Running Away

Within in the last year, I have relocated to another state. Previously, I had lived in my birth state all my life. The state in which my abuse occurred. The state in which I experienced such loss and tragedy. That's not saying that I have never experienced great joys in that state. I met some of my best friends in my birth state. I have had great job opportunities in that state, which allowed me to accept a fantastic opportunity in the state where I'm currently living. Most people think that I moved for my job, but they are wrong. Technically I did move for a job, but my motivation for relocating was not at all career-related.

I wanted to escape from that place. Reinvent myself.

In high school, I always dreamed of moving away. It was something that I've always wanted to do. Live in a different state. Move miles and miles away. Put as much distance between me and my past. But I felt stuck, almost trapped. Something kept me there and I couldn't figure out what it was.

I had applied for colleges out of state, but I either didn't get in, was wait-listed, or didn't get enough funding to attend. So I attended the local four-year university in my town. I planned to do a year there and then transfer to another college. I honestly didn't care where I moved as long as there were miles between myself and my past. But I stayed there longer than I intended.

I wanted to run away from my pain.

I finally felt ready in the last year or two. It was after I reported to the police that I finally felt ready to move away and leave it all behind. So I started by applying for jobs where I'd have to move. I included some jobs in state as well as out of state. Then some serious shit happened between me and my parents and I thought, "Fuck them. Let's hightail it out of here." So I started only applying for jobs out of state. My family is not supportive so why should I stick around?

Last year, I was applying for out of state jobs when my grandma, whose health has been failing, was hospitalized. She became unresponsive and they had to put her on life support. I loved my grandma, but resented her at the same time. She always seemed to make me feel guiltier after visiting her than when I just avoided her all together. (This is not the same grandma whose house my abuse occurred. This grandma is my dad's mom and she always took my dad's side.)

I've always had a rocky relationship with my birth father. He was abusive and manipulative. I stood up to him. I stopped seeing my dad because of his abuse and manipulation. I stopped seeing him because he didn't want a real, meaningful relationship with me. He only wanted an appearance of a good father-daughter relationship. He made empty promises and never was there for me in my times of need. He wasn't willing to share in my times of joy. So I cut him out of my life.

My grandma wasn't so happy about my cutting my dad out of my life. He would tell her how much he loved me and how much he wanted to be in my life and how I was so unjustified for ignoring his existence. My grandma did not believe me about his abuse even when my mom filed charges against him or even when he was charged with child abuse for beating the fuck out of my little brother. He continued to claim he was innocent and my grandma believed and never believed me. It always pissed me off.

I began to stop visiting my grandma. I seldom saw her even for holidays. I'd feel guilty for not visiting her. Even when she was hospitalized, which was frequent because of her health, I didn't visit her. When the guilt got too big, I'd finally visit her, but she made me angry when I visited with her. She made me feel more guilty when I visited her. She'd thickly lay on a guilt trip for not talking to my father. On and off I'd try to talk with my father because I never really gave up trying to have a relationship with him. I think I always thought that maybe he'd change or maybe it'd be different. But the ironic thing is that when I turned 18, my dad didn't give a shit about me. He changed his phone number and refused to give it me. When I asked my grandma or other family on that side for my dad's number, they said they couldn't give it me. My sister had his number and wouldn't give it to me. I could only contact him through email. When I contacted him to come to my college graduation, he told me to fuck off and not contact him anymore. That's when I finally gave up. Fuck him. He didn't give a shit, so why should I?

But it kills me that he still continued to tell my grandma that I was the one refusing to talk to him. Even when I asked her for his phone number to talk to him, she still refused and still believed that I wasn't willing to talk to him. It was a fucked up relationship. I love my grandma, even through her guilt trips, enabling, and other faults.

I remember so many happy times with her. I remember when I was in grade school and constantly bullied, that I'd frequently miss the school bus on purpose and call her to come pick me up. I'd fake being sick so I could spend the day with her. She'd usually take me out to lunch for soup and then I'd spend my day watching cartoons with her. I remember spending weekends with her and going to church with her every Sunday. She taught Sunday school and when I was too old to be in her class, I started helping her teach the lessons so I could spend more time with her. I loved spending Sunday afternoons with her and cooking with her. I loved laying next to her and she used to stroke my hair. We used to share a bowl of popcorn and watch her TV shows. We'd watch Touched By An Angel, Early Edition, Murder She Wrote, and Matlock. Those were her favorites, and they were mine too because she loved them. I remember that she made the best milk shakes and the best PB&J sandwiches. She always had the best snacks in the house and because she was diabetic, she always carried the best candies. These memories are what I try to remember of her and I'd try to forget the ones where she'd make me feel angry and/or guilty about my dad.

Last year Grandma got really sick. The doctors said she had a stroke and she became unresponsive. I visited her in the hospital everyday. They thought she'd get better. Then she got an infection and things got worse. She had a series of strokes and her lungs filled up with fluids. They moved her to a different hospital. Her heart stopped and doctors resuscitated her and cracker several ribs. Every time they moved her to do tests, she crashed. She went without oxygen for 15 minutes and they revived her. She was legally dead for 15 minutes. They declared her brain dead. She had to remain on life support to even stay alive. My grandpa made the difficult decision to pull her life support and within 24 hours she went.

Grandma's precious little baby (my fucking asshole father) didn't even come to pay his respects. He never came to say goodbye. He didn't even come to her funeral. The asshole she protected and praised didn't care enough about his own mother to visit her one last time. It makes me so angry that he had her wrapped around his finger so tight.

During the last month of her life, I finally forgave her for all the pain she caused me. When she finally died, I didn't feel the weight of guilt I usually associated with her. I was sad, I'm still sad that she's gone, but I don't feel guilt, anger, or resentment towards her. I love her so much and I think she what was keep me there. I would have felt terrible if I couldn't have been there when things got really bad. Because I still lived in that state, I was able to visit her every day after work. I was able to go to her funeral. I was able to let of my pain that I associated with her. I was able to finally forgive her and move on.

As I write this, I am crying. Not because of guilt. But because I miss her. Because I remember the pain of losing her. I cry because I remember the pain she went through. I hadn't really prayed in years until she got so sick. I prayed to the universe or God, or whatever might be out there to take her pain away. I prayed that she finally be able to move on, and my prayer was answered. In praying for her to move on, I was unknowingly praying for permission for myself to move on as well. I was sad, but I felt peace at her passing. Within a year after Grandma's passing, I finally moved away.

When I was interviewing for my current job, I prayed to Grandma. I asked her to help me get this job because I deserved it. I deserved to move away from my past. I deserved a fresh start. I reported my abuse, I forgave my grandma, I stayed with her until the end, and I deserved a new start in a new place. I needed a fresh start. Grandma listened.

I moved because I needed to escape everything and start anew. I moved because there is nothing left back there to keep me rooted there. The rest of my family is not supportive, and as much as I love my friends, I had to leave.

I thinking moving was one of the best decisions for me. I'm feeling happier than I've ever felt. I'm excited every day. I love my new job. I'm learning my new city and new state. It's been a great decision for me. For the first time in a long time, I feel content.