I might be an adult

I might be an adult. And I don’t know if I like it or not.

I love the freedom. Traveling alone throughout Europe. Growing my plants. Living alone. Playing video games for hours. I truly enjoy this life. The pleasure of doing whatever I want, joining whichever project attracts me, going wherever I feel. These vibrations are intense, they shake me, they shape me. I feel my life shining and sparkling. And I love it.

But every morning when I wake up: panic attack. Am I late somewhere? Is my girlfriend going to break up with me? Do my friends hate me? Mornings are tough. They wear the scars of a night full of terrors. They are too cold. They are too bright. They are too much. I want to sleep more. I am tired. But I am afraid too. What if nightmares invade my morning nap? What if I miss the best day of my life? 

I might be an adult. And I don’t know if I like it or not.

I love the freedom. Picking my own food. Not being asked for my ID when I order a beer. I love drinking cappuccino while studying at a café. Eating pizza at 2am. Nourishing my body and my soul.

But Guilt always enters the room: a wonderful feeling telling me that I am a big pile of shit. I am hungry and want some hot chocolate and cookies? She pushes me towards water and veggies. She tells me I’m fat, I should eat healthier, I should take care of myself, and exercise rather than stay in the warmth of my bed. She pushes me towards the kitchen: I should do something with my day, with my life.

I might be an adult. And I don’t know if I like it or not.

I don’t like being responsible for my shit. I don’t like taking important decisions. I don’t like talking to older adults. I hate paying my bills. I hate calling the insurance. I hate buying furniture. I cry every time I am frustrated. I am afraid of being alone for too long. I am scared that I grew up too fast, without choosing it, without ever being a child. What if I was not ready to become who I am? What if it was not exactly the right path for me? What if…?

Sometimes, even getting dressed is too hard. Dysphoria likes to come and say hi. I look too feminine. I don’t look feminine enough. I hate my breasts. I want to get rid of my hair. I wish I was taller. What if I added some makeup? Oh fuck! I will be perceived as a woman. I go for it and just accept to be called a she the whole day. Giving up sounds easier than fighting.

I might be an adult. And I don’t know if I like it or not.

Some months ago, I would have talked with my therapist about this. I would have made some jokes about my desire to die on my twentieth birthday, to make the circle full and satisfying. But she ghosted me. And I ghosted her. So I try to navigate on my own, dealing how I can. I grow hand in hand with my issues, but I grow, and that is what matters.

I might be an adult. Legally, I am one. Emotionally, I still need time.

by Lu

.

.

.

Find us on Instagram @basis.baismag

Images from Unsplash