life is not for me. Traveling in an enclosed car with luggage all around and constantly bickering siblings is a different breed of claustrophobic. It is well known by my family members by now that if the trip we are taking is not in an airplane and is over 5 hours of driving, I am not coming with. It’s not like I don’t want to spend time with my family on a trip, but my misery on the road trip will ruin the fun mood, so it is best that I pass up on the offer. 

But don’t get me wrong, I love a nice little comfy apartment to live in, it just isn’t so nice or comfy anymore when I am not the only one living in it (my cat being an exception of course.) I have never been the type of person to wish I had a mansion, but it’s not like I would complain about having four bathrooms, six bedrooms, and a kitchen large enough to host a professional cooking competition. And as a plus, I would never be claustrophobic.