Vanilla

At Starbucks I always got the Skinny Vanilla Latte. Let's frame that in one image: me, downtown, in the black pea coat I always wore, usually over sweatpants, but not on this one particular occasion. On this occasion, I wore real pants, maybe even boots. I knew the calorie count of almost every item on the menu at Starbucks, which seems now like some savant thing, for white girls from suburbia. The Skinny Vanilla Latte was 'safe', a drink I could have and think, I'm being good. This is alright.

A homeless man was outside this Starbucks, asking for change. I walked by him, drink in hand, averting my gaze. He yelled after me, "Rich girl! So important, aren't you?"

Smith College is ranked #13 out of 210 National Liberal Arts Colleges. I had gone there because it was the best school I had gotten into; I was leaving a traumatic high school experience behind and was trying to embrace a new, happy future. But happy at Smith College I was not - my principle memories involve hurting myself, and hurting the people who were trying to save me.

The homeless man was yelling at me on a particularly sad day, the day I decided to drop out. I had been walking around downtown while listening to my iPod, making an internal pros and cons list for dropping out. With the homeless man's words - "So important!" - I was ashamed. I was crawling out of my skin already, and his words hit me right where it hurt. I later realized I was throwing away the very opportunity that his homeless man was talking about - going to a prestigious college, existing with all of my needs being met, and my life even exceeding those means.

Vanilla. That's the word I would have used to describe myself, did use to describe myself until very recently. I always got a Venti at Starbucks, a Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte, and I would continue to make that my regular order for many more years. Basic, my life and my disease. Being a depressed girl in a black pea coat, sipping her low-calorie beverage - who did I think I was? Vanilla. Vanilla. Vanilla.

I dropped out. I bounced around different hospitals, outpatient programs, homes. I hated who I was, who I had become. I didn't know then that other flavors could exist for me, didn't even entertain the notion that I could be Better.

My friend recently described me as being the flavor "French Vanilla." This is new because 1) I actually have friends now, and am less alone, and 2) I had been promoted, perhaps in life, perhaps even just for myself. I met her in California, where I went to start over. I am a new person, free from placing myself in a box, from defining myself based on a low-calorie drink. I hear the homeless man in the back of my head now and think, that's not fair. That's not fair at all.

We really don't know anything about each other, but we do have the power to change our flavor.