We have all heard that there is a time to weep, a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance. I’d like to add that there is also a time to leave, and timing is everything.
In 1978, just 3 days after graduating college, I left my childhood home, my friends, my Family, and the only life I had known in a small steel town in Western Pennsylvania to move to Denver, Colorado. I was 21 years young.
Full disclosure, there was a man involved in my decision. One who had my entire life planned out for me without my knowledge, or my consent. He was my first boyfriend. After that relationship I’m surprised he was not my last.
He was 4 years older than me, and was constantly telling me what (and what not) to do, as well as how to behave around his friends. Needless to say, I did not like where the relationship was going. So, I broke up with him.
Unfortunately, he refused to accept “no” for an answer. Seriously? I was young and inexperienced, but I knew that wasn’t right. I also knew him well enough that he would try to wear me down until I capitulated and said “yes.” I had to figure a way out. One that would stick, and one that would make an impact.
I was a skier. I loved the snow, the mountains, and just the sound of John Denver singing “Rocky Mountain High” on the radio made me swoon. Denver seemed like a pretty good place to live. Besides, it was about 1,500 miles away from the now ex-boyfriend, which was another perk.
I didn’t want to make the move on my own, but I was determined to leave and start my own life, one that did not include a controlling and manipulative boyfriend. I figured that if all of my ancestors could move from Eastern Europe across the Atlantic to start a new life, surely I could move across the country.
The closer it got to graduation, the more my classmates and I talked about future plans. Several of them planned to move, some planned to go back to their hometown, and some decided to stay in Pittsburgh. Believe it or not, Pittsburgh is a really fun city. As for myself, my original plans were to get a small apartment on my own, get a good job, and spend my free time skiing, going to ballet class, and enjoying the clubs until the boyfriend put a monkey wrench in my plans.
One of my roommates, who was originally from Cleveland, did not want to stay in Pittsburgh, nor did she want to go back to Cleveland (go figure). So, I took a deep breath and casually said, “Hey Jen. Why don’t you come to Denver with me?” Her immediate response was “okay.”
So, after the graduation parties and festivities were over and the ink on our diplomas were still wet, we packed my 1974 Ford Maverick with all of our earthly possessions and drove across the country to find our fame and fortune. We didn’t know a soul in Denver, but at least we had each other, so I knew everything would be okay.
Unfortunately, two weeks after arriving in Denver, my roommate met a man in a bar. She went home with him that night, and moved in with him 2 weeks later, leaving me completely on my own in a new town, a new state, in a crummy apartment, with a job I hated, and with a car that only started when it wanted to, leaving me stranded along the side of the road more times than I can remember.
I can still feel the pain of loneliness and abandonment I felt during the following months. I was so depressed that I even considered throwing in the towel and running back home with my tail between my legs. But then I remembered all of the naysayers who told me that I wouldn’t last 6 months in Denver, and would never be able to make it on my own.
I doubled down, got a nicer apartment, a better car, and a new job. I began making friends, and even went skiing by myself on my days off. Before I knew it, I was more at home in Colorado than I never knew possible, and I was loving my new life. Colorado was my new home, my adopted state, and I knew in my heart that I would never leave. I was wrong.
To be continued…
Originally Published on https://www.cherylilov.com/blog/
