The week before college, during which I would be celebrating my eighteenth birthday, my own mother decided she'd had enough of me. Well, not necessarily myself as a person, but the way I had recently chosen to live my life. So what if I enjoyed staying inside rather than hanging out with the sex and alcohol starved neanderthals I had once called my friends? I was just a homebody now.
Truthfully, I knew she was probably on to something, and maybe it was something more than just preferring the indoors. That perhaps, disliking the company of others to the point of seclusion from society, was probably not ideal.
So there I was, sitting in a stuffy airplane because of the diagnosis my mother had given me: minor depression and anxious tendencies in social situations. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't ashamed or offended that my mother had misdiagnosed me, as mental disorders are solely just an imbalance in our chemicals. But, it did piss me off that I had to abandon my previous life in favour of living in a shared apartment, in residence, at a university I didn't even apply at (thanks, Mom).
The entire plane ride there was silent, with the exception of my Mom trying to convince me every few minutes that this was "for the best" and that I would be "undoubtedly thankful" when I came to visit at Christmas". I realized I had to tune her out relatively quickly, so I plugged my headphones in and fell asleep to The 1975.
