Bus Rides and Barriers
William Vrachopoulos, “St. Francis”
by Julian
I’d had enough. I walked down the street with a backpack and my pride, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one followed me out. My head was spinning with what had just happened. I never truly thought I would’ve gotten to that point, and yet with every step, I was farther and farther from my past. The bus arrived at the same time as I did, and without another thought, I was on my way to my new life.
It started with a question: “How would you feel?” She looked at me like I had ten heads. “How would you feel?”, I questioned again. Rage spit from her mouth like a wildfire devouring a forest; she wanted me to know how she truly felt. My morals were brought into question, and I was put on religious trial: “How could you ever go to heaven?”, “ How can you be such a whore?”, “ You’re not going to disrespect me,”, she continued. I fought back in my honor, explaining that I am old enough to decide on my own, who I love has nothing to do with anyone but me. She started to speak in tongues, in hopes of breaking me down and pushing out the demons I was told I had in me since I was 14. She cried and begged for me to be saved, and her words hit me like fire, burning my flesh and leaving a scar that I could never get rid of. With one final look, I promised that I would be gone by the end of the day, and she laughed in my face. “You have nowhere to go.”
I sat with my headphones in, staring out the window. I watched as we crossed the bridge, and the clouds waved goodbye. The sky turned gloomy as I felt the weight of the world come off my shoulders. I focused on the sky to distract from the fear I felt. I calculated in my head how long I had before she realized I was gone, an hour and a half. Meaning I had enough time to be on my way from Port Authority before she ever realized I was gone. I made a checklist in my head, everything I needed stuffed into one bag. A week's worth of clothes, my social security card, laptop and charger, and a bottle of water and an apple. 12 hours to go, I reminded myself.
For so long we argued about our differences in morals. She wanted me to be the perfect Christian daughter, and for a while, I went along with it. I went to church, I participated in everything she had asked me to. I wore dresses and my hair long. I never gave off the scent of homosexuality besides with my peers, who showed me more support than my mother ever had. I lived my life separately for so long, I forgot that one day they were going to have to overlap. I forgot that one day I was going to meet someone so amazing that they were going to be worth the fight I knew I was going to have with my mother. My mother would cry out loud, to “heal” me from my sinful ways. I would laugh at her idioticness and how she thought she was truly going to get her way. Our disconnect started a long time ago, but she was so sure she was going to fix it by praying it away.
I transferred from one bus to another and soon I was on my way up to Buffalo. I continued to stare out the window, my bag in hand, hoping that the trip would go okay. I found myself falling into mind pits of “what ifs.” When the first phone call came, I was two hours in. I quickly ended it and kept focusing on the end, 10 hours to go. I kept thinking back to all the reasons I did this. Was it just the manic part of me? Was it the lack of respect I’ve felt for so long? The questions continued as the bus drove steady for hours on end.
I knew that with every passing moment I was closer to my dream. I knew that I did the right thing, and the repeated 444’s I was seeing at every stop only made me even more sure. I deserved a chance to be free and be happy. I was tired of wearing my mother's words on my skin. I was tired of fighting with myself to stay alive every day. I was tired of…. I was just tired. 20 years living in a religious prison, with a mother who was so manipulative and full of shit to the point that I started to believe that I was the crazy one. The games she played, the words she said, everything led to this point, and she knew it. She knew that day when I looked her in the face begging for her to put aside her religious values for a second and just see me. She knew when I said I’m done and cleaned my room. She knew when I kissed her cheek and disappeared for the rest of the day.
As the final minutes approached, I knew that this was the right path. My heart raced with anticipation. Six months of torture whispered phone calls, and a severe lack of affection led to this moment. The bus pulled into its final stop, and I pushed my way to the front, bag in hand ready to wrap my arms around her. I thanked the bus driver and made my way to the familiar face. With every stride to her, I knew that this was it. 20 years of wrath fell off of me. Every word spoken to me, every painful night crying myself to sleep because I wasn’t enough, every broken heart my mother caused me, was all gone in that moment because I finally was with the person who made me whole.