In real life, time extends infinitely into the past and as far into the future. There is an endless number of points of view, one for every consciousness that ever was and will be created. And so stories overlap, intertwine, collide. It is an amusing pastime to blame, judge, believe that one story is more correct than another. And to a certain extent, there is a truth to this…my version of my life is the one that is right in my eyes. But to always remember that everyone sees things this way, well, stories get a little confusing with too many narrators, rather like an M.C. Escher painting. And so I choose to write this story from one point of view only, namely mine. Is it completely correct in the eyes of an impartial observer? Probably not. But then I have to ask, does such a thing exist? So keeping that in mind, I begin.
This particular story opens on a young woman of 22, newly out of college, for the first time moving more than 30 miles away from her parents. The young woman is me. The new home is Portland, Oregon.
I remember telling my parents that I was going to move. “But what are you going to do there?” asked my mom. “And will you have enough money? And how will you find a place to live? And what about your health insurance?” “She is still covered under my insurance for now,” my dad spoke up. “But I agree. Why don’t you just move back in with us and save money while you’re figuring things out? Then you can spend it on something really worthwhile, like your future education.”
I looked at them, saying nothing, partly because I didn’t know what to say, partly because I knew that anything I could say wouldn’t matter anyway. I finally decided on, “Look, I already told you, I’ve got to get out of here. If I stay in Houston any longer, I’m going to go crazy.”
“Moving to Portland sounds pretty crazy to me. But what do I know, I’m just your father,” mutters my dad with not a little bitterness.
Mom: “Look honey, you know that we love you and we respect your decisions. But we just don’t understand why you have to ‘find yourself’ so far away from us. Haven’t we been good parents? Haven’t we always been there for you? You’ve always tried to assert your independence from us. Why don’t you just let us take care of you for a little while? It would mean so much to us. We love you so much, you know.”
Another silence. Finally: “If you can’t understand why I’m leaving, then I can’t explain it to you. I just have to go, that’s all. There’s nothing else to it. I’ve already booked my ticket, I’m leaving in a month.”
Tears well up in my mother’s eyes. I play with the blue and white fringes of our checked tablecloth, not wanting to look at her. I hate this. I want them to understand, I want them to trust me. Why don’t they trust me? And why does my mom have to take it so damned personally? It has nothing to do with her. Well, okay, yes it does. But not in the way she thinks. Of course I want her to be happy. I’d do anything for her to be happy. Anything except stay there and live with them. Foolish, crazy, naïve? I didn’t rule out the possibility. But I had to know…I had to find out for myself what it meant to really be on my own.
