Five months before graduation and it seems like the last minutes of your life; it’s terrifying yet exciting, in a way, leaving all that you’ve only known. Some things hit you in the shower when lathering up your favorite soap, the one your mom bought you for Christmas last year and you just can’t get enough of, or they creep up behind you when with friends, putting you down in a state of contemplation. It’s a lot like watching the last episode of a favorite TV show, a feeling of emptiness and confusion, disarrayed by the halt of a perpetuating comfort and solace that an entity brought to you. Nothing is over yet but you just can’t shake the feeling that something is, and if it isn’t over now then it will be in the future, y’know? It’s confusing translating emotions into bounded language, a lot like describing color; but it’s a certain type of difficulty expressing your fear for something that is so far away yet inevitable, and the subsequent changes that will take place in the wake of its occurrence.
I’ve always wanted to move far away for college. I’ve read somewhere that humans are addicted to new beginnings, some type of chemical reaction that explodes like fireworks in our brains when we’re met with a second chance or a fresh start—I find it to be incredibly true. In fact, I just finished the first semester of my senior year of high school yesterday and am allowing myself to soak in the excitement of a new start. I’m thinking of buying new notebooks, reorganizing my room, even transforming my outlook on life—a reach, I know. I always thought moving to a big city to spend the beginnings of my new adult life was what I always wanted, coming from a small town in the middle of a desert, but now I’m beginning to feel a bit hesitant. What if what I’ve always for years isn’t what I want anymore? And how do you reroute years of planning for something you don’t even know you want yet? Every waking minute I spent daydreaming of the light at the end of the tunnel, and I still do, but it’s just not the same anymore.
One day I was in my band class, fiddling with my trombone; I spent four entire years in the program, surrounded by the same people of my grade for all of high school. We spent lunch together, we talked outside of class, we ate out for each other’s birthdays, we slept on each other’s shoulders on late bus rides home from competitions, and yet, I wanted to abandon all this for the exhilaration of new findings and friends. How could I have ever been so blind? These people, these friends that I’ve grown to know and love, have been through everything with me. They’ve seen me cry, they’ve seen me pee of laughter, they’ve laughed with me, they’re able to reenact accurate impersonations of me because they know me so well, they’re able to tell me about myself (although I am a very secretive person and most don’t even know the half of me; still, many remember the little I’ve provided over a long period of time, and that’s impressive and heartwarming to know) along with all of my vices and likings, they prove they’ve been there. I just don’t like knowing I’ve hurt many, probably, due to my constant talk of leaving behind my life and everyone in it for a new and “better” one.
I realized after expressing my plans with my mother for years that I’ve probably hurt her, too. I knew she never liked the idea of me applying to Pratt or Parsons for college, being it was over 3,000 miles away from her arms and protection—but I still did it, and my eager waiting for decision letters are probably driving her crazy. She sometimes would open up about her feelings on the subject—opening up was something she never really did. I would lay next to her, shoulder to shoulder, watching La Rosa De Guadalupe, and she would break the silence with words carrying a saddened tone. “You’re my best friend,”, “I don’t know what I’d do without you,”, and “We have to stick together—It’s just the two of us,” were just a few of the small glimpses of emotion in her perpetual air of indifference. She is a strong woman, a beautiful, clever, fast-thinking, and durable paragon of hope, but she also carries herself the way a wise monk is thought to—barely rocking the boat and using silence and carefully chosen words as her means of maneuvering through the world. I should feel devastated, maybe, at the fact that I’m torturing my mother by unintentionally playing with her emotions and teeter-tottering at the idea of leaving her alone for four or more years; I should, but my mental health is somewhere between my ears, pulling all my wires out of place, and I just can’t feel much—I’m blind—and I’m worried I’ll regret not crying on her shoulders two months into my undergrad. I often wonder if it’s my fault I can’t feel remorse for something I haven’t done yet, but am willing to do, because I haven’t experienced the consequences of my actions.
I’ve grown up in what I call “the middle of nowhere”; to some, my home is a shack living at the center of a sandbox, to others, my home is the American Dream, to me, It’s earth’s version of myself. I was raised in churches, not literally, but somewhat literally—a strongly religious mother proved that to be inevitable. We’re surrounded by mountains and sand, colorful sunsets, soft clear skies, and a dense community—the perfect setting for an indie coming-of-age film. Women raised me, aside from my mother, and I’ve lost count of all my neighborhood babysitters, the señoras and doñas of my childhood; I love them all, each one leaving a piece of them in me until the end of time. All the small quirks, icons, and relatable jokes that come with my town make it it’s own, and I think I’ve now come to realize no matter how far I leave it, there will never be a space worth comparison. And like friends and family, do I want to leave all this behind? Can I? Will I? And if so, how could I? I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Stuck between a rock and a wall, but the wall has trapdoor, either being my mental health or the notion that a bird must leave the nest sometime.
Is all this worth crying over? I don’t know. I want to live the glamorous lifestyle seen on our phone and silver screens, I just don’t know what I would do if I left in pursuit of it, only to find it to be a myth, a Hollywood concoction. Regret is intimidating, remorse is horrifying, and burning my bridges in hopes of it lighting my way could possibly bite me in the ass when I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, gazing at the other side of the abyss, watching my loved ones alienated. I’m graduating in five months from two weeks ago. I don’t know where I’ll go (which scares me), I don’t know what I’ll be doing (equally terrifying), and I don’t know where I’ll be (oh my god), but I guess this is growing up. It’s violent yet merciful, exciting yet dreadful, it’s leaving everything I’ve only known when all I’ve only known is monotonousness, but I just hope everything ends up perfect
