Neverland

I don't want to grow up.

I don't mean that I wish to forever remain eighteen. Much as I love it here, I don't want to be in college forever. I do want to get older, gain experience, go on with my life, do things, learn things, meet people. I just don't want to grow up.

I don't want to lose the child-like joy I find in simple things. I don't ever want to feel like I can't play. I don't want to give in to the idea that, because I am a grown-up, I cannot play certain games, watch certain movies, or read certain books.

I don't want to grow up.

I want to read books all day, carefree. I want to play pretend games. I want to take my plastic, collapsible lightsaber and have a duel with my Big in the middle of campus. I want to be silly and stupid in ways that won't ruin my life. I want to play videogames and board games and watch Disney movies.

I want to remain a child.

Some days, I stop for a moment and I think about what I've done. Today, I worked in a theatre for four hours. I did my homework. I had a meeting about housing for next semester. I got my medication. I signed up for an Amazon selling account, so I can get rid of my textbooks. I made appointments for tests. I made a doctor's appointment. I have nothing but responsible. On days like those, I feel proud of myself. I have managed, so far, to stay afloat in a world that rejects people like me: the depressed, the socially anxious and backwards, the troubled, the lost. But, too, I feel disappointed. I look at my accomplishments, my adult-ness. and I'm sad, because, in all that responsibility, I haven't truly done a thing for myself. I haven't read, I haven't written, I haven't drawn, I haven't played.

On these days, I have grown up. I am not a child.

I don't want that. I accept that, to be totally independent of my parents for the rest pf my life, I have to be responsible. I have to make and keep appointments, work, take care of myself. I understand that I have to be an adult. But I want to be able to stay child-like, at the same time.

It's a matter of happiness. Children are happy with small accomplishments, with little things. Most children are easy to please: a little attention, a small gift, a short, silly story, and they are content. That is what I want. I want to remain easy to please. I want to keep my happiness at a nice day, a new book, a random hug from a friend.

And I want to be able to cry. I have been told that I am a rock, a source of strength for my friends. Much as I love that, I want it to be okay for me to break, to fall apart. I don't want always to have to hold myself together, until I am so fragile that the smallest touch will shatter me. I want the option of a good, therapeutic cry when I need it. I want be able to throw a fit, to punch pillows and break things, because it makes me feel better.

I want the option of being childish. I don't want that door closed to me. I promise to be responsible, to think and to do the right thing, but I want to be a child sometimes, too.

In the words of the good Doctor, there's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes.