Truthfully
Her name was Ellie.
She was one of those girls who stepped into a room, and eyes glided along with each one of her steps. Dressed as the main character of her own life, Ellie wore clothes appropriate for each occasion but uniquely stylish. She incorporated colors, patterns, and textures so oddly beautiful that whether she was wearing sweats or a maxi skirt with a vintage sweater, she was stunning.
What made her ever so remarkable to watch was not mainly her wardrobe, but it was her. She strided with confidence, yet one just knew she was kind. Her head was high, but it wasn't hovering over others. Her dark chocolate brown eyes were soft; they melted everyone's thoughts that such a beauty could only be self-absorbed or vain.
But not Ellie. Ellie was a beauty who was pure in heart and gentle in deeds. She volunteered at the local girl's school for at-risk teens. She mentored them with tenderness and assertiveness. Ellie baked. BAKED. Mainly bread, actually, nothing else but bread - sourdough, raisin bread, coconut bread and her favorite was Trinidadian Sweetbread. Didn’t she sound more and more like the perfect girl? Or, the girl next door?
Her mother is West Indian from Trinidad, and her dad was half Bahamian and half American. She traveled a lot because her dad was in the Army. After high school, she went to the United Kingdom for college, majoring in Business Management.
I used to talk about Ellie often—to my classmates, professors, roommate, and mentees at Templeton School for At-Risk Girls. Everybody loved Ellie. She was voted in high school as the most likely to join the Peace Corps. So, of course, it is no surprise that even as a College freshman, Ellie was an affectionate character in the lives of people who had never met her.
People actually stopped me in the hallway—and in between complimenting my earrings and asking if I could help them in the college’s tutoring center, they asked about Ellie. It used to amaze me how much people ask about someone they never met before and who seemingly had the perfect life.
It was rare for people to ask me how I was doing, and I convinced myself a short while ago that it was okay. I didn’t mind talking about Ellie, and it wasn’t like she was real for me to worry if she cared about me talking about her. Truthfully, Ellie was the name my mom gave to the teddy bear that my dad had given her when they were dating, and the one she later gave to me. Since moving to the United Kingdom, Ellie has become a fragment of my imagination. Everything I wanted to be, and some of what I actually was. She was easy to talk about and easy to love. Yet, what I loved about her most was that she loved herself. Ellie did nothing for attention, praise or social media. What you saw - well, heard - was really who she was. That’s why I loved her. That’s why I wanted to be her, but I wasn’t her. I am Elizabeth Rose Martin, and I am not like Ellie.
However, Ellie and I weren’t complete opposites. This was why hearing people admire our similar qualities made me feel special. I would tell my classmates who always admire my second hand vintage clothes that I chose this style because I admire icons like Dorothy Dandridge and Diahann Carroll. That’s the shallow truth, which became Ellie’s truth. I wouldn’t tell them that I am disgusted with my body since gaining over 30 pounds after my dad died in a routine training exercise. The long skirts and satin blouses made it easy to hide my dropping arms and rubbing thighs. But when I was alone, nothing hid my weight or was able to take away my grief.
When people would get curious about my obsession with cooking(I hate baking) and they would ask me why I would be up in the middle of the night cooking meals I learned from my mom, who was the absolute best cook ever! I would tell them that I just liked doing it. Truthfully, I missed my mom, and cooking made me think of the easy times. Not like now. Mom, whose once functioning alcoholism had turned completely dependent when dad died. Now, she is not the woman I knew, and I feared I would have to mourn both my dad and my mom forever.
When my roommate asked why I spend so much time at the at-risk school for girls, I would tell her it was because I love them, and that was the truth. To be even more honest, I am jealous of them. I have not been okay for a long time. Yet, I masked it with telling fascinating stories about Ellie, cooking, binge eating, mentoring, leading study groups and whatever anyone asked within reason because I am dreadfully afraid of silence, absolutely ashamed of who I have become and painfully guilty for leaving my mom. The girls at Templeton School for At-Risk Girls are brave. They may be rude, broken, and messed-up (respectfully noted), but they are brave, at least to me. They are not afraid to express their anger, have a bad day, or tell you how they really feel, and if you can't swallow it, too bad, choke.
I wish I was that confident. I wish that the stories I told about Ellie were all true for me, but they weren’t. No one is perfect, but everyone who ever was sucked into the story of the mesmerizing Saint Ellie really was amazed by how perfect she was. That’s what they wanted, and that’s what I gave them, until February 16th, 2024.
One of my mentees, Torie, was staring at me all throughout the InspireHER workshop that us volunteers were hosting. Two days prior was my dad’s death anniversary, and the night before that I got a call from the rehabilitation facility in Trinidad. Mom tried to unalive herself. I was sorting out all that I could with the doctors while in the UK. “She's stable.” “Coming won’t change anything.” “We’ll call you if anything changes.” That’s what they told me. I was weighed down with such guilt for not being there for my mom, that I had my worst binge eating episode ever. Plus, I ended up breaking a promise to myself that I made when I was six - to never drink alcohol. It is safe to say that after three nights of binge eating and drinking, I was not my usual captivating self at the workshop.
That morning was the first time I showered in three days, and it was hard to gather the strength to do it. I had vomited three times within those three days. One of those times I did while eating chips and guacamole. I rolled the soiled bedsheet into a ball and threw it in the hallway. Then I went back to my chips. Thank God my roommate was on a Valentine’s cruise with her boyfriend.
I tried to leave quickly after the session ended, but Amanda, Phillica, and Torie stopped me. “Why do you look like that?” “Are you drunk?” “Are you okay?”
Are you okay?
That stuck with me.
I stood there like a statue holding my breath and they weren’t moving. Nor did I move. What was I going to say? The only time I ever lied to them was when I told a story about Ellie, and with them, I didn’t want to talk about her much.
“Hellooo! Ms. Rose, are you okay?” Torie asked me again, and that was it. My belly growled between the nervousness of being caught, and the bubbling of an upset stomach. I held my stomach and briskly walked away from the girls, until a rise of burning vomit came up my chest, into my throat and I ran into the bathroom while covering my mouth. I dropped to my knees and clenched the toilet rim as vomit burns my throat and my belly tightens.
That moment was pure agony between painful regurgitation and a mental break over the pathetic lie I was living. I was a grown woman hiding behind an imaginary person, and feeding off her compliments to feel a little better about myself, while pretending that my life was okay when it was far from okay, and I was far from okay. Every crushing memory of my dad weighed in my mind. I frigging miss him with every ache of my heart. I want my mom, but I am not strong enough to be there for her, and I am angry that she isn't emotionally fit to be here for me. I had no one.
While I was hunched over the toilet bowl crying, spit and vomit dripped onto my clothes and my hair. I heard frantic voices behind me. Ever so timidly, I peered to my side to see all three of them with another volunteer staring at me. Shame washed over me as I saw their faces of shock, disgust and panic. This made me cry harder and harder, until I was choking on my spit. I couldn’t stop crying and I could not stop remembering. Jessica, the volunteer, tried to get the girls to leave but they refused. Someone had locked the door. I’m not sure who but I could hear someone knocking on the other side of the bathroom door yelling that they “needed to piss.”
Phillica told them to go piss their pants. And I laughed a little bit before crying some more. I don’t know how long we stayed in that wrench scented bathroom. I wanted them to leave so badly. How was I going to explain this? Yet, truthfully, I wanted them to stay. I sat for a few more minutes in silence and avoided their faces, while letting the tears fall. When I got up, I tripped on my mess, fell to the ground and knocked my head to the wall.
Torie and Amanda carefully but unhesitantly picked me up. When they did, they walked me to the sink and there was another set of knocking on the door. I shifted my weight from them to the sink and looked up.
“How long are you gonna be in there? Come on already!” The person yelled.
I looked at the disarray of myself in the mirror, forgoing the four pairs of eyes staring down at me with concern. I looked at me and I wondered, how did I get here in my life and how long will I be here.
That was one year ago and today, February 16th, 2025, is my courage anniversary. One year of intentionally feeling the crappy feelings, and working with a community to feel less crappy. I don’t feel less crappy. Most days, I feel worse than when I hid behind the persona of Ellie. Yet, weirdly, I don’t want to go back. I realized that I wasn’t just lying to the people around me, I was lying to myself and at this stage of my healing journey, I don’t have the strength to pretend.
My therapist asked me today, “Why did you never pretend to be Ellie? Why did you pretend she was a different person?” I knew the answer right away. I never wanted to be her. I don’t want to be an idol of admiration and covetousness. I didn’t want to be seen as the perfect girl. I didn’t want my life to be free from any and all hardship.
I liked being Rosie before my life turned upside down. An average beauty with a squawky laugh and the driest sense of humor. A simple girl, who prefers to wear jeans and a basic tee but loves sleepovers with fluffy pink robes, makeovers and pizza! I didn’t care about cooking or being a part of big groups; I would prefer to stay in, alone, watching reruns of “I Love Lucy”, and randomly pausing to watch dare videos on YouTube.
I used to like my own company. I used to like me, and just before things got shot to hell, I had just started to go to church and learn more about Jesus. I was starting to kinda like him, but I lost my way. I lost my way in so many ways. Life became unmerciful to me, and my family was gone, my friends were gone, my body had changed, and life wasn’t so easy anymore. The world became a scary place, and I was afraid.
Ellie was the magnet that drew people in to make me feel like I wasn’t alone. They wanted to know more about her. They came to me, had my attention, and had enough time to notice me in conversation to give me a compliment.
I, Rosie, am not the same person that I was, and I will never be the same. Even though I am not okay, I am okay with that fact. Life changes people. It is inevitable. Yet, we humans are relentless, strong and capable of surviving what we think will break us. I choose to change for the better, and do all the crying, praying, hard conversations, pivoting, failing miserably and living honestly, while accepting that I was created to love and be loved, even if I am having a messed up day.
I wish my life never changed, dad never died, mom never drank and I never made-up Ellie, but I can never change the past. I am not yet okay with that, but I have accepted it. Mostly, I just pray that one day, I will love myself again—not in the false, impossible state of perfection, but in all of my flaws and strengths, weight gain or weight loss, history and present —just as I am in that moment. I want to love myself again.
