It was the late evening hours of December 16, 2012, and I was studying for my exams in my room which was located in the basement of my childhood home. My cat, Nala, keeps nudging her nose up against my papers in an attempt to pull my attention from my studying. I was about to say something to her when the lights go out in our basement. I was annoyed because my younger brother had, several times over the past week-mind you, been plugging too many things into the outlets in our kitchen- which connected to a part of our basement electrical. I cursed and went to flip the breaker back on. To do this, I had to climb onto our dryer in order to reach the electrical box. About the same time I flipped the breaker and climbed down from the dryer, I realized my brother was at a friend’s place for the weekend and that it was past eleven- so it was unlikely that my brother was cooking this late: I looked up and Alex (my abuser) was there. Alex stayed the night. I could count on one hand the number of times he had done that in the past 7 years.

Laying on the bed the following morning, I attempt to take a deep breath in, and there is pain shooting through my chest. I touch my ribs and pain surges through my right side. I attempt to sit up several times before I am finally successful. I sit and then stand carefully, I lift up my shirt and in the mirror, I see the swelling and bruising. “It’s broken”, I think. I practice, in the mirror, taking shallow breaths. I practice until my face doesn’t show the pain I feel each time I breathe in. I get dressed: slowly and carefully. I drive myself to school, park my car and walk to my exam. I am careful not to twist or bend as any rotation of my upper body sends shooting pain through my chest. I take my exam. To this day, I have no idea what the exam was on: Aristotelian ethics, feminist philosophy, modern philosophy… none of it sounds any more familiar now than it did in the hours after my exam.

I then, drive myself to the hospital. The details of that experience warrant a separate post, so I won’t get too much into that right now but I was encouraged to press charges and when I said I wouldn’t I was told that I needed to leave or ‘I was committing suicide’.

I reach out to a friend, maybe 24 hours later, and I simply text: “he came back”. It’s all I can manage to say about the past 72 hours but in those words, I hear my own cries for help. I was afraid he would kill me. My friend supports me, and at one point during the conversation, he asks me about leaving. I explain that I am in New York to care for my brother and I can’t leave. He texts me back: you can’t care for anyone if you’re dead. I leave him on read. He texts me again and offers for me to come to visit him in Madison, WI for my winter break from school… or to come permanently. He says he booked me a flight for Saturday, one-way, and that he’ll book the return flight if I want to go back when I am ready. He explains that it is my choice and if I don’t want to he won’t be mad that the flight goes unused. He tells me to think about it. The next few days I tell myself that I am going for winter break to Madison, WI. I pack a carry-on bag with three shirts, two pairs of jeans, a sentimental blanket, and my laptop.

I sit on the plane and my first thought is: “I’m not coming back from this break” with that, I cried, and tears rolled down my face. I had known this as I was packing, deep down, that I wasn’t coming back, but I hadn’t let myself believe it until this moment. I was afraid that I wouldn’t get on the plane and also that something would ruin my chance to leave. I cried as we took off, both from the pain in my chest and side, but also for myself. I let myself grieve all that had happened over the past few days.

Saturday night, I began applying for jobs, the following week I had an interview for a full-time position. I switched my next semester of schooling to be virtual. I began to practice living outside of the abuse. I had to consciously… practice. I had to will myself to leave the apartment, actively make friends, and try to heal all that I had been through. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I supported my younger brother virtually, as best that I could. I lost a lot in the transition to Madison.

I am here, now, 11 years later, and I still look back on this transition with admiration for the courage I had and the coping skills I utilized that allowed me to leave. I still attend therapy weekly. It took me one year longer to finish my schooling. I still have moments where I react to something from my past rather than what’s in front of me but in 11 years I have gained so much: I am married, I have a beautiful family, I am physically safe, I have incredible friends, I have two degrees and I work in a job where I get to help others. I have a created family and a support network for hard times in my life. 19-year-old me could not have fathomed the person I would become and the life I would live after my decision to get on that plane. I wanted to write this post to celebrate how far I have come in these 11 years, and specifically to honor the younger versions of myself who were brave and tenacious in the face of the terrifying transition to safety.