4.17.16 How to leave home

Each of us has our story of coming of age. I think we all discover, as we grow up and listen to so many others tell their stories, that that our loveliest gifts and greatest challenges are relative. 

Here is a leaving home story, one of darkness into light.

During the winter vacation before I left home, I was sent both to my parent’s analyst (people with money in those days all saw analysts) and to typing school. Which is what young ladies did. They learned to dance with white gloves on and circulate politely at cocktail parties and they had to learn to type, so that if no one chose them to be a wife, they would have ‘something to fall back on’, ergo, they could become a Secretary.

The analyst in Boston was a kind of rich counterculture type, but still, with a tall ceilinged dark leather/library office. In those days, when you went to see one, they just watched you and you blabbed and they said almost nothing at all.

Their mission, given to them by my parents, was to, laughably, determine whether I would be allowed to leave home or not. But hey, I was game. And besides, I had a boyfriend with a little inherited money, who was itching to rescue me and escape far off somewhere. 

So I went to see Dr. Davidson three times, like some good fairy tale, up there on Beacon Hill. I remember parking the VW bug my parents bought my older brother and myself, to make things easier. I remember going on and on and on to the guy, in good faith. I told him I had three visits to do this thing.

On the third visit, the guy finally spoke. 

He told me my father was pretty screwed up but ok. And that my mother was very ‘fucked up’ and to leave as soon as I could. I’d never heard anyone say that word, but I got the message.

I went back home to the nightly struggle, and sat down and told them. I have to admit it was hysterical, their disbelief. They were doing that weird waspy pretense stuff, while trusting that a fellow adult would see things their way. They rejected what their guy said, and refused to ‘let me’ move out.

It was no big surprise. I told them the date I’d be leaving, giving them a month’s notice, because after all, I did loads of laundry and dishes and childcare and errands and kid lesson driving and parenting and up with babies in the night crap. I knew they’d take a big hit.
I knew my little siblings would take a bigger one, because I saw them as my own.

I knew my little siblings would take a bigger one, because I saw them as my own.
And yet, the anticipation of freedom was a powerful thing, so on that day, which they forgot, they were gone. My older brother was upstairs, and with his blessing, I asked him to please take care of the younger ones (16,14,10,8,2) My boyfriend dutifully came and we packed my few things and I was finally released to freedom, never ever looked back.