by

Thought Catalog

Growing up, I was terrified of change, terrified of any disruption in my well-oiled routine. When I went away to college, my mother sold my childhood home and moved up North, which left me so devastated that I actually rented a room in a house down the street just so I could still live there during the summer and have things feel sort of the same. It didn’t work, of course. In fact, it made me feel even more terrible but I wasn’t old enough to know yet that just because something feels familiar doesn’t mean it’s good for you.

I always placed a lot of weight and power into memories. To me, they served as proof that my life was real, that it was actually happening, that I had friends, a family, and people who loved me. Things like restaurants or certain streets would start to have major significance…

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