Anxious

I

I stepped lightly onto the hot sidewalk, the summer sun beating down on me. The air conditioning from my car evaded my body as I squinted at how bright it was, compared to my tinted windows.

I took a nice, long look at my new campus. Oh, the college life would be nice. Nice to get away, finally. After years of being stuck inside with my family.

My family was strict, yet at the same time, they tried to let me do things once in a while. It's pretty mixed up with them, actually. But now, they had no reign on me.

I was free. Free of their restrictions, anyway. I was determined not to screw up this scholarship. I had to work hard to get here. I had to know people, and work hard to keep my GPA at, the very least, a 3.5.

My family was never very rich. Like, ever. I'd accepted the fact that I wouldn't be able to pay for my college out of pocket when I was 12. I knew then, that whatever I chose to be when I grew up, I would go to college, and it wouldn't be cheap.

And quite frankly, I was a dreamer. I believed that I could be anything. I believed I could do anything. This wasn't because my parents told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up. They never gave me that speech, it was always implied.

Actually, this was because I pretty much raised myself.

Not that my parents were never there for me. But, they weren't, a lot of the time. This doesn't make them bad parents, because in a lot of ways, they were amazing parents. Just, in some ways, they couldn't be what I needed. So I became what I needed. And what I needed was to get pushed. They weren't very good in that department either.

My parents were good at many things. They were good at keeping me safe. They were good at giving me a backup plan. They were good at supporting me sometimes, and teaching me things, and lecturing me, and giving me life lessons. But pushing me would not be one of them. I mean, in the way of 'yeah, go get your dreams,' yeah, sure. They were good at maybe physically doing things, but they weren't good parents mentally.

In fact, my relationship with my parents wasn't very good. Basically they kept me alive for eighteen years, and in those eighteen years, I had to support myself in some ways they couldn't emotionally. And yes, like I said before, they weren't good parents mentally.

It wasn't completely their fault though. I understand them not being there sometimes, I mean, I've always had to fight for their attention with my siblings. It doesn't help that my dad is technically my step-dad. My three brothers are his biological children with my mother. Plus, the oldest is autistic.

He's got asperger's syndrome. For that, things need to be perfect for him. Things need to be relaxed, or he freaks out. I understand it. My parents need to give him more attention than I need. But, honestly, it's always stung a bit. Not to fear, just stuff it away and I'm fine.

That's pretty much what I've always done.

I shut my car off and locked it. My stuff hanging over my shoulders and arms, as I would be living in a dorm. I began to walk towards the girls dorm rooms, looking to my phone at the campus map.

I wasn't sure what my roommate would be like. We'd never contacted each other. I found out who she was about a week before I'd gotten my stuff for our room.

Her name was Annie Sprout. I couldn't help but wonder what she looked like. 'Sprout' made me think of plants, so I imagined her to be a flower child. She'd probably smoke a lot of weed and wear flowers in her hair and live in the moment. Maybe not. I'd learned a while back not to judge people before you meet them.

I eventually found myself at the girls dormatories. I readjusted my bags and walked up the smooth stone steps. I fumbled to open the door, but I couldn't quite get it. "Oh, here," someone said behind me, "let me help you." I backed out of the way as a girl opened the door for me. I walked inside, my things nearly killing my arms.