What's next?

Trying to settle in to my scheduled life back in Massachusetts proved to be more challenging than I thought.

When I got back, there were my problems, decorating my apartment like a well-staged room from Pier One. It's not that I didn't love that apartment. In fact, it could have been built for me. Hardwood floors. Colonial-style historic structure. Oh, and...a closet INSIDE my closet. It was a dream. My points of pride — my four-post bed, oak table and eight chairs, and a lighted hutch — seemed to be crafted for the space. From time to time, I still miss that place, but I digress.

As I dropped my bags on the floor of my bedroom, I looked around, calculating all the things I had to do once I returned to work and felt my shoulders thrust down by the emotional weight that was pushing them down. Just hours ago, I had actually started to find some peace and let go of all that was hurting me. But here I was, right back in it.

It wasn't the clothes I had to put away. It wasn't the DVDs that littered the floor in front of my TV. It wasn't even the piles of paperwork that littered my beautiful table. I was exhausted. I had gotten more sleep than I had in a long time, but here I was, just as tired as I was when I stayed up trying to edit copy on deadline.

I was sore. I remember falling to those beautiful hardwood floors and holding my arms — my left in my right hand and my right in my left. I ached so badly. Memories of threatening phone calls and texts circled around me like a telephone cord as I looked blankly into space sliding into a sideways position. A rogue tear raced down my right cheek leading the way for the rest of the troops down my face as a yowl escaped my strained face. I wouldn't be able to sleep in my bed — the bed I used to love — again. Even from afar, he was still controlling me.

And, worst of all, I was afraid. For the first time in a long time, I was safe. I knew that. Still, I couldn't stop being scared. The fear wasn't just in the traditional sense — though that was something I would later find would take even longer to leave — it was a fear of so many other things. Failing. Not being where I wanted to be in life. Regret. Hopelessness. And a general lack of control.

It was that moment I knew I couldn't do it any more. I got up from the floor and grabbed my cell off the table to text Danielle.

"I'm ready," I texted. "What's next?"