It's All So Very Brown, Isn't It?

So, this new house, The Mother's house, is only new to me. To everyone else, it's been the Mother's House since 1973. It's a typical 1969 ranch style upscale suburban house. Upscale for 1969, that is. It's very brown, the rooms are low and boxy. There's carpet everywhere. But here's the thing that's killing me - It is very much like the brown suburban ranch house in which I spent my teens. We moved in when I was 9. There was some truly hideous carpet in the family room. The exact same truly hideous carpet is now gracing my "new" bedroom floor. Oh sure, there are some differences. The kitchen is bigger. The layout is swapped. But the important things remain the same. Both houses had a living and dining room that were open to each other and are effectively unused. Both homes have a long hallway of bedrooms. Both homes are graced with brown cedar woodwork and casement windows. Both homes have a backyard deck in some need of repair. Both homes are presided over by someone else. This isn't my house, but it is a suspiciously similar version of my own mother's house.

They say you cannot go home again, but my Special Man Friend is doing just that. He's comfortably set up in his childhood bedroom (they moved in when he was 8). Fortunately the variegated orange/brown tone carpeting is the only relic from those boyish days. This bedroom is exactly the same as my bedroom as a girl. The door/window/closet alignment is the same. The bed is in the same spot. The nightstand is just where it should be. The dresser & vanity are swapped, but it's essentially the same room. I haven't woken up in that room since I was nineteen, but here I am - every morning - waking up in the surroundings of my teens. It's been surreal. Factor in the imminent transition from lady of the house to member of the household and we have all the storytelling trappings of a horrible groundhog day style nightmare. I think I'm really frightened of finding myself subordinated to the whims of another person. Somehow living in this replica of the scene of my transition from child to adult is placing me back in that mental space. I'm not in charge of this household. I have trouble finding motivation to do simple things. It's like I'm waiting for someone to tell me to do the dishes.