Everyone has their "panic button." It is something we do when things go off, and your emotions are completely f*cked up, and tidal waves begin churning in your stomach; it is something we do that we know will calm us down and shut off those negative thoughts.

This summer is my first time living in a dormitory; it is also the first time I've ever lived in another country. Even so, I gladly held my plane ticket from China to Los Angeles and expected everything to be smooth sailing. What I didn't expect was that for the first few nights, I often wandered into the lounge room, ready to use my "panic button".

The room has a melancholic feeling to it. It's spacious with modest furniture, and the room is typically empty. 10 O'clock; the pitch-white walls, the oak-wood furniture, and the thick-brown carpet are all covered with a veil of darkness. The artificial brightness of the LED lights step off stage, where moonlight and streetlights flood in to fill the vacancy. The air conditioning is always chilling at first, though my body quickly adapts and accepts the cold. There, I sit, staring at my phone, waiting and praying for the line to pick up...

"Hello."

A voice appeared on the other side. My mom spoke in the slow but clear style adults usually have (perhaps it evolved to cope with the average teenager without screaming). Her voice soothes me; it calmed me down, like a therapist does to a patient; gently, melancholically, it does this, not with any great mix of words or wisdom; the familiarity in it is enough. Her voice pulled me away--from the conversing of people in the hallways, from the distant rumble of vehicles, from the buzzing of the Los Angeles under the moonlight, and from the half-pressed "panic button" my hand rested on. I close my eyes and look around; the white-walls, the meeting-desk, the chairs, they were gone. My old stained walls came into sight; then the old toys I used to play with, stacked unevenly in the corner of the living room; after that came the great run-down television, and the sofa where my mother was sitting.

She would ask, "How was school today?"

and most of the time, I would reply with the standard "It was fine." To me, having standard things to say are important. it's like a rudimentary check that the car performs every time it starts up--something is very out of place if the check goes wrong.

However, most of the time, the churning waves inside my stomach get suppressed in that simple "I'm fine." I want help! But I also don't want to be heard. So I scream with my silence.

"What did you have for dinner?" "Did something interesting happen today?"

"I had food, nothing happened."

I know these questions before they reach my ear simply because they've been asked so many times. And in truth, I quite like knowing someone else cares enough to ask them. I also know my responses are the ones my mom dreads to hear.

"Oh." She would say, "Something's up, isn't it?" And then it all comes pouring out. Every drizzle of sadness, anger, regret, annoyance, it all comes flooding to her ears. The waves rush out, like the last door of a shattering dam being smashed open. She listens, with more patience than I can ever hope to possess, and then spares some of her wisdom onto me; her every sentence resonates. They comfort me. They soothe me. They keep me company, even after I'd hung up. They give me the feeling of home in a place so far from my country...

Slowly, I realized that "belonging" is what I longed to feel. I used to have the dream of living alone; of being able to stay up late; of being able to buy my own food, and eat all the junk the world has to offer. I used to dream of making my own decisions, and setting my own house up however my mind wished, and throwing the laundry in whatever place my heart desired. I used to dream of the happy days I would have dancing in my dorm room, eating McDonalds, with some weird friend which my parents would never let set foot in my house. It was a wonderful dream; yet, it was only a dream.

Around July last year, I reached the age where my mind considers everything my parents say to be wrong. Coincidentally, this caused me to want to move out--to chase my wonderland of living alone. Of course, that can't be accomplished, because I'm still a minor. However, I did the closest equivalent I can think of: staying at school.

One day, I returned home at 9 PM, as per usual during that period. My mom ran up to me with concerned looks.

"Where were you?"

"In school doing classwork."

"You don't have that much classwork in school. If you do, I'll call the school principal to and ask what the hell they're doing."

"We do. And don't bother the principal, nothing will change."

"You have to stop lying to me-"

I shut my door--slammed it in her face.

"Dear, I'm so sorry. You can stay in school, please just come out..." I heard her say after a while.

That night, my mother kept on talking, but the self-centered piece of work I was then was too full of some unexplained anger and didn't hear a word. I was already on Trip.com scavenging the closest plane ticket I could find. After realizing I couldn't realistically pay for it without my parents' card, I eventually gave up and slept. I don't know how long she waited by the door for; I don't know how much I hurt her.

"In search of solace, I yearned to roam,
But pain and trials found me far from home.
Through darkness and storms, I learned to strive,
For growth emerges where comfort dies." - Anonymous

A few months later, I'd decided to apply for USC summer programs. It was for writing and all that, but secretly, deep down, I chose this 1 month program to get away from my parents for as long as possible. One Saturday morning, I arrived at the airport, and with but a few bags of luggage to accompany me, I was off....

It's funny. They say a new life starts with a plane ticket, yet rarely does anyone tell you that the new life would likely involve pain, suffering, and misery more than your original one. Nobody tells you about the lonely nights faced with jet-lag, nobody tells you about the prospect that you might be sharing the same room with a highly irritating dorm-mate, no-one tells you the that flying out of your comfort zone can hurt, that pressing your own "panic button" is normal, that it's not smooth sailing out there, but rather a treacherous storm for you to navigate.