A friend once told me that they—the experts-that-be—call my generation “the Boomerang Generation” because after moving out, we’ve all ended up back home at least once. Clearly, I’m just more efficient than the others because I never left. I jokingly (and sometimes dismissively) defend my failure to launch by citing a lack of need to, the availability of familial support, the economy, and of course, free room-and-board. But the truth lies between the logic.
I’m a collector. I collect stories, dreams, words, knickknacks, pens, hats, corks, clothes, people, and phobias. The latter is the only one that happens both unintentionally and effortlessly. I’m terrified of “what-ifs” and haunted by what has yet to come. Burglars, fires, car crashes, and even creeping crawlies compel me to mask my mortification beneath the guise of grownupness and a gratitude for the familiar, for family and the memories firmly affixed to our home. The world, the thought of being in it alone, yoked by independence and trudging up the treacherous mountainside of adulthood, staggered by a 9-to-5 and whipped with the worries of continued existence (rent-food-light fixtures-leaky pipes-noisy neighbors-the needs of a car-a knock on the door at midnight) on top of the weird weather patterns sparked in the bipolar blend of chemicals and synapses science calls my brain, is…too much. It stays the first step and steals breath when the notion of the last lingers too near.
But to say that the worst of what-could-be awaits me only out in the world is an overgeneralization of the threat, one which overlooks a narrower needle, a needle that pierces deeper for its perpetual presence. At home too, I feel fear. It’s muted, muzzled by the dogs who bark at the slightest shadow on the walkway, decreased by those who sleep (but could wake with a well-placed scream) upstairs during my nocturnal sojourns through laptops and televisions. It’s never worse than when they leave, when my parents head off to Arizona once a month, and move the dogs to the vet’s kennel because my ever-changing sleep schedule makes tending to them impossible. When they’re gone, I’m here alone, left to survive in a jungle of houseplants and cavernous rooms, hounded by every unknown sound at night, every flicker of maybe-movement twitching out of sight. The plight is worsened by a writer’s mind, an inventive mind that tracks down every possibility, every cause of every concerning occurrence, lessening my odds of survival with worst-case scenarios. By the third day, fear finds in me a breeding ground and readily propagates, hunting my heartbeats for sustenance until each must skip to survive, racing over ribs and repelling reason that would slow them. I carry a pencil for protection (a weapon few would worry about if a woman held it loosely in hand). I realize how outrageous this sounds to saner people, to those who have only occasional moments of weakness, to those who were forced to overcome childish fears to win the trophy of independence. Yet these are the walls I’ve built around me, they form the box that blocks me from a life I could and should lead.
I hold no satisfaction with the state of things. I hold no desire to continue to dwell amongst fear-emboldened excuses, to cleave to the support inherent in an age I’ve long since outgrown. It’s not enough for me, it’s not enough for my parents. I want to gain the skills, the bravery necessary to claim independence. Unfortunately, I’ve been saying that for years, to the extent that it’s become a mocking personal moniker, an empty slogan. So what makes this declaration different? This does. This blog, you, my theoretical readers. It’s my hope that the outside pressure and expectations will push me beyond the borders of the self-sewn apron strings that bind me and into something better, someplace endlessly bigger. It is clear to me now that change must come from without as well as from within. And change must come. After all, no good story is static, and as a writer, I would hate to disappoint.