I was a very unhappy girl. My world was crumbling around me. I had lost my parents, now I was about to lose my home and friends and all I had ever known. We were sent off to spend a week at the beach in Maryland then headed up to spend some time in the country at my cousin’s farm before moving to our respective new homes. I dreaded the end of our trip, but time has a way of moving forward whether you want it to or not and before long it was time to face the future. I remember the first day in my new home feeling uncomfortable and despondent. I wanted to be anywhere but there. The house we moved to was next door to my oldest sister’s high school friend who had five kids, among them two daughters who were around my age. They came over to welcome me to the neighborhood and encourage me to go out and explore but I wanted no part of it. Eventually, I acquiesced and over time grew to like my new kid ridden neighborhood, though I would soon have another hurdle to cross; being the new kid at my new school.
The first day of fourth grade had arrived and I was feeling sick with worry. I had never been the new kid before and it was not a role that I relished. I was very shy and didn’t make friends easily. I remember begging my sister not to leave me there as I lined up with my new class in the playground. I was eyed with curiosity by the other kids. It was a small school and fresh meat seemed to stick out like a sore thumb. At least my teacher seemed nice and I was able to make it through the school day without crying. The first six months or so of school was unbearable. As the new kid, I was mocked at every turn. It didn’t help that my assigned seat was next to the requisite “cootie” kid and I was teased that there was a love affair going on between us. Eventually, I made some friends and the teasing tapered off. By the start of fifth grade, I had regained my place at the top of the heap.
I had a hard time living at with my sister’s family, but then I would have had a hard time living anywhere that wasn’t my childhood home. I had decided almost the second I was told of my father’s death that I would take care of myself in the manner in which my parents would have wanted and I would not deviate from that plan. Over time I became accustomed to living there, but it would never feel like my real home because it wasn’t. This was no fault of hers. She did her best to make me a part of her nuclear family, but I did not want to be. I already had a family and I refused to betray them by becoming part of another. I had the added stress of going from being the youngest to the oldest and was expected to set an example for her young children, a role to which I was ill-suited. I resigned myself to my new fate and counted the days until I turned eighteen. In the meantime, I looked to my friend’s parents to fill the void my own parents had left which they filled with aplomb.
I ran away from home several times during my teen years desperately trying to call attention to how unhappy I was living there, but they were cries that fell on deaf ears. There was simply nowhere else for me to go. Fights with my sister and her family grew more intense and more disruptive to her family unit. When I was seventeen I ran away for what would be the last time. I was asked not to return to my sister’s house. After living with a friend’s family for a couple of months I was invited to live with my sister who is ten years older and her husband who had just purchased their first home in New Jersey. I finished my senior year of high school while commuting to New York from New Jersey and spent every weekend that I could crashing on friend’s couches desperate to continue the friendships I had worked so hard to cultivate. It was the single best living experience since my parents passed away. This sister took a different tack. She seemed to trust my decision making and largely left me to make my own decisions, gently encouraging me to see different sides when she disagreed with my proposed plan of action. I felt like I had a real say in my destiny for the first time and it helped to rebuild my confidence.
The deaths of my parents left an indelible mark on my psyche. I have struggled with its impact since it happened and still do to this day, thirty some odd years later. It has transformed a hopeful little girl into a cynical woman who has difficulty viewing change as a positive force. It has damaged my will to be happy as I now have a fear that any happiness I achieve will be swept away by events out of my control, much in the same way that happy little girl’s world was so rocked by the loss of the people that loved her the most. It has caused me to see God as a force of menace instead of comfort. But it has also given me a strength that I never would have discovered if I had been allowed to live the life I had lead up until that defining moment. I don’t know who I would be if my life had stayed status quo, but I think given the opportunity to meet her, I would still like me better the way I am now.
The first day of fourth grade had arrived and I was feeling sick with worry. I had never been the new kid before and it was not a role that I relished. I was very shy and didn’t make friends easily. I remember begging my sister not to leave me there as I lined up with my new class in the playground. I was eyed with curiosity by the other kids. It was a small school and fresh meat seemed to stick out like a sore thumb. At least my teacher seemed nice and I was able to make it through the school day without crying. The first six months or so of school was unbearable. As the new kid, I was mocked at every turn. It didn’t help that my assigned seat was next to the requisite “cootie” kid and I was teased that there was a love affair going on between us. Eventually, I made some friends and the teasing tapered off. By the start of fifth grade, I had regained my place at the top of the heap.
I had a hard time living at with my sister’s family, but then I would have had a hard time living anywhere that wasn’t my childhood home. I had decided almost the second I was told of my father’s death that I would take care of myself in the manner in which my parents would have wanted and I would not deviate from that plan. Over time I became accustomed to living there, but it would never feel like my real home because it wasn’t. This was no fault of hers. She did her best to make me a part of her nuclear family, but I did not want to be. I already had a family and I refused to betray them by becoming part of another. I had the added stress of going from being the youngest to the oldest and was expected to set an example for her young children, a role to which I was ill-suited. I resigned myself to my new fate and counted the days until I turned eighteen. In the meantime, I looked to my friend’s parents to fill the void my own parents had left which they filled with aplomb.
I ran away from home several times during my teen years desperately trying to call attention to how unhappy I was living there, but they were cries that fell on deaf ears. There was simply nowhere else for me to go. Fights with my sister and her family grew more intense and more disruptive to her family unit. When I was seventeen I ran away for what would be the last time. I was asked not to return to my sister’s house. After living with a friend’s family for a couple of months I was invited to live with my sister who is ten years older and her husband who had just purchased their first home in New Jersey. I finished my senior year of high school while commuting to New York from New Jersey and spent every weekend that I could crashing on friend’s couches desperate to continue the friendships I had worked so hard to cultivate. It was the single best living experience since my parents passed away. This sister took a different tack. She seemed to trust my decision making and largely left me to make my own decisions, gently encouraging me to see different sides when she disagreed with my proposed plan of action. I felt like I had a real say in my destiny for the first time and it helped to rebuild my confidence.
The deaths of my parents left an indelible mark on my psyche. I have struggled with its impact since it happened and still do to this day, thirty some odd years later. It has transformed a hopeful little girl into a cynical woman who has difficulty viewing change as a positive force. It has damaged my will to be happy as I now have a fear that any happiness I achieve will be swept away by events out of my control, much in the same way that happy little girl’s world was so rocked by the loss of the people that loved her the most. It has caused me to see God as a force of menace instead of comfort. But it has also given me a strength that I never would have discovered if I had been allowed to live the life I had lead up until that defining moment. I don’t know who I would be if my life had stayed status quo, but I think given the opportunity to meet her, I would still like me better the way I am now.
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