In fact, I was disappointed that the college I decided to attend was significantly closer to home than my other options. This meant far less independence and far more likelihood that I would often have to see my occasionally irritating family members. I moved into my residence hall last Thursday, inwardly screaming for my mother to leave so I could start college already. And yet, when she finally left campus, I felt an immediate pang of heartbreak wrenched in my gut. I denied the feeling, dismissing the ghosts of tears threatening to well in my eyes and the all-too-familiar stinging lump in my throat. I accepted that I was now an adult--an adult with expansive freedom, tedious responsibilities, and an immunity to crying for mommy. I faked my best smile and continued with the icebreakers, meeting new friends, and eating cafeteria food instead of the home-cooked meals I was used to. I ventured boldly into the unknown.
The "unknown" made me sick. Literally. Late Friday night, I complained to my gracious listener of a roommate of some nausea. She informed me to wake her if I happened to throw up. I woke with a start at 1 a.m. and sprinted to the communal toilets, re-tasting the sweet-and-sour tofu with stir-fried vegetables and rice I enjoyed earlier as it swam back up my esophagus. Disgusted but relieved, I went back to my bed, feeling that the remaining feelings of nausea would disappear with rest.
Alas, they did not. I continued to vomit frequently throughout the night, much to the distress of my roommate, who consequently fought back sleep to help me survive whatever illness had befallen me. By 6 a.m., I couldn't handle it anymore. I decided to call my mom, hoping that her skills as a nurse would help me decide whether or not to go to the ER. She advised me to go, and, like the good child I am, I went. I received treatment and my mom volunteered to pick me, my roommate, and another victim up from the hospital and drop us off back at school. When the time came to part from each other, she gave me a light, impersonal hug (which is often her style), told me to take care of myself, and, once again, left. I felt even sadder now. Did she even care that I almost died from heat exhaustion? Of course she did, I reassured myself. Yet I could not entirely suppress the doubts stirring in my weak and vacant stomach. If another trip to or from the hospital was needed, would she be available? Or would she be too busy? Perhaps she would tell me to ask for a ride from the ambulance or taxi like any other adult without a ride to the emergency room. Maybe she would slam the phone down, signifying that I need to take care of myself without the help of anyone else. After all, being a legal adult should mean I have all the emotional and physical preparation of acting like one, right?
So, I took it easy the rest of the weekend, and on Tuesday (yesterday), I went to my first class, which happened to be one of my favorite subjects: psychology. I thoroughly enjoyed the class and my new professor's amiable personality and temporarily forgot my emotional dilemma. But today I went to three more classes, and the last one hit me hard. My first session in English 004, otherwise known as Composition, was perhaps the worst experience I've yet had in college. My professor was likeable enough, don't get me wrong. And nobody bullied or harassed me. But I felt so alone in that class I almost had a nervous breakdown in the middle of class. As my professor reiterated the need for participation in the class, my heart beat more rapidly, and I felt panic rise in my throat. How the hell was I supposed to overcome this anxiety? I wanted a hug more than ever. Not from just anybody, but from my mom. Maybe from my dad, too, but I knew my mom would understand what I was going through. She used to be shy, too. My dad seems to have no problem speaking his mind and would shame me for not sucking it up like a grown-up. And then after class, while I fought the urge to cry in my dorm room, I checked my phone and my mom had texted me, asking how my first few days of classes were. I answered her honestly, that I felt scared of speaking up and of college in general. She said that in a while I would adjust. I don't know if that is particularly true, but I did adapt from elementary school to middle school and then to high school, so my adjustment to college should be no different. Other college students get through it, so I should too. Still, I can't help crying quietly every once in a while when my roommate is in class, because I miss being a kid and regret ever taking my family for granted.
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