It was an overcast Thursday morning, March 13, 2008, and as I stared out the window onto the curved street leading downtown the bus began to pull out of the small bus depot. I felt tears welling up as I hugged my pin-covered messenger bag that was decorated with patches that read: Ozzy Osbourne, I get shitfaced drunk—how do you handle stress, and friends don’t let friends vote republican. I hadn’t been ready to leave at all, not really. Not a word and no one asked. I’d only heard from two friends in a week and none of my family—not shocking, but I’d miss them on some level, my brother and sister anyways. Nothing had been quite right since I left a year ago, but I knew they wouldn’t be thrilled to find out I’d left the state entirely.

The water had long since run cold, but I remained seated curled up in the corner of the shower shaking. Although he’d left hours ago, I still hadn’t fully composed myself enough to stand up yet. What had he meant by I’ll see you later? For what purpose could he possibly need to return?? I replayed the events that had just unfolded in my head over and over again trying to figure out if I had done something wrong or could have stopped him in some other way. It was too much for me to handle in that moment and again I felt the warm tears begin to stream faster down my face. I pulled my knees to my body tight, laid my forehead on my bare legs, shut my eyes and rocked back and forth.

It wasn’t until we pulled into the bus depot of New York city around 4 a.m. the next morning that I realized I hadn’t thought to pack any food and had no money for anything from the vending machine. My stomach began to growl loudly making me regret having skipped breakfast the previous day. It rumbled so loudly the folks waiting in line before me gave me looks of concern. I diverted their gaze, hoping no one would question my traveling alone at 17 with seemingly few belongings. It hadn’t exactly been an ideal exit from my previous place of residence. My boyfriend of whom I’d been living with had left just a month prior, Valentine’s Day to be exact. Leaving my three jobs with no more notice than a voicemail and days’ notice was bad enough, but having left only a note on the table in my extremely messy apartment to give my car to my parents and let them scavenge for anything else they may want to remember me by could have been seen as somewhat callous.

Not a thing was packed, and it was already the day before I was due to leave. Belongings scattered all over the floor of my once clean apartment, now piled high according to keep, toss and can’t take with me. My entire life reduced to a few piles on the floor. I looked around at the movies, CDs, books and clothes and realized none of it really mattered anymore. I left the room, found my laptop and proceeded to upload the rest of my music onto my iPod. Other than a few pictures and my grandmother’s jewelry, which was kept in my childhood jewelry box adorned with a peeling image of Degas’ ballerinas, I hadn’t planned on bringing much with me.

It’s not as if they deserved more from me after the events that unfolded two years prior, but perhaps some notice to my younger siblings would have been less of a shock for them when they find out I’m gone. Seated on my pack between the guides forming the lines for my departure, I began to recall the incidents from the past week. Just then, I heard the departure number for my bus called over the loudspeaker and the line began to move ahead of me. I tossed my purple, L.L. Bean backpack over one shoulder, strapped the blue and army green, faded messenger bag around my chest and proceeded forward.

I peeled a yellow post-it from the stack and wrote, “Please contact my ex-boyfriend on his cell for instructions on removing my car from the back lot. Sorry it’s such a mess.” I slid my keys from around the ring and left them on the post-it now stuck to the kitchen table. I took one final look around before grabbing my things and locking the door behind me. It couldn’t have been a more cathartic yet terrifying moment. Leaving the place he defiled me but also everything I’d grown to love and feel safe around. It was a place I’d made my own after the shelter, the place I really grew up, the first real Christmas tree I’d ever had, my favorite birthday—where I’d become emancipated. A safe place of my own where I didn’t have to worry about their angered looks or reactions tainting my mind and body. A place I could be myself. Although now it didn’t feel safe anymore—and it never will be again.

I always prefer a window seat when traveling because there is so much you could miss if you don’t keep an eye on your surroundings. The city lights of Pittsburgh at night were one of the amazing things I’d seen thus far. I loved the way everyone bustling around. It seemed as though everyone had somewhere to be and no one was lonely. It wasn’t until I reached Raleigh, North Carolina that I realized that I was sadly mistaken—not my first bit of naivety in regard to the big city and certainly wouldn’t prove to be my last, unfortunately. My stomach continued to rumble as my eyes closed and I began to dream of what I might eat when I finally reached New Orleans.

The bus depot was located in a small corner office next to the hardest bar in town—The Tavern, only the toughest of the tough went there and that morning there were still some patrons laid out on the front stoop. I’d lived just up the street from where it was located but the walk down the steep hill that day had felt like it was miles away. I had sense of calm yet deep melancholy at the thought of leaving in such a way. It hadn’t quite hit me what happened, but I knew it was wrong and I felt it to my core.

I awoke with a feeling of hopelessness. The bus ride had left me with far too much time to think about all that had happened in the last year. I had seen more so far than I ever dreamt would unfold for me at such a young age. I didn’t trust a single person and knew this was no place for me, but I didn’t seem to have much of a choice if I ever wanted to stand a chance at happiness. I listened to my music turned up loud as it would go, hoping this would drown out the hunger pangs from my lack of food in almost 3 days. I was startled by a gentle hand on my shoulder. As I whipped my head around to see who was touching me, I saw a bald woman in long flowing rust-colored robes, wire-rimmed glasses and a packed wrapped in the same rust-colored cloth. She motioned toward the seat next to me and I moved my bag so she could sit. I later found out her name was Bhikkhuni Sudhamma and she was a buddhist nun. She had a way about her that calmed me and made me feel like she might be a real person. She was traveling with one package containing a metal lunch box wrapped in fabric. Inside she pulled out one water bottle, a piece of single-style American cheese and a small bag of oatmeal. My stomach began to growl again—louder this time, as I eyed her meal. Without speaking she handed it to me and told me to eat.