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8:25 p.m. - Saturday, Sept. 08, 2012
Movement, ii
She remembers the hurried packing late into the evening. She remembers the silence as they removed box after box from the car and placed them in the new room. She remembers the hugs goodbye. And she remembers the moment the door closed, and her life changed forever. When that door shut, it was like a door shut inside herself. The person she had been was left on the other side of the door. And she was stuck inside. She remembers curling up into a ball on the bed and crying. Not really sure why. It was getting late and she was hungry, but she couldn�t open the door. She paced back and forth, looking at the handle. She stared out the window. She stared at the door. She stared at the phone. She paced again. She couldn�t open the door. She was paralyzed by fear. Paralyzed by the paranoia that people were watching her. Judging her. That she was not allowed to be here. Not allowed to be alive. She went to sleep without eating and woke up early in the morning before anyone else was awake. She ran down the hill and into her car and promptly drove home. And realized that her home was no longer her home. And so she lived, lost in space, for the next several years. In hiding. She couldn�t leave her room to go to classes, and was eventually kicked out of school. She couldn�t leave her room to go to work, and she was fired. She couldn�t leave her room to see people, and she lost several friends and became disconnected from her family. She lived in isolation as much as possible. Rarely interacting with other people. It was easier that way. She became static. Stayed in bed most of the time. It hurt to move. She was often sick. She wanted pain. Pain was soothing. Pain felt right. So she sought people who would inflict emotional pain upon her. And she inflicted physical pain upon herself.

She now refers to those years as the �Dark Days.� And it was movement that ended them. The school was like the ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. Nestled in the historic Industrial District . . .old buildings towering along the twisting river. She moved. She started taking piano lessons again. She would park underneath the bridge and walk up the stone stairs. The wooden floorboards of the 18th-century architecture creaked under her feet as she found the room with the grand piano and her new teacher. She would often stop in the main stairwell and listen to the choir singing in the chapel. She loved it here. �Why don�t you apply here?� he asked her. She laughed. Yeah right. Study music? She had been playing the piano her entire life . . .but her technical skills were severely lacking. Who would accept her? They would. And they did. And she spent the next few years in those halls with the grand pianos. Walking up the stone stairs. Singing with that choir. And studying with her feet soaking in the twisting river. And she has not stopped moving since. Movement is the key. But has movement now become running away? Can she turn around and face what she is moving away from? Or does she leave that shit behind her forever and keep running? She feels like the darkness defines her. That she is nothing without it. That she is nothing. So she can�t forget it. It�s always there, two steps behind.

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