Relationship Under Pressure

Mart and I have been arguing lately. More and more often. And from the outside, people might quickly think: logical. Two people living 24/7 on top of each other in one cramped room, never really able to simply go outside. But we know that is not the real problem. We are actually good at that part. We know how to be together in silence, in isolation, in survival. We can handle almost anything, as long as it belongs to us. Our own rhythm, our own choices, our own boundaries.
But we are not allowed to have that here. Not in this house. Not as long as my mother lives here. Because she determines the rhythm. She decides when there is silence and when chaos enters the house. She decides when there are five babysitting dogs and when we are expected to put our lives on hold to keep her daycare running. She decides whether I get one quiet evening or receive another half hour of voice messages about her planning and her dogs. And because she decides all of that, we end up exhausted in bed, worn down by her stimuli and by the world outside.
Our arguments are not truly about us. They arise because of her. Because of the feeling that we have no control over our own lives anywhere. That even our relationship has never fully been ours. And I keep wondering who we would have become if we had been given that chance. If we had simply had a place of our own together. A place with peace, privacy, nature. A tiny house, a camper spot, a life that genuinely belonged to us.
Because Mart and I know versions of each other that would probably never have existed if we had been able to live a normal life. Versions shaped by survival, by the constant lack of rest, by years without freedom. And I do not know whether we will ever fully find our original selves again. Whether we will someday be able to forget these survival versions of ourselves. Whether we will ever be able to give each other what we once did, without constantly being exhausted, under pressure and in conflict.
And meanwhile I keep trying to hold everything together. I am literally part of 150 Facebook groups across three countries, keeping track of 150 conversations in different languages, rewriting texts, responding to comments. Almost nobody truly understands what we are going through. And however well-meaning people may be, having to explain over and over again why certain things do not work for us drains me. There are people who refuse to understand, people who spread hate and pull others into it. Yet I keep responding. Because I do not want lies to become the truth. I do not want people believing we chose all of this out of convenience.
And I also do not want people thinking I am okay with this. Because even on the only beautiful moment of the week, literally the only day we might have been able to go outside after days trapped indoors, my mother suddenly came home with five dogs we had to take care of because her friend was in the hospital. That is awful and of course it can happen, but it immediately becomes my responsibility somehow. As if my task in life is to keep her daycare running. As if I am not allowed to have my own life. As if I have not spent years carrying the constant thought: what if I no longer wanted to live here?
What if we were simply allowed to leave?
What if we stopped falling into the trap of loyalty, guilt and survival over and over again?
What if we were finally allowed to truly be ourselves again?