My Independence Day

Nine years ago today I left.  I had to wait until I was eighteen so I prepared as much as one could without being caught.  I'd spent a month smuggling clothing in my backpack to leave in friends' lockers at school.  I would live out of mine.  Head to school early and change into what I had available.  I remember the irony when someone complimented an outfit I was wearing. 

I got my ears pierced the day after I left, and called it my first act of rebellion; not realizing that, of course, leaving was, and also it wasn't rebellion: it was my first act of independence.

I don't have many memories of my life before then.  I remember the first time someone told me I was abused.  I remember mouthing the words "help me" while in tears to a vice principal, who then did nothing. I remember asking a social worker for help and her saying if I can figure out what she can do, to let her know.

I remember turning to writing.  Hiding notebooks under my pillow; my only escape when the outside world was cutoff.  I was very lucky.  To have art, to find my voice, to pretend to be someone else, to "keep the channel open."  To know that physically, I would've died if I had stayed.  I had surgery two months later that even made the doctors feel lucky; surgery she never thought I needed.

It's been nine years since I've been on my own, and I haven't regretted it once, let alone tried to go back.  I still want to stay as far away as I can.  I am my own person, my own lineage, my own legacy.

These nine years have been a gift.  I'm excited for what comes next.