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The Moment You Know You’re a Grown Up BY Kathryn Sutton
My simple six hour shift was absolutely miserable, though I felt mentally better than I had in awhile. I felt as though I had accomplished something bigger than fighting an illness. I didn’t take the easy, immature way out, and I had accepted my inevitable transformation into adulthood.
The Moment You Know You’re a Grown Up
BY Kathryn Sutton
As if getting an appropriate amount of sleep at night wasn’t difficult enough for a sixteen year old, mine was interrupted at three o’clock one summer morning. I was gradually ripped from sleep as my unconscious mind attempted to discover why my body refused to let me rest. An unbearable pain had settled in my stomach, causing me to quickly sit up and draw my knees close to my body. While the rest of the world slept, I was wide awake. I considered waking up my mom to ask for her assistance, though quickly decided against it. She’d had work in the morning, and it wouldn’t be fair to disturb her sleep as well.
Work.
I had to go to work, too.
Immediately after this thought had crossed my mind, I began to panic. Shortly, I myself would need to head off to work. I felt as though I could barely move, yet I’d be expected to function as if it didn’t feel as though there was a hole in my stomach. Leaning back against my headboard, I wracked my brain hoping to find a solution that would allow me the option of crawling back under my covers. I couldn’t just skip work. Couldn’t my mom just call into work for me and explain I was sick?
Tears burst suddenly from my eyes, although it wasn’t from feeling ill. The thought that my mom couldn’t actually call in sick for me hit me so hard it radiated throughout my entire being. My mother was always my go-to person when I wasn’t feeling well; she’d call into the school and tell them I was just too sick to come in when the need arose. After that, I’d be allowed to stay in bed without a worry in the world. Now, however, if I didn’t feel well, I had to toughen up and go into work anyway. My mom wouldn’t be able to sign a note for me to excuse my absence. I was all on my own.
Because I grew up the youngest child in the family, it was more than difficult to picture myself as an adult. For my entire life, I’d always been labeled as “the baby,” and it seemed like my parents had done everything in their power to keep that childlike image of me alive. It was almost like my parents didn’t recognize how old I was becoming, but instead focused solely on how old they wanted me to be. However, because they weren’t able to see me grow, I had become temporarily blinded from recognizing my own growth.
In that three A.M. moment, I wiped my cheeks to erase the streaks of tears, though it was a fruitless task. More tears continued to spill as I realized I wasn’t a kid anymore. My mother wouldn’t be able to bail me out of every situation I found difficult. Reality hit me harder than a brick to the face, and definitely harder than this sudden illness had. I was so saddened that my life was no longer fun and games, but I was also ashamed that it had taken me so long to realize I had grown up. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was an adult.
Later that morning, having not slept, I still felt sick. However, I dressed up and went to work anyway. My simple six hour shift was absolutely miserable, though I felt mentally better than I had in awhile. I felt as though I had accomplished something bigger than fighting an illness. I didn’t take the easy, immature way out, and I had accepted my inevitable transformation into adulthood.