Journal Entry: Searching for Love, Independence, and Myself

    After my 21st birthday, something shifted within me. Sometime before and thereafter, my family started calling me “crazy” or even “coocoo for cocoa puffs” because I had reached a point where I didn’t care about anything or anyone but myself. I’m not entirely sure what caused this version of me to surface—maybe it was the fact that I had to grow up fast, being the oldest, afraid of getting into trouble. But in the end, those were just excuses.

    What does “crazy” mean in this context? Well, relationships became my escape, my priority, my rebellion. I would stay out really late, not coming home, or I would stay the night at my boyfriend’s house—one night often turning into two, then three. My dad hated this. He hated it more than I cared to admit. At that stage in my life, I didn’t care what he thought. I did what I wanted anyway.

    At one point, I had a Ford Focus. My dad, being the co-signer, threatened to sell it—and then did. I was furious, so much so that I threatened to call the police. I might have even called them, though to this day, I don’t fully remember why. It was a messy, stubborn time in my life, and one I’m not necessarily proud of.

    Eventually, my dad had enough. He kicked me out of his house, tired of my constant disappearing acts—tired of watching me stay with friends or guys instead of coming home. But only a few days later, he picked me up again. Other times, he would give me an ultimatum be home at the time he set, follow his rules, or leave and find somewhere else to live. I was at that age where I wanted to live life the way I wanted—whether it was right or wrong, good or bad. I wanted to be free, loved, and find what I thought was the perfect relationship.

    Looking back now, I can see that this was a pivotal stage in my life. It was chaotic, driven by emotion, and full of choices that shaped me. I don’t necessarily regret everything, but I do recognize how much I have grown from it.