Around 2 pm on August 24th I finally threw my suitcases through the ajar door of the apartment.
And let me tell you, all three of them were easily at or over 40 pounds. I had said the only bag I was concerned about was the red one (which ended up at 49.6 lbs, I believe), but after dragging over a hundred pounds of (honestly, mostly) clothes across the entirety of LaGuardia and noticing small purple bruises transposed under the skin of my shoulder, I realized the weight of my bags was not my biggest concern.
My biggest concern probably should have been about why I wasn’t excited. Why wasn’t I more excited to move to the middle of Brooklyn, to work with an amazing artist running for City Council (all of my passions right there!) and to spend three months learning about art and making new friends? I hadn’t shut up once about going to college, but I hadn’t even gone to more than one of the mandatory off-campus program prep meetings, so I couldn’t even answer my parents' questions. My boyfriend kept asking me why I wasn’t more excited, and I just kept insisting that it was so exciting precisely because I had no idea what to expect–it was an enigma, full of things I loved and nothing I knew and seemed perfect for me. But my biggest concern probably should have been about why I wasn’t excited.
Beyond a lack of excitement, I’d had and almost taken nearly every opportunity to drop out–but I was too caught up worrying people would think I was running away from my ex, whom was also conveniently going and to whom I also cannot even have a simple conversation with, and I was determined not to let a boy deter me from my dreams. All this transpired without admitting to myself that it wasn’t my dream, nor was it a time in my life where I’d want to pursue success in NYC. So within the span of three days I’d unpacked, repacked, and in general lollygagged around Brooklyn.
After 12 hours on my lonesome at JFK, refusing to listen to any song other than Learning to Fly by Pink Floyd (now tattooed on my forearm, only realizing after the fact that it looks like any 16-year-old’d first tattoo), I was finally (crying) on the curb of ORD, on the opposite level of the car that had been waiting for an hour now to pick me up. But hey, at least I was crying 1 floor below my boyfriend’s car instead of 1 timezone away. I had just flown to New York, obliterated my pathetic excuse for a saving’s account in three days, either withdrew from the semester or dropped out of college (pretty up in the air), and I was flying back to the place I’d never thought I’d have to reside in during the winter season again. And with no job, no money, and no car, it was looking a little bleak.
I kind of thought this would be the year I ruined my life. I mean, what I was telling everyone around me was that I’d finally figured out my mental and physical wellness (a pet project of mine for the past 19 years for sure, but something I’d thrown myself into this summer with reckless abandon and man, the payoff has been excellent), but what I really was doing creating the foundation of my entire adult life here, wasn’t I? I wanted to take a year to focus on my financial wellness, maybe get crazy and buy a car… And of course, having some time to fully devote myself to my projects (a zine I’ve been planning for how long? the podcast that was doing well until Apple banned it, and how many others that have stalled while I studied) wouldn’t be hated either… As well thought out and responsible as all of that sounded, I still left New York to go home with no money, no job, and no car- and “enough of your father in you that you might just drop out of college and decide you can figure it out yourself” and hey, maybe that means I’m about to ruin my life?
But it’s 6 pm on September 4, and today I handed in an application to my favorite thrift store and walked out with a shift tomorrow. I have another interview at my favorite book store on Friday morning. The artist I was supposed to intern with in New York emailed me back to see if I can still help her this fall. So I figured if it’s been long enough that I can get the “adulting” in my life squared away, to maybe feel like my feet are under me and ready to walk through this next year, maybe it was time to get off my ass and finally write up a blog post I’ve been thinking about for weeks now.
So here’s the deal.
I’m Frankie. I’m 19, and I’m no longer unemployed, and not quite employed yet. I had spent my freshman year crying in various places around campus. Every time I found myself in another new place crying the same tears over… I can’t even tell you, I was just a mess, so I told myself I had the option to leave. After all, I had said I wanted to take a gap year since sophomore year, but doing that goes directly against what everyone thinks, the norm; but if I’m attending a private college and studying ART, wouldn’t it be prudent I take time to at least make sure the debt I’ll be living with will be worth it to me? Wouldn’t it make sense to want to ensure that I’m not only able to handle my self enough to focus on academics, but also to be financially stable enough to focus on school instead of how many old dresses I have to sell if I want to go to that coffee shop with my friends later? SO... my arrival to and immediate discomfort in New York made it easy for me to know immediately that this program wasn’t even something I wanted to want to do, it was just something that sounded perfect when I went to my advisor bitching about wanting to drop out. And when you’re 19 with no money, no job…. Nothing to lose, I guess, it’s easy to finally realize the true agency one has over their life and choices. When you have nothing to lose, it’s also easy to chase exactly what you want: there’s no weight to sway you anywhere other than what you decide is forward.
So I’m Frankie, and here’s seeing if this year ruined my life.
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