Everyone starts off wanting a perfect life --a fabulous job, a designer house, a model family. If we are lucky we even start off believing we have that life. We look at the world from the inside out, convinced everyone is like us. Then a thick fog rises up in front of us. Suddenly we look at the same things we possessed the day before, yet see them completely differently.

When I was a toddler, I remember feeling completely blissful most of the time. All my needs were met. I had a cozy house on a woodsy street, two loving parents, three sisters, pets, and trips overseas. Then I got a little older and began to understand just how messed up my life really was – or at least this is the way I saw it for a while. The first hint of my strangeness was when I discovered I had a life threatening nut allergy. Our home had to be cleansed of nuts and sesame, infuriating my sisters who were somehow convinced that I had done this just to get attention. I began carrying around an Epi-pen. Even the teachers on the playground had to follow me with a fanny pack full of medicine that could save my life … “just in case, ” they explained to me, as I sat alone at the nut free table in the cafeteria like someone with Ebola. As the years went by, I became aware of another problem. My parents were old. My mom didn’t have my eldest sister until she was 37. I was born when my mom was 41. My youngest sister did not come along until she was 44! Part of me loved getting a classroom visit form my mother, to drop off cookies, read a book or help with class parties. But part of me was mortified that she was older than all the other mothers. Why did my parents have to be so old? Also, my sisters were terrible. We fought all the time and they were always stealing my things and being sarcastic to me. One of them went out of her way to order dishes with nuts every time we went to a restaurant. She would take a small, slow bite, close her eyes as if in a trance and exclaim: “this is the best dinner I’ve ever had!”  I felt like the black sheep in the family. My extended family was no better in terms of making me feel “normal.” I had only one grandparent left alive. He was far away in Kansas City. Every year my school invited grandparents or special visitors for a special day of touring the school and activities. While my friends had two grandparents coming, I had to make do with my nanny or my too-old parents. Why couldn’t I have affectionate grandparents close to home like all my friends? I had almost no cousins, as both my mother’s sisters were unmarried and “special” – one because of schizophrenia and one because of developmental disabilities. When I was younger I never knew my aunts were different. I just thought they had a little problem speaking. As I got older, I realized they had labels that ensured I would be the weird one at my school.

My pets were another problem. My friends had small fluffy dogs. We had huge African lion hunters, as well as cats, rats, chickens, hamsters, guinea pigs and more. We even had honeybees and worms! Friends would arrive at my house and be shocked at the animals. Over time this made me feel even more apart. Then there were my activities (or should I say activity?). While most of my friends were allowed to try out a long menu of after-school activities, such as gymnastics, horseback riding, ice skating, theater, and tennis; my sisters and I had to choose only one and “focus. “ My parents both worked and this “focus” limited the amount of driving to what my mother alone could do to get us from activity to activity. Then the worst thing of all happened. At the end of fourth grade my parents announced that my younger sister and I would have to leave the school we had attended our entire lives. My older sisters were staying in private school, but we were “going public.” Money had become tight, according to my teary-eyed mother and the best we could hope for would be to get sent back to a private high school one day. I was devastated. Now I had to explain to my friends that I was being yanked out of school. This entire period of my life was like looking at myself from the outside and seeing an ugly, weird and unappreciated kid sitting alone in a dark classroom while her friends ran around in the sunshine.  I was absolutely convinced that everyone else had the ideal life and must be better than me to have won such a life.

In the midst of all this insecurity during my last year at private school, I had become close to one of those absolutely flawless girls. Amanda was pretty, incredibly rich, lived in the most elaborate mansion I had ever seen, got to do whatever activities she desired, had older brothers to protect her, and an adorable dog that fit in one of those designer purses.  She was like a picture out of a fashion magazine, who managed to let us all know just how lucky she was, whether it was the casual mention of a trip to the Bahamas the coming weekend or a tiny gold accessory peeking out from beneath the sleeve of her school uniform. Her mom was the right age and didn’t work so could stay home, keeping the house clean, cooking gourmet dinners and getting the house ready for the kids to come home from school. Amanda’s father drove an indigo blue sports car and obviously made a gazillion dollars. I remember one day we got handed Scholastic catalogues to bring home for book and toy orders to support the school. The next day I was ecstatic because my mom said she would let me order two books. As I handed the teacher the check, Amanda came in and exclaimed that she was getting everything in the catalogue. EVERTHING! I was astonished but then again she was wealthy and had a mom who would do anything. Another time Amanda and I went shopping at the mall with her mother. We strolled into a store and were gazing at some shirts, while her mom trailed behind us. Amanda was deciding between three shirts. She finally decided to go with a white ruffled blouse. I could hear my own mother telling me it was a “ridiculous shirt” and to “save our money for something more practical. “ However, as we left the mall her mom surprised with all the shirts in a tissue-filled shopping bag. Along with several additional items Amanda had not even wanted. I wasn’t surprised. I knew that that was the sort of thing that happened in Amanda’s life. I had always wished my life could be like hers. She had it all.

Shortly after leaving my old school, Amanda’s mother called and arranged to have me go for a sleepover. I was excited to see my old friend and hear what had been going on in my absence. I was proud she remembered me, too. I had never had an overnight at her house and figured nothing was going to beat a night sitting in her home movie theater eating popcorn and then camping out in her fairyland-themed bedroom full of plush pillows, down comforters next to a soft, cuddly dog. The day arrived. Her driver met us at the school drive. I was enthralled at the novelty of having a chauffeur instead of a mom in a dilapidated Jetta but also slightly puzzled, since her mom did not work and obviously had plenty of time to drive Amanda. We were giggling the entire way to her house, planning everything we would do down to the minute. When the driver pulled into her driveway, I stared in awe at her house. It was like a castle – with a massive yard, playground equipment like in my town park and a giant crystal blue swimming pool. I couldn’t help myself; I was beginning to feel sick with envy.  Then things changed.

As we pulled open the front door, my image of her perfect world began to crumble. A strong smell of cigarette smoke smacked me hard in the face. I cannot stand the smell of tobacco and knew immediately that at least one person in this house smoked. Amanda did not seem to notice the smell, or at least ignored it for my sake. There was nobody to greet us except for the maid who led us into the kitchen. A cook pushed plates of snacks in front of us and walked off without a word. In the background I could hear an argument going on between a man and a woman. Before I could decipher what was being said, Amanda dragged me away to her room. Even upstairs we could hear the fight getting louder, coming toward us. Amanda turned red in the face and switched on her music.  A couple slams and then her mom staggered into the bedroom with a cigarette in hand. “Amanda, why didn’t you tell me you had a friend shleeping over today?” Amanda’s mom slurred her words badly as she continued: “Elodie welcome to our housh.” I could tell she was drunk. Amanda was silent as I murmured a “thank you for inviting me.” Her mom turned and lurched out of the room again to continue the angry conversation with someone in the hallway. I turned to look at Amanda, who was crying quietly. I did not know what to say, so picked up some magazines and began talking about the pictures of actors and actresses and their clothes. Eventually a maid came back to our room and told us we should walk across the road to have dinner at The Club, where we would be allowed to put the bill onto their parents tab. That privilege lost all its appeal when I saw how disappointed Amanda looked at being told to leave the house to eat alone with her friend.

Over dinner at The Club, Amanda told me that her parents were in the middle of a divorce and that her father had already found a new girl half the age of him. But that wasn’t all. Her older brother had just been kicked out of school for underage drinking and her mom was not able to drive herself because of having a suspended driver’s license for drinking and driving. We ate slowly and gradually changed the subject to old friends and easier conversations about the past. Even then, when dinner ended, I was terrified to return to the house that night. As we walked back to the house, I began making excuses that my stomach felt sick and that I had better call my mother and go home, so that I would not get Amanda sick. I don’t think Amanda was fooled by my excuse at all. She handed me her iPhone without a word; and I stopped myself from making the call. I stayed the night.  Most of that night, I found myself comforting my friend, telling her that things were going to be all right and that everyone had things they wished were different in their lives.

“Amanda, don’t worry. It’s going to be all right. You aren’t the only person to have their parents be divorced. Would you rather have your parents be happy and apart or miserable and together? Everybody goes through something like this. It’s going to turn out all right.”

At the end of one of the longest nights of my lives, the miracle was that I actually had begun to believe in the power of my own words. We all have things to feel strange about. I suddenly realized mine were actually not as bad as they might have seemed. Some people had it worse than me. That Saturday morning, after a lonely breakfast of toast and jelly in the kitchen alone with Amanda, I heard my mother’s dingy old car grind up the gravel driveway with relief. Her smiling face had never looked so amazing. Thinks didn’t change for me completely that night – it took a few more years to really understand what I began to learn that afternoon at Amanda’s.

Now I realize that everyone has something that allows them to feel “strange” or “unique,” depending on how we choose to view it. I can see myself as a victim or a fascinating combination of characteristics and interesting tales, all of which shape who I am. As I look again at all the things I used to be embarrassed about, I realize that everyone (not just me and my family) has some pretty weird stuff going on behind the perfect façade. But nobody’s perfect.  Our imperfections and challenges (even Amanda’s) will make us smarter, stronger, more compassionate and tolerant. We just have to have enough patience to wait for the right perspective. I am who I am; and I am not ashamed.