The Getaway

I could hear my breath becoming heavier and heavier, my throat tightening, my heart racing.

I must say, I do not know at what age people with generalized anxiety disorder first experience a panic attack, but my ten-year-old self certainly did not understand why the idea of going back to school the next day — on a Sunday night — felt so dreadfully unbearable.

I will admit I was not the most popular kid in class, nor was I the smartest, or prettiest, or the most talkative; however, while I clearly lacked the average social skills of people my age, my peers generally accepted me and I even belonged to a group of friends — which, although it did little to soothe my experience of alienation, would still leave most people wondering why school felt so horrifying to me. Enough to never want to return — but we will get into that later.

At that point, the only thing that seemed to matter was to find a way to never go back to the one other place on the face of the Earth — besides my home, of course — that constantly reminded me of my never ending state of abnormality.

So there I was, during one more of those sleepless nights of mine, lying flat on my bed, replaying over and over again the details of my final escape plan, or better said, my first ever attempt to get away.

The idea had come to me a few weeks earlier.

Where was I exactly going? I had absolutely no idea.

I just knew deep down inside me that I had to leave.

In the days to come, I did more of what I usually did at home, given my high sensitivity. I paid close attention to every routine, every habit, and the meaning of every sound. Even though I spent most of my time behind closed doors, I knew, only by listening carefully, where and what my parents and brother were doing. And so, my aim was the following: one night, when the circumstances felt right, I would wait for everyone to go to bed, and when they had all finally fallen asleep, I would carefully sneak out of my house. Not without grabbing a pair of keys, naturally, as I was planning to return the next day, once the coast was clear, to take as many supplies as I could fit inside my children's backpack.

Now, only patience remained.

* * *

The sun had set early that late November afternoon. The air smelled of dryness and smoke, as it usually does, even now, during that season in Mexico City. The year was 2008. Increasing violence and an unforgettable recession were striking my home country, but I — completely oblivious to the circumstances that permeated the world around me — thought of nothing but the moment when I would finally be set free. And so, at last, the time had come.

Sunday was just a regular Sunday. We had spent the entire day at home, everyone busy with chores, as usual, but something special filled the air with excitement.

Me and my little secret.

The habitual void of anxiety that manifested in my body, as every weekend came to an end, was nowhere to be felt, and I could not have been happier. Minutes passed by with incredible ease, and only when I noticed the big, bright moon had made its way to the middle of the night sky did I truly realize what I was about to do.

At precisely 9 pm, I went to bed. Except this time, I was determined to stay awake all night — insomnia aside — to guarantee a successful breakout. The first hours were effortless. Between endless TV shows, my parents' loud screams — as they argued up the stairs — and the uncomfortable feeling of freshly washed, gritty bed sheets rubbing against my skin, all kept my five senses active enough so that tiredness would not defeat me, except it did, eventually.

I woke up to the sound of my mom getting ready for work.

She would soon come and knock on my door to wake me up. I was screwed.

Anxiety struck me the way I imagine it would feel like to get hit by a high-speed train.

I jumped to my feet. Changed in a heartbeat. Grabbed my backpack. Then rushed down the stairs as quietly as I could.

I reached out for the keys, hanging on the holder by the door. But as I gently turned the knob, I realized I was forgetting something. “Daphne!” I thought to myself, then turned and walked towards the backyard instead.

I found her sleeping peacefully on her fluffy bed in the middle of the back room — the one where my dad would usually spend hours on end listening to music. Sometimes sober, most of the time drifting somewhere between this plane and the next. I lifted her off the ground, buckled up the collar around her neck, and made sure her leash was securely attached. She had been my most faithful companion since we had adopted her a year before, and now, she was about to become my only connection to home.

I was ready.

I walked hastily towards the main entrance of the house, pressing my puppy against my beating chest. I opened it. Then, finally, closed it right behind me.

I knelt down behind a car, attempting to hide on the opposite side of the street. From afar, I could hear the sound of my mother's heels striking the wooden stairs as she carefully descended. Only a few seconds had gone by when a long, desperate scream echoed through the neighborhood.

A young woman had just stepped into her child’s room — only to find her bed completely empty.

Her daughter had vanished.

The sound of her broken voice felt like a chord tying me back to that yellow house I had grown to hate so much.

I could not do it.

I could not make her suffer.

I felt the weight of the entire world falling on my shoulders as I reluctantly walked back towards the entrance.

Little did I know I would run away from home more than once in the years to come.

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