There's definitely a period of time when I would have benefitted greatly if only I had found a way to be happier, and my happiness would have immensely helped my family as well. When we first moved to Georgia from California, I fell into a huge depression. I thought I had prepared myself mentally for the move. It was a decision that was my idea to start with. Since my husband and I had both lost our jobs in California, I felt it was the perfect time to make a clean break. My husband had been offered a job here, and I was hoping that the move would expose my daughters, 11 and 8 years old at the time, to a new culture and a different way of life. I wanted them to grow up experiencing a variety of lifestyles and this would be a great opportunity to do just that.
What I wasn't prepared for was the close-mindedness of a small Southern town, and the difficulty of breaking into a social life in a place where the inhabitants basically distrust people from "the outside." I know I've already written about our attempt to have a party the first Christmas we lived here, and only three people showed up. There were very real, almost palpable vibes given off by the native Maconites that we just didn't belong here. I've had long discussions about it with other "newbies" to the area since then, and they've picked up on the same feelings.
I vividly recall one of the first school outings that I attended with my daughters at the local roller rink. I sat observing as my oldest daughter, Michelle, who was always the more shy and reserved of the two girls, circled around and around the rink by herself. I watched as Julie, the more self-confident of the two, approached a small group of girls in her class and began talking to them. One by one, each girl turned her back and skated off, leaving Julie standing there alone. I could see the puzzled look on her face, and I began asking myself what we had done by moving away from our familiar, comfortable surroundings--and more importantly, what had we done to our daughters?
My mind whirled and my emotions eventually overcame me, so I called to the girls and told them it was time to leave. They didn't mind; neither of them was having much fun anyway. As they took their skates off, I hid my tears from them. I didn't realize I was being watched until a woman came over and asked me if something was wrong. To this day I don't know who she was, but there was true concern evident in her kind expression. I simply told her I'd be OK. She asked if I was sure, and I said yes. I wish so much that I had confided in her--who knows, perhaps she was in the same boat or maybe she had been in a similar situation in the past. At the least, she might have sympathized and turned out to be a new friend. But at the time I didn't want the girls to see how "broken" I was and I just wanted to leave that place. So I brushed her off with brief, vague answers.
It all ended up OK and my daughters now tell me they're glad we moved here. They're each happy with their partners and their lives. But I probably went through a heavy depression for somewhere between a year to two years. I'd have to say that I've never completely adjusted myself. Admittedly, I'd still rather live elsewhere and I toy with the idea of moving away when we retire. However, I'm conflicted knowing that my oldest daughter Michelle and her family will definitely settle here. I guess time will tell what we decide to do.
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