On a silly, but slightly more serious note...

I wrote this last night. Growing up is hard. Letting go is hard. Even if it's just selling the bureau you've had in your room at home for nearly as long as you've been there. It's change. Okay, and maybe, maybe, I'm a little hormonal. But it was still hard. And writing this all out helped me come to terms with it (well, until I was hit with another hormonal wave, but let's focus on the positive here!):

I'm getting upset about a bureau being sold.

I know it's ridiculous.
My mom said, "I'm not going to baby you, I want you to get over this."
I don't need to be babied. I need to be understood.

It's true that, in part, I've ascribed feelings to this inanimate piece of furniture. Pulling it apart, drawer by drawer, dragging it out through the rain to wait in the car port for some new family (a good one, I hope) to come take it away forever, makes me feel cruel, and like I don't appreciate all it's been for me. It's a piece of my history. My childhood. It's big, it's hard to move, it's not the most attractive, but it was always there, and always mine.

It's been in my room for nearly as long as I have, and it is a piece of home. Selling it is getting rid of a piece of home. It is change. It is sad, it is scary, it is upsetting. No matter how small the piece. It is a reminder this home won't be here one day. It won't be my home. It may not even be anyone else's home, it may just be gone. Completely.

I know it seems silly, crying over this piece of furniture.
And I know it was my idea in the first place.
It took me by surprise too.

I've never been all that good at letting go.

I'm just sad. I don't want to be babied. I don't think a hug, and you saying "It's all okay" is being babied. It's proving to me that home is not with this furniture, but with you.