Change (in the House of Life)
Adulthood was said to be the next chapter — soon to be highlighted by an exciting high school graduation and eighteenth birthday, but unknowingly close to being inked out by a series of dark, life-altering events.
I wouldn’t know it then, but in a short time my anticipated growth would be stunted by malevolent men and suppressed grief, and my small capacity for self-protection snuffed out by desperation to leave.
Several missed calls filled my phone screen, one after another, until I finally answered and heard Autumn’s frantic words. I nearly fell to my knees, sobbing along with her: my best friend who, mere moments before, had just lost her mother.
Another friend raced me from the store we were at to my home, as tears spilled from my eyes and landed on the passenger seat of her car. I had but one job to do and knew I couldn’t drive in that state. It was my duty as her best friend to be there for her, to lean on, so I barged through the door of my house and asked my mom to drive me to Autumn…but first we had to find Ron.
We would locate and leave him with her, but there would be no need for my presence, so I’d go back home. In my first encounter with a death so close to me, I’d be left to graduate without my best friend and try processing my grief all alone.
What words or actions could I offer my newly motherless friend when such loss had never struck my life before? If she needed a mere crush who knew the loss of a parent to hold her tightly through her grief, who was I to try and take his welcomed place?
It’s been said time and time again that grief changes a person, and it wasn’t until recently that I’ve been able to see that truth – to see the changes brought on by such tragedy.
We were never the same after that night, as young women nor as friends. Our carefree innocence, collaborative creativity, and the collective light we once shared, were all ripped apart by the claws of an unexpected death.
She was left without a mother, and I was left with the shell of my best friend…neither of us able to process it together, to ever fully reconcile. I ran away, leaving her and all the other friends I could no longer relate to behind.
That was not solely to blame for my departure, but only a small piece of the puzzling puzzle of my life then. Another piece that often presented a dazzling picture of young love, was ground down to a grotesque image of selfishness, emotional torment, a budding relationship beyond repair.
It was a serving of my own foul medicine, as I had endlessly chased those highs of love to fill a void, within the very friendships of my own – only to leave those guy friends in a similar state of heartbroken confusion, and jealous of the next one on my list. So, it seemed I was just an evil temptress and deserved to be heartbroken, too.
Instead of another pining young fellow, I was swept up by a more mature, self-assured, and flirtatious man. He remained slightly out of reach for some time, but ultimately chose me to be near, and for that I fell hard.
He reciprocated my feelings of lust and desire, but eventually wanted more than just kisses, he wanted sex. We didn’t have to go all the way, he’d say, but I held tightly to my morals and said I still wanted to wait. But I’d soon realize that I was not worth waiting for, and he could get what he wanted from one of my friends instead.
He would still show up and charm me, and show me that although I denied him my virginity, he was still a great comrade of mine. The night I left home, he sent me off with a letter, claiming his abundance of love for me and noting travel tips to help along the way. Sure, he meant well, but his written words only added to my pain and confusion around what were proper ways to show love.
The consistent redirecting of attention and affection, the kind gestures paired with aggressive touch, the whirlwind of jealousy and bewilderment, all created a state of heart-wrenching whiplash that I couldn’t continue to withstand. I ran and left him, along with all my other young suitors, behind.
Another piece of the puzzle exhibited the image of an inexperienced young girl; one who felt invisible to her family and weighed down by sacrifices of autonomy, for a spoon-fed dream to get a college degree – a picture of me.
I was so desperate to leave the house I grew up in, so enraged by all I’d witnessed and seen, but housing was an added expense I couldn’t afford. If the debt of tuition alone wasn’t overwhelming, add books and gas, and personal needs, the paychecks of a full-time job wouldn’t be enough, so definitely no adding the rent of an apartment or dorm.
I’d be waiting too long to live on my own, due to a defeating four-year forecast of being trapped under my parents’ roof to survive.
Some people would feel grateful for that option, and maybe I should have, but I did not. A full schedule of classes, hours of studying, and working part-time, became too much for me to carry, and I felt enslaved to a future that I couldn’t be sure was truly wanted.
When my life began to unravel, and so many changes seemed to tear it apart, I said yes to the first offer to leave it behind for a fresh start.
After feeling deserted by my unrecognizable friend, less significant than men she barely knew, I chose to desert our friendship for that offer to start anew. After tasting that final piece of abandonment, topped with bitter notes of false romance and love, I abandoned the opportunity to refine my taste in men, to settle for a new unloving and abusive bond.
After years of feeling overlooked by those responsible for caring for me, needs neglected and unmet, I overlooked their need to know where I was, and just wrote a goodbye letter with only a few details before I left.
I’d venture far away from that pitiful gift basket of unwanted circumstances and change, hopeful that I’d enter a portal to a world more beautiful than anything I’d ever known. Just like I always imagined – fiercely, bravely, and alone. But of course, some foreign lover would be on the other side waiting to greet me, to be with me, to show me the ropes and give me a better life.
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This piece was written to Prompt Seven in the Writing to Reckon Journal: For Survivors of Spiritual, Religious and Cultic Abuse — December 2023
