Eleutheromania, Chapter 1: Departure

I don’t believe in miracles. I don’t believe that there’s a grand plan all made up for me; I have to make it for myself. I don’t believe everything happens for a reason. I believe there must be something bigger than us, something more than just people living and dying and rotting. I don’t know what happens after death, but I don’t think it’s heaven, and I don’t think it’s hell.

My name is Abigail Rossi and I’m eighteen years old. I just got out of high school and I know what you’re going to ask me next. You’re going to ask me where I’m going to school next year and what I’m going for and what made me decide to go for it. I’ll save you the time. I’m not going. No, I’m not a burnout. I had straight A’s in high school, and no I wasn't some weirdo, I had more friends than I knew what to do with but on that final day, after the graduation ceremony, looking at all the faces I had grown accustomed to and all the people that had become like family and I realized that I would never see most of their faces again, and it didn’t break my heart to realize it either. That was the hardest part.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have memories with these people, I had plenty of what you’d call “memories” although I don’t remember them too well. It was all a haze of smoke and liquor and laughing and falling down and standing together and helping with break ups. Nothing that mattered. I couldn’t think of one single memory with one single person that I felt had to be preserved exactly that way. What I mean by that is, I could swap my “friends” for any random person and it would still be the same memory. There was nothing special about the people, there was nothing special about the things they did, we were just a faceless nameless crowd running rampant and defying our parents and soaking up facts we didn’t care about. Just a bunch of drunks trying to do well in high school to keep society and our families off our asses so we could drink in peace.

College wasn’t going to be any better. We would just be a little older and a little drunker and I didn’t see the point of going to school to learn about God knows what so you can wind up in a shit job you hate just so you can get drunk for four years. I just want to make it clear that I’m not downplaying the importance of knowledge, I just don’t think school is the way to obtain it. At least not for me. I don’t want to sit in a little desk and watch some man or woman who hates their life try and tell me how to better mine. I just want to go out there. I want to find it all for myself, find it all on my own and I don’t even know exactly what “it” is. I guess I’m not looking to find anything but myself; I just want to know that I exist.

So I guess  that makes you wonder what I’m doing with my life. The answer is nothing. Not yet. And it’s not because I’m waiting for something to happen either. I don’t believe in waiting. It’s just that I don’t know what exactly it is that I want to happen. That’s the problem with me. I live in my head and it’s a convoluted and crowded places where words and ideas fly in all different directions. No periods, no commas, no structured sentences, just words that fall into lines, then begin to twist into spirals and wreak havoc like thousands of little hurricanes. And in my mind it’s a beautiful catastrophe but when these words begin to tumble out of my mouth they become sordid and dangerous and once they become actions they fall apart all together.      

The reason I’m telling you all this is because I’m moving out of my parents’ house today. Well I guess technically they kicked me out. They said I couldn’t stay unless I was going to school but the truth is I would have left either way. If I was going to school I probably would have chosen the school farthest away from home and even if they hadn’t kicked me out I would have left. My parents didn’t understand me. I know what you’re thinking, typical teenage girl, parents don’t get it, boohoo right? Maybe, you could be completely right. I don’t know I guess, I can’t really account for anyone else’s feelings. Maybe this is exactly how other teenagers feel but I think it’s different with me. They truly don’t understand who I am, but then again neither do I. I think that’s because of them though. I was never given the opportunity to branch out and express myself. My parents were extremely religious. They told me that the way in which they raised me was brought about by the teachings of God and for some kids, maybe that would have been enough but not for me. I wasn’t even sure he was out there.

I carelessly tossed all my belongings into boxes and stacked them haphazardly into the back seat of my car. It was a blue Ford Focus Hatchback; small, decent gas mileage, great safety reviews very practical really. I hated everything about the car. If I could I’d trade it in for a nice bicycle but even I think that would be a bit imbecilic.

I finished loading the rest of the boxes into the car then leaned against the hood and stared at my parents standing in the doorway. My mother’s sad hazel eyes did not return my gaze. They were aimed toward my face but it was clear she wasn’t looking at me. Her tangled brown hair was interlaced with strand of silver that betrayed her youthful countenance and her long thin fingers danced about each other, never remaining still for more than a second. She had grown exceedingly apprehensive with every day that passed.

My mother would call me into her room for what she called “life talks” at least twice a month since I was about seven years old. I think she did it so she saw that I was a disaster from an early age.

When I was little and my parents tried to get me to do things I didn't want to, I would wrap my favorite belongings and snacks from the kitchen in my favorite patchwork blanket. I would leave a note saying "I'm running away" and sneak into the treehouse in the backyard. I'd stay up there for as long as I had snacks and since I didn't eat much and I packed basically everything in the kitchen, I would sometimes spend days and on one occasion, weeks in the tree house. The only time I would come down was to take a baths in our little pond and feed my stuffed dog Sparky. I got down to go to school too; my parents wouldn't let me out of that.

I think Sparky was another reason my mother felt the need to have life talks with me. I was so attached to that stuffed dog, but it wasn’t like most little kids with their stuffed animals. I treated him exactly as if he were real and alive. I don’t think my mother realized that I didn’t actually believe he was alive, I just wished he was. He was the only one in the house who didn’t tell me not to be myself.

As far as the life talks, they were always short and confusing. She asked me the same thing every single time. “Do you understand that God is always there for you?” She’d inquire and my response was always the same.

“Then why can’t I see him?”

My mother always countered that with, “Darling, you don’t have to be alive to exist. You exist in the hearts of those you touch.” And that was where my dilemma began. If you don’t have to be alive to exist then what is the point of being alive? And you can’t “touch” someone who isn’t alive and so I guess the purpose of the nonexistent living was to make others exist. I know that wasn’t at all what she meant but my mother should have known better than to toss those words at me. She knew my mind; she must have known I wouldn’t just accept it. Sometimes I wonder deep down if she even believes herself, or if she’s just going through the motions. Sometimes I think she intentionally planted that seed in my head; like she wanted me to find something more, like she wanted me to be something more.

My father on the other hand there was no question about. He was a pious man, strictly Catholic. I suppose I should be cautious when when using the words “strict” and “Catholic” in conjunction with each other.He isn’t like the movie Catholics. He didn’t try to beat the lord into me or beat satan out of me or whatever their religious reasoning was in movies. He didn’t even try to force Catholicism on me. The second I turned sixteen he basically let me make my own decisions. It’s not that he was okay with it, he was revolted by the majority of my actions but he also realized that forcing me would do nothing but turn me against him and HIM.

My dad was a light hearted man wearing the wrong face. His features were stern and intimidating. He had large weathered hands that looked like they’d killed many men. In actuality, he just made woodwork for my mother in his spare time. He had thick caterpillar eyebrows and drooping eyelids which fixed his face in a permanent scowl. He had warm friendly brown eyes but they were dominated by his eyebrows, and not to mention he was six foot four and fairly muscular for  a man his age. Even worse was the fact that he rarely spoke, he just grunted and smiled. Of people interpreted it as callousness but I knew him better. He had severe social anxiety growing up. He had to be homeschooled because he was so afraid of being around people. That’s how he “found God”. He told me he was unable to interact with people so he spent his time in his bedroom reading his Bible and it gave him the strength to branch out and meet new people.

I looked at the both of them and made sure to maintain an air of impassivity. My mother’s eyes were brimming with tears and although my dad was his still and silent self, the rigidity in his body gave away his sadness. I had been so excited to leave that I hadn’t even thought about how my parents felt. The hardest part was that I didn’t plan to see them again. Once I left that was it. I told them I had found an apartment which wasn’t a complete lie. I did find an apartment, and I was going to get it but when I called to let them know my final decisions, I was told that the apartment had just been sold to a young couple. I figured they deserved it more than I did. I guess I could have easily explained the situation to my parents. They wouldn't have hesitated to give me a few more days or weeks or even months if I needed but something in me was aroused by the idea that I had no place to go. It was scary and exciting and I had already begun crafting this beautifully disastrous adventure in my head.      

I was dreaming of freedom and nothing more. I wasn’t afraid of pain. I wasn’t afraid of struggle. In fact I craved it. My family was quite opulent. I could have anything I wanted if I just asked but I didn’t want it that way. To me that wasn’t living, i wanted to earn something, I want to feel something. My family was so perfect but I didn’t want perfect, I wanted meaningful and in order to obtain that I had to leave them completely.

I broke the silence between the three of us and surprisingly my dad was the first to open his arms for a hug. I hugged him tightly and he kissed the top of my head. My mother was next, she wrapped her thin arms around me and muttered something in my ear. I’m not sure what she said but I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want last words. That’s not completely true. It’s not so much that I didn’t want last words, I just didn’t want the guilt that came with them. “See you later froggy.” My dad chuckled and I smiled back as if it didn’t slice through my heart.

Like most little girls, I had a tomboy phase. Mine lasted from birth to about a year ago. From age five up until age eleven I was obsessed with frogs. They excited me. They were green and ugly and the hopped about without regard for their surroundings. My parents called me froggy for the longest time because of it. For my sixteenth birthday they got me a frog cake. I remember being so embarrassed and angry. It seemed so miniscule now.

I wiped the memory from my mind and walked back to my little blue car. I took one last look but I made it quick. I didn’t want anything imprinted, I didn’t want to remember any details, I couldn’t carry such a heavy burden so I waved one final goodbye and climbed into the car and backed out of the driveway.