I sat on the window sill at The Sheraton Hotel that was located by LAX. The sun was about to set and I watched the planes take off below the beautiful light pink sky—one by one. I counted the seconds between each of them. 60 seconds. There was exactly one minute between each takeoff. I´m going to miss it here, I thought to myself, remembering how desperately I had wanted to move to Los Angeles. And I did, four years before leaving it in a rush. I knew I was running away. Running away from the trauma it had installed in me. But I was happy to go. 

I looked over the hotel room. Boxes stacked on top of boxes, placed up against every single wall. I wondered what the housekeepers thought when they came to clean because it was like a bomb had exploded. Every few hours I would call the lobby to let them know I had placed yet another trash bag out in the hallway. I was repacking and throwing away everything that I could that I was unable to take with me to New York. I was concerned about the cost of shipping and despite the emotional bond I had with my belongings, a lot had to go. 

The day I took my remaining things to FedEx, three sixty-pound boxes, it was like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. Like my things had in a weird way been set free. 

A few days later when I finally landed in New York I was still shaken up. As I stepped out on the grounds by JFK I caught a taxi. It was a cold December night and I was not dressed appropriately for the weather. I jumped in a car and asked to be taken to my sublease in Downtown Brooklyn. When I got there, I texted a friend of the previous tenant to let her know. I apologized for the inconvenience. 

As I waited for her to arrive with the keys, I sat down on the freezing stoop of the old but beautiful brownstone building that was about to be my home. I could feel the sharp pain of the icy steps digging through my leggings. The street was empty, quiet, and dark, despite many buildings that were lit up by holiday lights. It was Christmas night. The first one that I was away from family and friends. Yet I didn´t feel lonely nor alone. 

My nose started to run. Looking for a kleenex, I looked through my bag and was reminded of the cease and desist letter that he had sent me to keep me quiet. To keep me from telling his wife. It was sitting in my hand luggage right next to the tissues and the notes I had taken from the attorney and the immigration specialist. Feeling like I had escaped, I was overwhelmed by the feeling of freedom. I felt more liberated than I had ever felt in my life. I got out. I truly got out.