There’s not a great deal of things in my life that make sense, and how I ended up here in this situation is one of them. It’s not anything too wild. Really, I grew to love the yellow walls of my room, I wore my class ring every day of senior year and the following summer, and I’m moving nineteen hours from the house I’ve done plenty of growing up in to attend a women’s university no one in my little podunk Texas town had heard of before I accepted my admission. Seriously, most people’s breakfasts are probably more engrossing than my biggest accomplishments, but whatever. I never expect to mean more to anyone than I do to myself.
A lot of people in my life- mostly my mom and the rest of my family- thought I chose to move across the country in an effort to separate myself from them. It was hard to deny that, especially when I applied to University of Maine at Farmington, the furthest I could possibly get from the blueberry in the tomato soup. That’s not why I did it- they sent me nice postcards (even a birthday card, once). As the days passed- rather unremarkably I might add- it became more and more aggravating when this was brought up. “Oh, you just want to get away from us,” they’d sneer mid-conversation. As if. Like the only reason I’m choosing to move a mere five states away is because I’m scolded for sleeping late and guilted into spending time with people who want nothing to do with me except when it dawns that I’m never coming back. Oops.
As most everyone who leaves home at a young age- or any age- knows, a lot is left behind. Trash-picked furniture, old toys and stuffed animals, the comfort of our own rooms. There’s a lot that could keep someone at home, but there is so much more encouraging us to go. At least there is for me. I’m sure some people are content to stay with their parents forever, eating the same six meals, watching TV together when they aren’t bickering. Despite this, with the promise of internships, a network, and new adventures, I solemnly pack up my life and prepare to spend the better part of a day wedged in the back of a van with boxes and suitcases as I bump along the highway to my dreams. That’s not a metaphor- there’s literally one highway that will take me straight through to my future home. I’ve already mapped it out and everything.
There’s not much for me here. I came to realize that not long after we moved here. It doesn’t bother me, but some weird part of me wishes I had a more difficult time saying goodbye to everything I’ve ever known. I seem to mean more to other people than they do to me, or maybe that just goes for the people who aren’t going anywhere. My best friend is moving a solid four hours away, and I’ve already begun to recognize an increasing number of books I’ve read adorning the too-perfectly aligned shelves of the local library. I don’t know why I think things will be different in my new home. Maybe I’m just a hopeful fool. Perhaps my subconscious knows something I don’t, at least not right now.
I know not many people read this, except my dad, and he already knows what I’m about to say. Or maybe he doesn’t. I don’t know. I just feel muted. I feel trapped. I don’t feel like I can be me, whoever I am. I can’t be out, I can’t be an activist, I can’t be remarkable or extraordinary because no one cares. No one cares for what I have to say or what I do. It’s becoming so obvious it hurts. Why bother, right? I guess because I’m not doing this for anyone. I’m doing this for me, and this feels right.
Moving to a new state isn’t something many people do straight out of high school, at least not many people I know. No one cares for what I do, which is the perfect reason to do it. I’m eighteen and I’m a mess and I’m ready to fall in love with life again because I’ve already ruined what’s here. There’s nothing else driving me except myself. I’m moving to get away from me.
I’ll let you know how that goes.
