In a hospital located in Henderson, a small East Texas town, I cried for the first time on April 11, 1982 as I entered this world as an emergency Caesarean. My parents named me Tiffany Pearl. Pearl at my father’s request as it was his mother’s name. Tiffany because it was the only name my mother liked with Pearl.
I grew up all over East and Southeast Texas in one small town after another, in one small town church after another. My entire family is extremely religious. Most of them are or have been faithful members of the Church of Christ, which in my opinion would be better named the Cult of Christ but that is another story. This church was our perfect facade for family perfection. My actual childhood – the childhood which occurred on days other than Sunday and Wednesday, the parts of it I can even recall that is, was very chaotic, extensively abusive, and very nomadic. I suppose it was mostly because we were 1.) predominately poor, 2.) my parents where children raising children, and 3.) for the mere fact that mental illness plagues my lineage. Honestly it was just another typical southern childhood. A childhood I managed to survive and not only to survive but to eventually break free of. Needless to say, our little Christian family of four did not grow according to plan however, and I am the one branded with blame.
Today, my parents and my sister live as cozy neighbors to one another in a little town in Southeast Texas. Nearly a decade ago now, the four of us somehow became the three of them and me. Prehap
s it’s because I denounced my parents faith. Prehaps it’s because just a year out of high school I moved away from them. Prehaps it’s because at age 22 I came out of the closet. For whatever the reason, this severing lead me to a momentary mental breakdown. Of course other surface reasons, other failed relationships caught the blame but my excommunication from my family was the root of it all. Within the depths of despair I found myself disappearing in, an epiphany occurred: the three of them and me will never be the four of us again.
So what did I do? At 24 years of age, I moved away again and this time out of Texas entirely. It was a good move and the best decision I’ve ever made. Not long after my move, I became we. Yes, this misplaced Texas girl fell in love with a misplaced Yankee.
“I look back on where I’m from, look at the woman I’ve become, and the strangest things seem suddenly routine.” However, once you walk far enough away to look back you can clearly see the strangest things as they truly are - strange.
It’s amazing what can happen once you remove yourself from dysfunctional equations.
How amazing is it exactly to find yourself not only in a suited environment but also in loving, kindred relationships? Oh it’s amazing enough to cause one to re-evaluate ones entire outlook on life. I was finally free. And with my newly found freedom I did a little research, did a little traveling, did a little tasting, dabbling in worlds previously unknown, chewing on questions I previously thought too dangerous to swallow. I denounced organized religion stating it the root of all evil. And following that decision, I denounced god altogether bravely accepting my life and my death as my responsibility. Rather than rocking the boat, I guess I just sank it altogether. And because of this my family, immediate and extended, is no longer comfortable enough to even communicate with me. I am understandably too much of a shock on their traditions. I realized that save living a lie there just was no place for me in their lives. And so my epiphany simply became Tiffany. The three of them and me will never be the four of us again. But even with this acceptance, it all still distressed me very much. That is until I discovered Women Who Run with the Wolves written by Clarissa Pinkola Estes.
Within this books universe of wisdom I discovered the Mistaken Zygote Syndrome and subsequently I slowly started processing the pain in my life and realized that no one is at fault. Being different is just being different and it’s okay. I realized I simply need to find where it is I belong. For I read that no one can feel whole until one finds belonging. Where is it I belong I wondered? In what place could I find home? My then current location? No. So, I moved away yet again. My little Yankee returned to her home. And shockingly, so did I. That’s right. I am convinced that I am finally home. Yes I am at home “way up north” 1600 miles away from that small East Texas hospital where I first found my voice.
New England finds me thriving instead of surviving for the first time in my life. And it’s mostly because I finally realized that I am not a duck. I am not a duck. I am a swan.
I am a swan that loves to cook!
Okay, okay so I love to eat, and therefore, I love to cook. In fact, cooking is my hobby, writing recipes my down time, reading Michael Pollan my education. I wake up thinking about how best to prepare dinner and fall asleep with thoughts of how dinner could have been even better.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes
