My escape plan took 20 years, but the important point is that it happened.
The year is 1993 it is July 4th Independence Day. I am watching cascading bursts of color with their thunderous sounds exploding all around me. It is a day of celebration. A celebration of freedoms. I am reminded of the irony and appropriateness of such an occasion. You see, my vantage point for this orchestration of sound and color is from the inside of a Woman’s Domestic Violence Shelter. I am in some obscure location, with my 6-year old daughter. Our worldly possessions are neatly stacked in a large hefty trash bag serving as a reminder to me, as to just how black our situation is. On this celebratory day I do not feel free or safe. Safe yes in a sense that I will not be physically or mentally harmed in my new digs, but not safe from the barrage of thoughts that I know are ultimately going to send me back to the place which will continue to destroy my sense of self worth, making freedom seem an impossible dream.
This was my second visit to a Woman’s Domestic Violence Shelter. All was not in vain since I was picking up my homework assignments along the way; secretly squirrel away money, make an escape plan, join a support group, have the police numbers handy, and know your rights. I became proficient in getting and implementing orders of protections, and was quite skilled in refraining from button pushing that might escalate violence. This is the time I acquired the “box”. This box now resides in the corner of my dad’s garage. It has traveled to many different secure locations over the past 20 years to ensure its safety. It is a sacred box because it tells the story, my story. It holds the pictures, thoughts, legal papers, articles, and bankbooks, anything that was picked up along the way. It speaks of the journey, with its peaks and valleys, its hopes and desires alive and then doused. It tells the story of coming so close so many times with affirmations of freedom and peace. It is a box that has been left unopened for years at a time because of the flood of tears and feelings of failure that would accompany such an opening. I have thought many times of destroying this box and its contents to rid me of having to reflect on such a past.
