Leaving Home

First of all, I'd like to apologize to my readers. I feel as though I've been rushing through some of these stories just to meet some self-imposed deadline. Also, I am not going exactly in order, but I am not sure if it matters. I want to give you the same passion consistently, but I'll admit, sometimes it's hard to get in touch with feelings you've locked away long ago. Feelings that have hardened and have made themselves a part of your heart. I visited Simple Simon Says and read an anecdote that made me think, "What if people only knew me during my times of great tragedy?" I wondered what they would think of me; would they think I was strong or whiny? Perseverant or defeated? Maybe I am all of those things, but I think most of all, I am independent - it's why I left home at 19 and never looked back.

I had always been a good student. I started reading when I was 2 and a half. I was very curious about the things around me; I wanted to know how they worked and why they worked. When I was finally ready for school, I read voraciously; completing assignments well before they were due. My school years were littered with gifted programs. My dream was to become a doctor. I remember playing with a little doctor's kit my family had given me for Christmas; pretending to take my brothers temperatures and testing their reflexes with the little plastic hammer. By freshman year of High School I had my life planned out: I would be a doctor by 25, be married by 26, and have a family of my own before I turned 30. It makes me smile now, it all seems so ludicrous. As I recently told one of my younger brothers stressing out about college, life comes whether you are prepared or not, and my life at that time came rushing at me.

My father left when I was five (we will explore this more tomorrow), and my mother had been a single parent for most of my life. There were times when she worked 3 jobs at once to make ends meet; after all, there were 4 children to feed. For a while, my mother carried the burden of our family on her own, but as I got older and wanted more things - like to go to the prom - It became evident that I needed to help with that burden. I began working just before I turned 17. Somehow I managed to juggle my school work, home life, and job. I was able to pay for some of the things I wanted and could help out a little with household expenses. I felt like an adult, taking care of my responsibilities.

Senior year, college applications sent, responses received. I sent out 10 applications. Of all of them, I received one acceptance, to a prestigious and very expensive school. At the time I was so happy, I never thought about how it would be paid for.

Going into the admissions office, I felt a sense of pride, of the thousands of people who applied to this school I got in. I was pre-med, just as I had planned, but there was a price to be paid. I graduated High School on a Friday, and started a pre-semester workshop for college that Monday. There was no summer vacation. No time to gracefully finish a maturing process that happens when one leaves High School. I dove in head first, inundated with Chemistry, Literature, and Calculus. That summer, there was only school to think about.

My first official semester, I went to the bursar's office to pay my tuition. Even with the scholarships, loans and grants, there was still a hefty cost. I didn't have the money to pay for the school and I only had 2 weeks to get it. My first thought was to ask my mom to reach out to my dad for the money; this was naive of me, I know, particularly considering that I hadn't seen him in over ten years. News got back to me that he wouldn't pay for my education. I was devastated. Somewhere in my heart I thought I might have made him proud of me, proud enough to want to be a part of my life again. In the end, my mother had to borrow the money from God knows where, but I knew I would have to pay my own tuition going forward.

That semester I started with one job. One job became two jobs, and two jobs became three jobs. I was pre-med with 3 jobs. It was insanity. It just seemed like I had so much to carry; my tuition, helping with the household expenses, and meeting my own personal needs (books, transportation, etc.). One job was at a quasi-fast food joint, another at an art company, and yet another with a well-known social club. On top of that I had extra-curricular activities with my sorority of sorts.

Changes began to come, first slowly, then rapidly. I began having panic attacks on my way home. One was so bad, a stranger offered to assist me. Then I began lots of under-age drinking with my friends. One night, in a cab, the cab driver began talking to me. He wanted my phone number. I didn't want any trouble so I gave it to him, at the time I was too green to think of a fake number and name. He called and called but I would tell my mother to say I wasn't home. Finally, he had a friend of his call, and I began dating the friend. So at the time, I was dating, had 3 jobs, was pre-med, and had just been elected president of my sorority. I was fried.

It all stopped, or more accurately, I stopped. I stopped working, I stopped attending classes, I stopped doing things I loved. When I went out with my boyfriend I would cry when he drove me back home. I felt like going back home was equal to putting a 1 ton weight on my chest. It was unbearable. I couldn't face that place, I didn't have the fortitude. Finally, he asked me to move in with him, and I said yes.

We planned it for February. We had only known each other for 4 months and I was moving in with him. He worked in IT and was 16 years older than me. That is about as much as I knew about him at the time. One day I casually mentioned to my mother that I would be moving; I'm not sure if she didn't hear me or merely dismissed me, but there was no reaction.

Then, the day finally came. My friends came over to help me pack my things. My mother wanted to know what was going on.  Again, I told her that I was moving. She was furious. She called me a jackass, a bitch, a slut; she called me every name she could think of - I was stupid for moving in with a man I knew nothing about - I was going to be hurt. I watched her sit at the dining room table and cry. Cry to heaven, cry to God, but my heart was ice. I left, and I would only return to visit.

Tomorrow, The Loss of a Father. .