It’s 10 am on a Tuesday. I have a massive amount of shit to do, and so far all I’ve accomplished is talking to my mom on the phone and crying to her about my inability to get anywhere in LA without a car.
And now I’m in all too familiar territory. This is how it goes: I fight with myself internally for anywhere from two minutes to two weeks. I pretend nothing is wrong. I try to gradually look at my issue. And then I fucking breakdown to my mom. Today’s issue involved her, so it turned into a heated argument that ended with me hanging up and her sending her usual texts meant to comfort that really just annoy and infuriate me. And again, more crying.
I’ve never been able to control my tears. I can remember back as far as kindergarten, being called a cry-baby (and I have no idea what for). In middle school I cried over friendships and popularity. In high school, it was boys, my parents’ restrictions, and more friends. Come college, it was more of the same, only add in worries about grades and my future, and this time I was calling my parents, wishing for the days that I hated them.
But those are just the easy explanations. Everybody struggles with them, and everybody cries sometimes. I’m sure that’s what you’re reading these words and thinking: “Oh Becca, get over yourself. We all cry. I cried when [fill in the black].” To which I say (kindly, because you are reading my blog, which I appreciate), “Fuck you, gentle reader. You have no idea how much I cry. I won’t describe to you how often or with what intensity, but suffice it to say LA need no longer worry about its dry climate, because soon the (nonexistent) rivers will run deep with my tears.”
Dramatic? Perhaps. No, not perhaps, definitely. OVER-dramatic, OVER-emotional and clearly, overwhelmed. Moving may be difficult, but without a car, a stable income and any real, close friends, I’m starting to wonder what exactly I was thinking leaving my parents’ home, being the sort of person I am. I guess I was trusting that I would grow up when I needed to, as opposed to being paralyzed and attempting to navigate via bus a city that is known for its poor public transportation system. It turns about that “growing up” means absolutely nothing at all, especially three days before your 24th birthday when you come to the realization that you’re the same cry-baby you were two decades ago.