The Second Time Leaving

The second time leaving was very different from the first. I was less fearful, and all I wanted was to get away from my abuser as quickly as I could. It took me two days after what had transpired at the party to get everything in order—my car needed new spark plugs and, most importantly, new tires. The ones I had were in no condition to drive 1,700 miles over 27 hours in the middle of winter. I was ready to leave but not prepared for the long drive back to California.

Leading up to the day I left, my abuser had gone to stay with a mutual friend. Our roommates were still concerned for my safety, so they offered to let me sleep in their rooms while they slept on the couch in case he came back. He did return while I was at work, but only to take everything we had out of our room. He left nothing but a duvet and my clothes. This was my “punishment” for what had happened at the party.

On my last night in Minot, I slept on the hardwood floor with the left-behind duvet. Even though my roommates had offered me their rooms and I could’ve slept in a bed, I didn’t want to inconvenience them. This was my situation to deal with. The next day, I left work at 6 p.m., said a round of tearful goodbyes, and headed home to Los Angeles on barely any sleep.

I hit a couple of obstacles on the way that added time to my drive. In Wyoming, I encountered a shut-down highway due to a whiteout that caused zero visibility—I had to park until it passed. Entering Utah, I ran into a dust storm. Thankfully, the highway wasn’t shut down, but having to reduce my speed to 10 mph due to low visibility definitely slowed me down. People have asked if I took any drugs to stay awake. I didn’t—I drove straight through. Even though I was exhausted, between the levels of self- and caffeine-induced anxiety from the NOS energy drinks I was consuming, there was no way I could pull over and sleep. I almost fell asleep at the wheel once, and after that scare, I tried to pull over and rest, but I was way too anxious to stop. I had to keep driving.

January 20, 2016, was the day I left for good and never looked back… sort of. I thought that when I left this time, the book was finally closed. I had written a big “FUCK YOU” and the end on our story and was looking forward to my fresh start. The problem with this story was that I had allowed someone else to be a co-author. During my drive back to California, I received a text from an unknown number—it was him. It would take me almost another two years to permanently remove him from my life (he did try to make a guest appearance in 2021, after my domestic violence restraining order against him had expired, but that is a story for another time).

During my last stint of living with him, I had become numb to the things happening to me—partly from his doing, partly from my own. It got to a point where, when abuse did take place, I would force myself not to feel certain emotions anymore. For example, to keep myself from crying, I would wear a rubber band on my wrist and snap it. I wanted him to feel the resentment and hatred I had for him. I was no longer going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry or care. As a result, I think that forcing myself to show and feel no emotion made it harder to process and feel certain emotions regarding what I had gone through once I returned home. I pushed forward as if everything was fine, until I could feel myself sliding back into the unhealthy coping habits I had in Minot. This was the beginning of my delayed ending.

Even though this marked the start of a long road ahead, I am incredibly thankful I was able to leave—that I had the circumstances to do so. But what about those who don’t?