There is the idea of the comfort of the city, my own comfort within the city. I am sure in the places I frequent, the friends I have made. My body is now situated and accepts a sense of place with the dilapidated streets and overcrowded sidewalks.
There is the idea of the autonomy inherent in independence or, at least, supposed independence that stems from student loads and parental support. I think, what is my own life and how is it ultimately affected by a change in routine if my decisions have been formulated by outside monetary assistance and not largely of my own accord?
It goes to the notion that when I finally move out of my parents’ home, I will have found complete independence. That complete independence – currently out of reach – feels like the ultimate goal and the ultimate sense of self-actualization.
More importantly though, I am frightened by the idea of becoming re-acquainted with a former self. My visits home have confirmed this fear. Time spent in my childhood bedroom (filled with old stuffed animals and teddy bears, junior high diaries and posters of early-aughts pop stars) is unnerving. The room is trapped in a certain place of time. The years following are lost. Life as a teenager would prove to be unsatisfying from the onset and so I, instead, gave up on that livelihood and just floated towards young adulthood.
I have a need to reconcile my past with my present. Those lost years are something I will be forced to confront. I felt most like my true self, whatever that means, upon entering college and I have, for the past four years, attempted to distance myself from the life before. Moving home then feels like a tipping point, the catalyst in learning to accept myself completely by better understanding what it was like to be sixteen.