A decade running from my roots.
a short synopsis
I disappear a lot. I move, and I change my mind about almost everything, most days. I’m consistently inconsistent. I would say it’s very probable my closest friends see me as unreliable, (hopefully) mostly because I never successfully stay anywhere for very long and I struggle being present in this life.
I was 15 and cutting my hair wasn’t enough anymore. I was hung up on being blonde, and desperately wanted to escape the identity that came with it. Not the “dumb blonde” stereotype, but the fact that every girl my ex dated after me was like a copy, paste.
After having my heart broken by a boy who clearly has a thing for blondes, and immediately thereafter assaulted by someone else, I decided it was time to dye my hair. I chose purple, but only the ends, because I was pursuing a legal case and needed to be able to cut it off to avoid the stigma that came with dyed hair if I ended up in a court setting.
It was a flex, honestly. His confession to the police, that is. I saw it as a huge win when I got the call, but what I didn’t know, was that a confession meant nothing with some money and a little power. It’s all corrupt, and I watched the world I thought I knew crumble.
The light in me drained as I listened to the DA make up a bunch of BS reasons for not taking the case. She told me, if nothing else, it would be really hard for me emotionally to go through the legal process and watch the jury decimate any part of me or my story they didn’t like. I knew that going into it, obviously.
I stood up at that long table, where my support system sat across from the attorneys, and I went off. I yelled at her and told her that should be my choice to make and isn’t a valid reason to HER to dismiss a r*pe charge (with a confession on file!) and that she will not be part of the solution by dismissing cases for her own stupid ass reasons or opinions. I get that’s her job, but this felt so wrong. That part was supposed to be my decision. I gave it to her for at least several minutes, but it’s mostly a blur at this point.
When I was done, she said, “Nobody’s ever stood up to me like that before. I am proud of you.” Given she hadn’t changed her mind, I told her that doesn’t mean shit to me. I did love that at 15, I was the first person to give her it to her straight like that.
I don’t take shit sitting down.
I later heard through the grapevine that she was paid off. Or rather, that she’s known to be paid off.
Shocker.
I offered to do more investigating, and find other victims/survivors that wanted to go down this path with me, but I decided it was too much to ask anybody else to join that fight. Despite knowing of others with the same experience.
For the rest of high school, I cut and dyed my hair this or that color— purple, blue, brown— while doing a lot of peer education on sexual abuse and healthy relationships on and off campus. Eventually, he switched schools to spend his senior year in Hawaii, because he was tired of being known as a rapist.
Cry me a fucking river.
I continued to throw protests, gave speeches at community events & forums, I designed and distributed a shirt to raise awareness, and informational fliers in hopes my peers would avoid the same fate as me, have more supportive friends, or give them the courage to speak out.
Maybe I’ll talk more about my work as an advocate in high school, but this isn’t really about all that. It’s about spending the next 8 years avoiding this part of me. The fire, if nothing else.
Blah blah blah— after taking a gap year, I went off to community college with hopes to leave everything behind. It hadn’t really been my plan to go to college after that night sophomore year, but I was determined to leave for any and all reasons. I made it six months before Covid hit, and I had to move back.
Another six months, and I got my heart broken. Bad.
I realized in watching people that left, or went off to college during that time, that I wasn’t doing anything. Given, it was lockdown primetime and there wasn’t much to do anyway if you were committing to the isolation part of it all.
Since graduating high school and leaving most of my advocacy work behind, socializing was one of my biggest hobbies. Now that I didn’t much have the option, I was content sleeping all day, then watching tv and gaming all night. This was until I realized I left all my hobbies and dreams behind. Besides writing and gaming. I decided that I was going to create a fuller version of myself, as I struggled with identifying with anything other than surviving.
So I ordered some crappy roller skates, but broke my scaphoid on day one, because I didn’t wait for the protective gear. I was eager to get back to it, but I was highly encouraged not to get back on skates for a few months.
So I went back to playing Fortnite ~with one hand and a minimal second thumb~ for a while. My duos were only mad when I got eliminated until I revealed I was wearing an arm-to-thumb cast.
Otherwise, I started painting, taking more photos, dressing up intentionally, and gave myself some curtain bangs off a youtube tutorial. I also continued writing, playing video games, and of course, crying. Something I did daily since the beginning of high school.
I shaved my head in the spring while embracing being comfortable with just me, until it felt amazing. I was determined to shift where I was and how I felt about myself, so I decided that in due time, I’d leave the country, too.
After a year or so of being this new, Isabella 2.0, I did. Although in the end, I was still just running. Finding solace in being far away from everything I hated, but also everything I loved. I was still incredibly heartbroken and hellbent on getting over it. Leaving the country was supposed to put an impossible distance between us. A reason I’d feel meant it wouldn’t and couldn’t happen, no matter what. Something I didn’t have a work around for in my head.
Sorry if you’re reading this— lmfao.
My time is Canada taught me a lot, and it didn’t last as long as I had hoped (for reasons I’m not getting into right now), but I remember it very fondly. This is despite the deep depression I put myself in after leaving everyone I knew and loved behind while tapering to lower doses of my medications.
I learned that 999.6 miles is far enough to mostly forget the pain from where you’re from, but far enough to grow an unfamiliar one.
The first month or so was static bliss. I felt safe for the first time in so many years— Both personally, and in general. I had done it. I left it all behind. I escaped my roots and my reality. I told myself it would be different.
I spent my time walking around the city blasting my ears with music, painting from dusk until dawn, eating the best food I’d ever had, writing, taking pictures, crying, and trying new things. I believe this was when I went to my first drag show and gay club, and it was everything I was missing. The sense of community, the music, the vibes, and of course the tension between me and a cute girl that I’m pretty sure was waiting for me to make a move, but I lacked the courage.
The grass was greener on the other side of the border, but I couldn’t escape the fact that I was running from myself and my feelings.
As you’d imagine, I have regretted coming back to the states almost every moment of the last 3 and a half years, but am ultimately glad I did, as I met my spouse a year after I came back, when I ran away (again) to Portland. Since then, I’ve moved over a dozen times. Within the city, and back and forth between different ones.
I’m always leaving, finding a new reason to leave, and following through with it. I’ve been chasing the idea of safety and security, but I was looking at it wrong, I think. Or rather, it hadn’t been enough time to feel that way where I was supposed to already.
Home should’ve always been my safe place, but it had been stolen from me when I was 15. Earlier than some, later than many. It took ten years for me to sit in this house and not feel trapped inside of my worst memories. None of it feels the way it did, but this feels like a home again.
I still dream of running away, and imagine that I will again some day, but not because I’m running from myself, as I intend very heavily to discontinue that habit— among others.
As much as leaving the place of your traumas is helpful, running isn’t really what I’ve found most helpful, or how I spent my favorite years of adulthood. I’m happiest embracing who I am as a whole, rather than bits and pieces in different places.
Isabella Raine (Lilith)
<3
note:
These are all larger stories I’d love to dive into deeper this year, on top of the many that are missing within.
Thanks for sharing. The run because a habit . But youknow you're strong and have conviction. The journey is there. And the path to return and go. Your growth is there. Enjoy the day. And welcome back. Be cool 😎 and you.