I am very independent.

For the past eight years, I have been completely responsible for myself and for my son. With little to sometimes no child support for much of that time, we have never gone hungry and the rent has always been paid. Until recently, I worked a full-time job, and for several years I even ran my own business.

I returned to school on a full-time basis just a few years ago. My first two semesters I worked at least 30 hours a week and took five classes. I raised a son alone, worked with his PTA, helped out with his little league team, monitored karate lessons, and volunteered as a Cub Scout leader. Our relationship suffered. My grades and my job performance suffered.

That first summer break, we packed everything we owned and moved into my parents' house. Other than our clothes, his dresser, and some lamps, our lives have been in storage ever since.

In storage is my king-size four-poster waterbed. The posts, carved in an ornate antique design, are seven feet tall. The wood is dark and heavy. One post has deep scratch marks where a kitten used to climb to the top. She ran down the hall, leapt on the bed, and without stopping, ran up the post. About six feet up she froze and slid back down, leaving a trail of claw marks in the stain and varnish. She loved this game, especially at night when I was trying to sleep. I have been planning to refinish that post for two years. Those plans are in storage with my bed.

I never owned a microwave during my marriage. I always coveted my mom's. After my divorce, my mother surprised me with my very own as a birthday present. "Make it last," she said. "This counts for the next several birthdays." My microwave has an extended warranty that I keep taped to the side of it. There it sits, warranty and all, in storage.

My one and only true antique is my dining table with six chairs. The table is stained in the darkest brown. By the time I bought it at an estate sale, the table top had been stained with so many layers that I can put a dent in it with my fingernail. If something hot is set on the surface, the stain turns almost white until it cools. If I set a cold glass on it, a circle of bubbles appears and remains until the table dries. I purchased stain and set it on a shelf. My antique dining table and chairs are now crammed into a corner and stacked high with boxes.

I love to cook. My mother hates to cook. She quit as soon as all of her kids were out of the house. Because of this, she has very few useful cooking dishes and utencils. I have just about everything I want in a kitchen. Over the years, I have searched out and collected every piece of efficient cooking item I could afford for my perfect kitchen. Although I do all of the cooking in my mom's house, the experience is somewhat mechanical without my own dishes and utencils.

I own a matching living room set which I bought from a woman who divorced and ended up with two. My set is exactly what I always hoped for. I have an oversized couch, a matching love seat, and a big comfy chair. They are white with splashes of blue. Between the big pillows and poofy cushions, you sometimes need help to avoid being swallowed. By now, I am anxious to be swallowed.

I used to date. I've had what I consider an active social life. Sometimes I dated one man for several months or two to three years. Sometimes I went out with a man only once or twice. Either way, there was never a shortage of dates. These days, I am too busy to meet anyone new. My social life is in storage.

Until two years ago, we had a big dog, several cats, and a 55-gallon fish tank. I was the head of my own house and did not have to share the bathroom, the telephone, the television, or the computer. I did not have to move my car so someone could get out of the driveway. I did not have to worry about my hair and clothes smelling like cigarette smoke. I did not have to sort through the mail to find mine. I did not have to wait for the washing machine to be available or take phone messages. My independence, my self-sufficiency, and very nearly my sanity are all in storage.

This will end in June. I will have my degree. Our lease will expire. We will go our separate ways. My parents will hit the road in their RV. My son and I will be off to Lubbock, where I will work my way through graduate school.

The best part? I will finally be out of storage!