Unpacking My Peter Pan Syndrome

In April of 2021, I will officially become an adult. Well, legally, anyway. When I was a child, turning 18 was something that I often fantasized about. I don’t have any siblings, which meant that I spent a lot of time with adults in my youth. I don’t quite remember when it was that I started to observe them with a particular type of curiosity, but by the time I had reached kindergarten, I was absolutely fascinated by the idea of growing up. To me, it seemed like such a freeing experience. I had plans to move far away from my hometown, become insanely successful in my line of work, and craft the life that I thought all ‘grownups’ were able to attain once they fled the nest. 

As we all know, that’s not exactly how it works. Yes, it is possible to live a great distance from your family and have a fruitful career, but you have to put in work for it. (Like, a lot of work.) That’s something I don’t like doing. I’m still a little ashamed to admit it, but I want to be as honest as possible. I hate working. In modern society, we like to push this narrative of hustling incredibly hard, having a scarce amount of downtime, and dedicating every facet of yourself to your profession. And I get it, I do. This is how some people choose (and need) to operate in order to survive. I wish I could possess that kind of work ethic. But I just don’t. 

I’ve never really been a person that likes to put in a lot of effort. Yes, I know how bad that sounds. I realize that I’m making myself appear like a lazy fuck. But, in all honesty, I kind of am. Don’t get me wrong, I have many things that I am incredibly passionate about. I love the feeling of starting on a new project, being so excited that you can’t stop moving and fidgeting. That’s all wonderful. If I could design the perfect day, though, it would probably just include taking a nap. 

I was having a conversation with some friends recently, in which they casually mentioned my “Peter Pan Syndrome” diagnosis. (I say that word lightly. PPS is not, technically, a diagnosable ailment.) The only thing was, it seemed that everyone had discovered that I suffered from this condition before I did. At first, I was a bit insulted. It only took about 5 seconds for reality to set in, though. Yeah, I definitely have that.

When you Google the term, most of the immediate results have to do with being in a relationship with an immature man. Actually, when people think of PPS, it’s likely they’ll picture a bunch of dudes that live in their parents’ basements and eat Flamin’ Hot Cheetos for dinner. In reality, anybody can come down with a case of this sordid condition, regardless of their gender. It’s less about what you look like, and more about how terrified you are to grow up. Because, really, fear is the root of the issue, as it is with most things. If you asked me what I am most afraid of in the world, I would without hesitation tell you that the idea of never being a child again, of never feeling that sense of pure, unfiltered euphoria that only comes with youth is what keeps me up at night.

To me, adulthood looks so mundane and boring. That’s because it is, at least, some of the time. Most people are able to make it through the monotonous grind of everyday life. They can comprehend the fact that, if they persevere through something that they don’t like to do, they’ll get to something better later. Logically, I know this too. But I think I may have been born without the part of your brain that allows you to actually do it. Just like a child, I have the unwavering need for everything to be fun, all the time. Obviously, that isn’t possible, which leaves me with a lot of unfinished goals and no patience for, well, most things.

With my lack of patience comes anxiety. You know how I said that I think I was born without the part of my brain that helps you push through boring tasks? Well, I also think that I was given a little bit too low of a threshold for anxiousness too. Because I know that I prefer to be constantly entertained, I get stressed about how I’m going to deal with the fact that I inevitably won’t be. What ensues is a circle of dread that can leave me feeling like I’m in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the way to Hell.

In almost every essay that I’ve read about Peter Pan Syndrome, the writer generally discusses the tactics that they plan to implement to combat it. I think that’s lovely. If you’re somebody that tends to be able to solve your problems, I highly salute you. In my case, the issues of life tend to do a bit of lingering. Now, I’m not saying this to make myself sound pitiful. It’s just a fact. I avoid things. When something goes wrong, unless there’s an immediate and obvious solution readily available (that doesn’t require very much effort), I’ll probably just pretend to forget about it until I actually do. Which, in my defense, isn’t that difficult, as I have kind of a shitty memory.

With that being said, I don’t really know what’s going to happen when I go to college. I could flourish and thrive in the environment. Or, I could crash and burn. Only time will tell with that. (Not to get off topic, but I really hate that saying. Like, if only time is going to be able to tell what the future holds, can it not give me a slight heads up? Even just a day in advance would be great.) What I do know, though, is that it’s not going to be easy. I’ll miss my family, the environment that I’m familiar with, the luxury of being a child. 

But something that I’ve learned is, it’s actually alright to be uncomfortable. I was pretty surprised when I first heard that. It’s one of those things that nobody ever really teaches you. When we’re kids, we learn about what’s painful. We’re not exactly told what to do with that pain. Or that, sometimes, it’s actually necessary to feel it. I’m not lying to you, though. Discomfort isn’t fun but it won’t kill you. If I want to remember anything as I prepare to embark on the beginning of adulthood, that’s definitely it.