The hardest part of growing up is figuring out where to put your stuff.

I have issues, I’m not going to deny that. Despite years of various medications I am still an extremely anxious person–I’m not proud of it, but I’ll admit it. About a week and a half ago I graduated from Columbia with my master’s degree in journalism. Essentially, I’m done with school forever (unless I want a PhD…which I kind of do because I’m INSANE).

For me, the hardest part about graduation wasn’t finding a job or facing the real world…I found two jobs and I want to face the real world–but therein lies the problem: I’m half kid, half adult. I live in New York City, but I still have most of my stuff in at home with my parents. This freaks me out because I like to have all my things with me at all times. I dealt with the bi-habitation during undergrad and grad school because that’s what’s supposed to happen, but now that I’m officially done, starting a “big girl” job and growing up, the fact that I’m in this adulthood limbo greatly displeases me.

I’d rather either be still fully dependent on my parents or completely on my own. I hate this in between. I am not an in between kind of person: I either do something all the way, or I don’t. To me, teetering on the brink of full-fledged adulthood isn’t scary, it’s annoying…and anxiety inducing and really (pardon my language) fucking confusing.

I just don’t deal with mixed emotions well. On one hand I feel really bad that my parents are still helping me out. Yes, I’m broke and freshly graduated with looming student loan payments. And yes, I 100 percent appreciate everything my parents have done for me (more than I can even try to explain) but I still feel bad that they help me so much. I feel guilty and I wish I could take care of myself…but I know I can’t and that scares me.

All I really wanted for post-graduation was to find a full-time job so I could stay in New York City. I did. I’m there. My apartment is more than affordable. Yes my job requires long hours for little pay, but it’s a first job. Life is good, right? That’s what I thought until I came home this weekend. Coming home was a complete and total mindfuck. I’ve been home every summer for the past 22 years and I’ve always been less than thrilled. I longed for a booming metropolis with art galleries and shows every night…but now that I have that, all I want is to sit in my back yard and get tan. I even find myself wanting to put on my pink baseball hat and go back to work serving ice cream to the huddled masses in 100-degree weather like I have every summer for the past 10 years.

Do I not want to grow up because I’m stuck in this limbo? Or do I not want to grow up at all? Will I be able to make it in the city? Or should I just move home now because it’s easier? But most importantly (to me, anyway) when the hell can I get all my books, clothes, CDs, etc…in the same place? That’s all I really want. A dinky apartment with all my stuff. Why am I so focused on that? What is my attachment to all my crap? Why does it freak me out so much that I’m (as said by Britney Spears) “not a girl, not yet a woman”?

Am I the only one who either wants to grow up completely or revert back to some Freudian infant stage? I feel like this adulthood limbo is totally cool with everyone except me.Why am I so crazy? Maybe I should revert back to the infant stage so Freud can figure me out…because the hardest part of growing up shouldn’t be figuring out where to put your stuff.


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