There was a time I escaped on a flight with my two small children.

I never loved being on an airplane more than that one day circa 25 years ago that breathes like yesterday. Even better than that one time when the plane took me to Tahiti. Life has its mysterious ways of showing you what matters.

It was a calculated break free.

One I pondered upon over the many sleepless nights with my husband, now ex, passed out next to me. Too drunk to even realize I was by his side, let alone figure out what was going on in my mind. Did he even care?

I was taking mental notes one after the other with precise attention, an astronaut figuring out in the most minute details how to take flight into space.

I was taking flight into freedom.

We all reach a point when we can’t listen to excuses anymore.

When we know the words escaping the other person’s mouth are just that. Words. They have no meaning. No life. Just sound. Dust flowing and finding rest wherever it wants to. No pattern. Only dirt.

A spring cleaning of words, shall we?

Their roaring sound straight to the heart like a bayonet. The more you pull it out, the more the wound bleeds. And so you leave it there. Day after day until you run out of blood. Drip Drop Drip onto the grey carpet. The same one he used to pass out on every night after 12 beers hit his gut. “I can quit anytime I want, Elena. Watch me.”

And so I watched.

For two years until my eyes got tired of staring at nothingness. Fogged by daily tears, salty on my swollen cheek — hamster of despair.

The kids were small and that made it easier, not too much to explain, and more complicated at the same time. Things to pack, toys, bottles, milk, and pacifiers. The rest was left behind. It’s just stuff. Who cares?

I am having a brief moment of PTSD as I write this.

It helped that I was a flight attendant, so I could travel for free. And off we were. I waited for him to leave on one of his weekly flights to Germany, his motherland, and poof. The door closed behind me. Taxi waiting. Airport bound. Let’s go.

Iloved it when he called, drunken words filling his slurring mouth, asking why I had left. No one to remind him of the abuse, verbal and non, that went on when the lights went down. The alcohol made me do it. The stress. The jet lag. The bills. The kids. The weather… I don’t wan’t to hear you anymore!

The kids have grown, and so have I.

The wound has healed. And I hope he found what he was looking for in something healthier than the liters upon liters of alcohol that filled his nights.

Why am I sharing this?

If you, my beautiful reader, find yourself in a similar situation, please know You. Are. Not. Alone.

Help IS available. And I am here for you.

Because life is too precious to let anyone. anyone. take anything from you you are not willing to give.


Thanks for reading. 🫶🏽