I was beginning a new life with a new name and new address -- same social security number, though. I had spent more than half my life living with a religious group, or Community, as a people mistakenly call a Nun,  for twenty-eight years. 

I wasn't actually a Nun, but a Sister. That term is something only those who were a product of Catholic Schools could comprehend.  If I’d been a Nun, I'd never have been able to be a teacher, especially a public school teacher.  Nuns never leave their monastery.  They're like female monks.  

One of the older members of my Community compared it to a cult -- not a Satanic or evil cult -- but a Jesus Cult.  I figured that was what it should be called -- a place where having your own mind is frowned upon and all come to pretty much think alike, putting their needs last and the group's needs first.

I now see how this has fit into the schema of my entire life.  I have worried my way through childhood and into adulthood, What does this or that person need from me?  I still struggle greatly with not getting into other people's business or trying to finagle things to go my way. 

Wouldn't it only follow, then, that I would join a group of women who take perpetual vows to be caretakers.   

Not until I left that group, did I begin to understand or accept who I am.  I once heard someone say, We learn what we live with, we practice what we learn and we become what we practice. It occurred to me the time had come,  I started practicing something else.  One day I was Sister Elizabeth, and the next day, I was Lizzy.

To safely tell my story, I want to use the time-worn expression with a little addition of my own. The names and some of the places, herein, have been changed to protect the guilty and me.  The rest is the truth as I see it.   

I do anticipate I will offend some people with what I have to say, but have heard most authors who write about real people, experience great opposition.  

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The Wondering

I was resolved to make up for lost time. At 47, I found my first apartment.  To some, it may have seemed cramped, with its small, but adequate kitchen and size-medium bedroom-livingroom combination.  But to me, it was a palace, my palace.

The first night I was there, I went around my apartment in quiet excitement and proclaimed each thing as mine. You may remember, in the convent, everything was clarified as community property. Everything was ours. 

I was in blissful disbelief as I sang, This is my sink, my shower, and my very own tub. A mirror, we didn’t have clear ones in the convent for fear vanity might sprout.  

I had my own cook stove where I could whamp up all of my favorite meals. I  planned to get a hold of my mother for her recipes. 

If anyone were sitting in my kitchen, they would see my performance of  a joy filled, tear filled ritual.  She had begun her new journey. 

About two more years would have to pass before I could feel I had my feet dug deep enough into the path I was meant to follow. 

As the leaves turned their myriad of colors and the air grew crisp, I sat in my apartment muddling over the question of packing my summer things away for another long cold nine or ten months or pack for moving.

I’d been waiting for one of my co-workers Andi to notify me when she planned to move out of her quaint rental cottage. I loved it and had daydreamed how I could fix it up to be mine to suit my inimitable style.  

Since it was self-contained with no one living upstairs nor in the next room, it seemed perfect. Why, it would be almost as if I lived in my own home.  

This wondering and waiting was driving me nearly crazy.  I had been slowly losing my sanity ever since Andi had announced she was thinking of moving. My mind wouldn’t stop. I felt like a hamster

Obsessive thoughts were never very far away. I chanted, Please Calgon take me away for a little vacation from these,what-if’s  plaguing me.”  my prayers to the Calgon gods were answered in the strangest manner. 

************** 

The Knowing 

I knew how I was going pack. I was going to buy my own home.

I had no idea where to begin and mentioned my dilemma while at an Alanon meeting one evening. As an adult child of an alcoholic, I often complicated matters for myself. 

If per chance, I did not, things worked out quite simply. One of her friends, Connie, a realtor, offered to help me.  

At Connie’s one token showing, I sensed a very dark and uncomfortable aura.  The house was very cramped and old smelling.

It had an odor and aura I knew I would never have been able to satisfactorily alter. 

I just knew this wasn't the right house for her.  Connie, must have felt she needed to show this one, so she could say she had shown me couple of houses for me to choose from. 

All along, Connie had another house in mind, “I can’t wait for you to see this next house. I’m sure you will fall in love with it,” as they say in the realtor business.  

Connie was absolutely right. She’d studied me well over our years together in Alanon. I couldn't believe how perfect that house was for me. 

Its open spaces and cathedral ceilings -- no pun intended --suited my personality.  I was ever grateful to Connie for her consideration about what would be the perfect home for me.