It’s 7:11 pm Saturday, June 17th on a flight, by myself, in another country. I pride myself in my independence, my singularity. In a world where I’ve always been generalized, I rebelled by making myself lonely. Now I am, and I can’t help but regret that I ever pushed myself away from my mom and dad’s hugs. I write with shaky fingers to take note of the feelings bubbling up my throat. I shouldn’t have spent the money on a cupcake, popcorn, drink, and slice of pizza. I should’ve gone to the bathroom. I shouldn’t have double-knotted my shoes when I knew I would take them off at security. I should kick the person in front of me for laying their seat back obnoxiously. And I should take a nap because my therapist, Amanda, would say I should take some breaths and focus on the positive. Which is true, I’ll have fun in London. I’ll have fun with people my age. And I’m excited and happy. That’s what scares me the most, though. The happiness. Soon I’m getting on a plane and leaving for three weeks – a commencement to my adulthood. On a plane away from my family, my town, my blood, and my roots. And I’ll feel the same guilt from not feeling guilty. Because this separation is for me. And it’s that separation that’s going to make me grow into the terrifying grotesque adult that I want to be. I guess you know you’re growing up when you want to hold on a little longer.