Closer to Fine

I didn't just grown up in this place; I also grew down, and out, and in, and through. The 'through' part is a work in progress, I suppose, since I'm currently sitting in my room surrounded by a pile of stuff that I can't remember accumulating, an even bigger pile of stuff that I'm embarrassed to have accumulated, and a half-eaten pint of ice cream. I have created a fortress out of crap, walls almost as high as my waist, so that--if I lie at the right angle--I can't see what's on the other side. It's nice in here. I have ice cream. Estiké paces back and forth, pissed because I doused her with flea medicine, whining because she has no idea why everyone has suddenly decided to up-and-leave. I can't say I blame her.

In case you don't know, Estiké is my cat. She's gray and bolts at loud noises, and would gladly trade social interaction for food...hence, we get along. As of tomorrow, she and I will both be alumni of the Co-op: my home for the past three years, my treehouse at the edge of the world, the picture that comes up when my mind thinks 'home.' Saying goodbye to Scripps after graduation was bizarre, no doubt, but it was a blur: this is the goodbye that I have most been dreading. This house, and this room, is the place where my vision of myself has come in and out of focus. It has been the site of my biggest loves and the place where I rested my heart after my biggest losses. I couldn't count the memories, or give voice to their significance, even if I wanted to--and I don't think I want to, because I could never do it justice. Like I said, in these walls, I grew. I feel love for this place, for the grape vines and the mangy refrigerator, the green paint stain on the floor from my sophomore art project and the echo of the studio, that goes beyond language. It's just one of those things.

I've thought long and hard about making some sort of tribute to the Co-op, a collage or a photo album, but I can't quite bring myself to muster the energy. Instead, I'm lying on the floor, trying to adjust my head to best see the computer screen while simultaneously globbing ice cream into my mouth. The yoga of denial.

In all honesty, I feel numb. I have all these ideas in my head about how I should be feeling, how I should have been feeling at graduation, and how I will feel tomorrow when I pull into the driveway of the new chapter of my life. I think I should be feeling more pain, I should be listening to Natalie Imbruglia and sobbing to my friends about all the good times we had. (I tried yesterday, and listened to at least an hour of Ray LaMontange radio before my roommate made a pitcher of something with tequila in it and hid my sweatpants.) At graduation, I'm pretty sure I should have been feeling something other than the desperate urge to pee, and I suppose I did--but the glow of honor and gratitude was coated in a thick layer of overwhelm, and I hardly knew what was happening. Now that I'm here--looking over the edge of the cliff I'm either about to fling myself off of or dribble over, one or the other--I feel drained. I spent all day helping a friend unpack boxes into her new Los Angeles apartment, dazed over the amount of IKEA furniture and grown-up kitchen supplies (can openers, coffee filters, and serrated knives, oh my!) that she had to her name, while my entire morning had been spent scraping a bird poster off of my wall with a spatula. The wall looks naked now. I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around Silverlake with my hands in my pockets, checking out the well-dressed babies dangling off the arms of women with tattoo sleeves, and listening in on conversations that revolved around things like oh, I finished my screenplay. Are you still acting? and oh yeah, mostly voiceover stuff now. I watched two girls nearly spill their kale smoothies when the notorious L.A. parking police nabbed them for neglecting to feed the meter. "BUT WE WERE ONLY THERE FOR LIKE TWO MINUUUUTTTESS."

Is that what the 20's look and sound like? Is there something wrong with me that I'm curled up in the fetal position on the floor, refusing to unplug my fairy lights because then it will be real, the room will be empty, and wishing I had the entire Hunger Games series as book-on-tape? I am twenty-one years old, a college graduate, and am able to appear completely serious on my skin while utter confusion bubbles mere centimeters beneath the surface. It's the part they don't tell you about when you're shaking the Dean's hand, trying not to slip on the Astro Turf: freedom feels like a big ball of crazy. To me, twentysomething is something akin to a gigantic hole in the pit of my stomach, unable to be pinned down as either excitement or acid reflux. If I didn't know any better, I would say the nausea is the rumbling of the crossroads that I have been dreading yet anticipating--beautiful, lustful, heartbreaking, infuriating sadness--and that it's the beginning of something huge. Then again, I did just eat an entire pint of Phish Food, so it's hard to say. I'm fine with not knowing.

From my position here on the floor, it all looks pretty scary. I feel no need to move at the moment; this room has given to me, and pressing my skin into its skin makes me feel like I am giving back.


I want to stay here forever, but the walls won't take me. They're naked now. Is this what goodbye feels like?


Ready or not, here I come.