What Liz Said

My parents divorced when I was two years old, and a few months before my 14th birthday, I was sent to live with my father as my mother was deemed unfit. From the age of 14 on, I counted down the days until I could go away to college. I wanted an escape. I loved my father, but I could not stand living there. I never felt wanted. I never fit in to their grand plan.

Their life was money, first class, wine lists, fine clothing, and prestige and no matter how hard I tried I was the odd one out; I was the black sheep. I wanted to fit in, though. I wanted to belong in this fabulous lifestyle. The lifestyle where we’d go off to Nantucket or London, never have to worry about money, etc. Where everyone oozed success and greatness. The sad reality was that I never quite belonged. I erred on the side of artsy. I felt as if my ideas were always seen as impractical; I had to mold myself into someone else in order to fit in. I thrived in theater instead of sports. i was never a daughter one could brag about in social circles. My one strength was that I always put away stellar grades. I was smart. I was outgoing.

College time came around and I was thrilled. I received offers and quite a few hefty scholarship offers from all the schools I applied to and ultimately ended up at Boston University. It was everything I wanted which was pretty much one thing: Far away from Washington DC and an urban environment. I had fallen in love with Boston as it was a stopover on our way to and from Nantucket one summer.

I had a sick feeling in my stomach, however. Escape was what I had always wanted. I wanted to get away. This was what I had been waiting for all these years. Every time I had been reduced to tears just because I didn’t wash a dish properly I would remind myself that all I had to do was get through high school, and freedom would be waiting for me on the other side. It didn’t matter that I always felt ashamed or as if everything I did was wrong, I would be out of there after senior year. I could not shake the dread of impending disaster, sadly, but I just kept my head up and my focus remained forward.

To quote Ian Malcolm in Jurassic Park, “God, I hate being right all the time.”

I arrived at Boston University in September 2001, and within a month my resolve withered. I guess part of me expected that with freedom came wisdom, understanding, and direction. Instead I found confusion, lack of self-esteem, and depression. I was completely capable of doing work; not to toot my own horn, but there was a reason I got into every school I applied to. Yet I could not get it together, and like a house of cards, I fell to the ground in a heap. I self-destructed. I didn’t come to college to go to college. I went to college to get away from my problems. What I didn’t realize, however, was that I had no idea who I was and I was left aimless and without a safety net.

I slept a lot and focused on things that made me happy. Photography, writing, and movies. I felt like this shell of a human being, and my depression was only reinforced by the notion that I have finally achieved what I had fought for for years: freedom. What was I doing with it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I could hear the voice of my stepmother in my head, all the times she called me a loser (or other various names) and couldn’t help but believe she was right.

I said to myself, “This must be rock bottom.”

By the time July 2002 had rolled around, the relationships with my father and stepmother were completely demolished, although there wasn’t much there to begin with. After spending a week in self-imposed isolation in my room of our Great Falls 4 bedroom colonial I emerged. I knew I wasn’t going to be allowed to stay living with the, nor did I want to.

I wanted to move to Boston.

Photo by me.

A week later, with my whole life packed into two over-stuffed suitcases and $500, I arrived at Logan International Airport. I remember breathing this tremendous sigh of relief. I was free. Again. I arrived at my apartment in Boston, on Huntington Avenue, near Jamaica Plain. It was summer. The sun was bright and shining. I had a little fan in my baby blue room. I deliberately put away my clothes in silence, just enjoying the sounds of birds chirping set against a chorus of honking cars, the T (Boston Subway) chugging along the street, and the smell of summer wafting around me.

The years that followed were filled with strife, heartache, and lots of experience, yet it was when I feel I was born. That’s when my life started.

My life started when, for the first time, in a city of strangers and no friends, I felt at home. i don’t know what that says about myself, but it was liberating. Was I scared? Of course. I had never been on my own. I had never managed money. I had never worked a full-time job. All of a sudden I was thrust into the real world. I had been to London, New York City, and everywhere in between, and yet this was the first time I felt like I was seeing the world for what it really was: limitless options.

I was so excited. A girl with a suitcase full of dreams and clothing from the Gap in a big, bright, and bold city.

That’s when the Liz I am today started to take shape.

It amazes me to look back on the hard times in my life. Sometimes I do look back and cringe, but other times I realize that while times were tough and some situations were of my own design, I wouldn’t change any of it. It turned me into a survivor. It’s what has given me my strength.

How funny is it that what I thought was the biggest failure of my life, which was supposed to destroy my future by society’s standards, is what led me to become so damned happy.

Even the time I was homeless, but that’s a story for another day…