It's going to sound funny, but as of tomorrow afternoon, I will be in my very first apartment.

You should probably understand that I'm not a young kid; I'm not some college student who's just moved out of the dorms and has her mom and dad ready to help her out.  I spent my undergrad years living in the dorms, then at home to save money and overseas in a dorm in Japan.  When I started my Master's degree, I started off at home, then I took a job on campus as a resident adviser in order to pay my own way through.  It was incredibly exhausting work.  I was on-call 24 hours a day, seven days a week; girls would call me or knock on my door for anything from boyfriend drama to rape to school problems and roommate problems to anything else you can possibly think of.  I've gone to the police station with girls at two a.m. to sit with them while they talk about how their boyfriends beat on them.  I've gone to the university's court system to testify for and against my residents.  I've had drunken girls crying on my shoulder and pissed off girls yelling in my face.  I've dealt with eating disorders, suicidal girls, immature girls, girls with too much baggage and others who just didn't give a fuck anymore.

I did all these things, plus go to school full-time and work at another job (where they started to overload me and treat me like a full-time staffer without the benefits of full-time pay or insurance), all to pay my way through graduate school. 

This summer, when I announced that I was getting an apartment, my family told me I was crazy.  Why give up getting everything paid for? 

The thing is, they didn't see that I was already going crazy.  I wasn't sleeping well.  I've put on about 40 pounds.  I was tired all the time.  Worst of all, my school work was suffering.  I was late with so many assignments; I eventually had to go to my professors and throw myself on their mercy - I wanted to cry the entire time I was explaining the situation.  One of my teachers actually told me he pretty much just gave me a B in his class because he knew that I understood everything that had been going on in class, but just had too much on my plate.  Another teacher actually pulled me aside after class to tell me that she thought I needed to get out of one or both of my jobs because I was being overworked.  It was probably one of the more humiliating experiences of my life.

So I made up my mind: enough is enough.  I'm writing my thesis this summer and into the fall, and I don't need any of the drama that comes from living at home or from living with a hundred girls who are fresh out of high school.

For the first time, I'm getting a student loan.  I'll be honest: I'm scared.  The stress that comes with having your own place is different from the other stresses I'm used to, and that's a stress in and of itself.  I've never had this much debt in my life.  I have two credit cards, which I'm doing a pretty good job keeping up with, and over the summer, I'm able to work a few more hours at my job, but in the fall, I'll have to cut back. 

To make matters worse, I'm working at what is considered a federal work study job.  My university has always waived the tuition of the graduate students who do work study, but there has been a lot of discussion lately that the tuition waiver is going to be cut.  That means I'll have to take out an even bigger loan just to make it through.

I know I've been incredibly lucky with my scholarships and my assistantships, and I don't mean to whine when I know there are a lot of graduate students who are in much worse shape than me, but the fact is, I'm pretty much working without a net here.  I have no health insurance.  Our school's version of healthcare is worse than laughable - you go into the doctor and the physician's assistant asks you what you want prescribed.  I have no savings.  I have no job security.  I have very little family support, and to be honest, right now, my family is more than a little crazed because of other things going on.  I don't even have a bed or a mattress to sleep on in my new apartment.

Just the same, I'm strangely happy.  My landlords are really nice people and they live nearby.  I'm friends the person who lived in the apartment before me, and she's still moving out even as I'm moving in, so we're rooming together for now.  The apartment is very clean and it's almost new, so even though it's on the ground floor and it's next to a sort of sketchy neighborhood, it has very good locks and a safe place to park my car and I like it a lot.  It's home.  And it's mine.

            If someone asked me why I travel so much, I don’t know how I would answer them.  The flip reply, I suppose, would be something like, “Well, because it’s there,” or “Because I can.”  They’re easy answers – they tell the whole story without actually saying anything.  It’s another way of saying that if you don’t understand it for yourself, then there’s no way I can really explain it.

And in a way, that’s sort of how it is.  The truth is, though, that I’m not sure why I feel the need to travel, to see new things, to go places I’ve never been and may never go to again.  The urge remains.  What’s more, the more I travel, the more I see, the worse it becomes.  There’s always a new sight to see, a new person to meet. 

It would be easier to stay at home, no doubt about that.  At home, I have a routine.  Life is familiar.  If I don’t know something, I know how to find it out.  I avoid taboos based on unquestioning, thoughtless instinct and participate in the day-to-day habits of my culture without wondering why I do so.  I know what an appropriate hour is to wake up, I know when to bathe, when to eat, what to wear to which occasion, how to be a good guest.  I know when to apologize and when to argue.  I can tell what irrational behavior is.  I know how to get a job and handle an interview.  I know where to buy food and clothes.  I know how much personal space is adequate for me and a friend, or for me and a stranger, or for me and an acquaintance.  I know what is right, what is okay, and what is wrong.  I know my life.  I know how to coast through it without churning up the waters or making huge mistakes.  It is simple and normal.  If I say it is predictable, don’t think that I mean that in a negative way – predictable is good; it is stable and consistent and healthy.  It is a good life.

So why leave it?  Why go somewhere that I know nothing and no one?  Where I will not know what it is that I’m eating, or that I’m eating certain foods in the wrong order or using the wrong hand or the wrong tool to eat with?  Why go somewhere that I don’t even recognize what the toilets are, let alone how to use them?  Why end up in a place where I am crowded, stepped on, jostled and annoyed?  Where I don’t know how hospitals work or what stores offer food and which ones offer clothes that will fit me?

And I can’t answer that.  Because the fact of the matter is that until you’ve done it, until you’ve gone away, you won’t understand.  You know what is taboo in your culture.  You go through your life and participate in the day-to-day routine of your society based on unquestioning, thoughtless instinct.  You know your life.  You know how to coast through it without making mistakes.  You know how to get along.  You have everything you need or you know how to get it.  It is a good life. 

It just isn’t enough for me.

Busy editing reports for an NGO.  I'll get back to you all later.  Promise.

(^-^)v