When I changed my name to Faith, I hoped it would help megain the ability to create a life I was proud of. The last name Lyons I completely regretted. Not only because it sounds like lying, which was what I had been doing to everyone I’d met in Hillsdale, but also because I chose it thinking it would help me be brave. But I wasn’t. I was still me: anxious, embarrassed, and a bona fide crowd hater.
I stopped at the one stoplight in town, watching as Randy wrapped the streetlight with red and silver tinsel, prepping for the upcoming Christmas decorations. He was using a weird spinning gadget. I couldn’t tell if it was helpful or making things more difficult.
My phone vibrated again, so I set it to silent.
I knew this was not the end of the conversation; it would now never end. The thought made me tired.
Growing up, my mother’s constant negativity at my attempts drained my soul, and I wasn’t excited to restart the exchange.
The sensible thing would be to change my number again, but she would just find it again. Money has always had its perks.
And I was hoping she had grown to accept me and my choices. That maybe she wanted to get to know each other as adults. I shook my head. Stupid.
I was born to continue the Luxe fashion empire. My parents had gotten it from an investor and had built it into the icon it was today. Dad was quiet to my mother’s demands. She had my life all mapped out: I would be LUXE Brand Ambassador, or as she called itthe face of the business.Which is why if my face was ever seen, there were strict expectations for it.
The light turned green and I continued down main street, passing Letty’s cat strolling down the road. I made a mental note to text her when I got home in case she was out searching for her again.
At home in NY, I always had to beon, you never knew when people would be watching, and they were always watching. Ishivered remembering the paranoia. I did interviews, needed to be seen at galas, and was always on parade.
My perfect life, fit into her perfect gilded frame.
The only problem in her equation was me.
I drove past the Bed & Breakfast and a group of boys shooting basketball in hats and mittens. I could see their breath in little clouds in the air. It was really cooling down.
I hated the spotlight. I hated being in the papers and all the fake connections and very real money flaunting. I puked before most social gatherings and panicked in crowds. The more I tried to be who she wanted, the more I struggled.
“Anxiety is normal. Take a pill and push through.”
“You don’t have a stomach ache, you are just dramatic.”
“Everyone wants to be you, can’t you see that? Stop embarrassing me.”
So I tried harder to be the popular debutante. The one who thrived in attention and loved crowds. I hated the person I became during my senior year, even if my mother had never been prouder of me.
I was popular, but I was mean. Like in those stereotypical high school movies with the popular mean girls, the ones you hate, and you love when they get their eventual comeuppance. Let’s just say I didn’t resonate with the hero of those movies; I was the villain.
I still hated watching any movies about high school.
I hid my anxiety and sadness behind a mask of bravado and bite. My therapist told me to forgive myself and move on. But some things I’m not sure should be forgiven, because then they might be forgotten. Words have consequences, and I used mine to hurt, and I would never go back to being that girl.
I turned down Park Street, and my little duplex came into view. There were only six, so I was lucky to find something to rent at all. It was the smallest thing I had ever lived in, and I loved it more than anything. It was mine.
Well, mine and Rose’s and the person who actually owned it, but you know, basically mine.
I would try to be worthy of this new life I was creating. I would try to set healthy boundaries and create the life I wanted.
Mom didn’t care about me. Mom didn’t know me, nor did she want to. She wanted a puppet, an empty vessel to shape, mold, and control.
I would need to spend my time and energy on things in my control, on my life in Hillsdale.
I walked into my apartment and turned on the lights as I went. The pressures and expectations of the world easing away.
My house smelled of vanilla and was blissfully quiet. I took off my blue high heel shoes and put them with my collection of heels. One good thing about being raised the way I was, I basically learned to walk wearing heels. Most teachers refuse to wear heels, but I loved how they made my legs look and helped me reach things on shelves.
I went to the bathtub and started the hot water. Hopefully, a bubble bath would help release the tight muscles in my neck and shoulders.
If not, I could try a new recipe as a distraction. I had wanted to try macarons for a while. It looked extremely complicated, which would be perfect.
