Over the past several weeks I’ve continued to keep my emotions in check and focus on work, in spite of the way I truly felt inside.

I knew I could do it and never give in to the pain; that I could handle it all and keep the veil in place, nevering letting the hurt show. I thought that if I focused on work and on my routine that the pain would have less of a hold on me; that I could eventually put all this behind me and begin to forget about what had happened, but I was wrong.

I am still trying to put it all behind me. I haven’t stopped crying, especially in those moments where I’m alone. I haven’t stopped feeling the pain. Everyday is harder than the last. I feel so alone. I feel so lost. And with each passing day, I feel it getting more difficult to pick myself back up.

Every morning when I wake up, I remember the pain of the day before. Every night as I lay in bed, I feel trapped and that there is no way out. I can remember an overwhelming feeling of suffocation.

The pain is still fresh and raw.

At times it is so bad that I’ll put on a show for Eleanor to watch on the TV so that I can go to my room and cry alone.

I am exhausted and feel like I am being ripped apart from the inside.

My soul is being pulled in so many different directions. There are too many emotions and feelings to hold in, but that’s what I am doing. When I feel them bubbling over, I scramble to gather and push them back in; shoving them down deeper than before.

But the reality is that I don’t know how much longer I can keep myself together.

I am fighting as hard as I can, but I can’t do it forever.

Truth be told, I was so focused and intent on returning to normalcy that I didn’t give my plan time to breathe; time to speak up and question my sanity and resolve in what I will do next.

Regardless, My mind hasn’t wavered from my decision.

I must leave Eleanor’s life. Forever.

Over the past several weeks the plan slowly began to take shape, hidden behind our routines and sense of order. To everyone except myself, everything was back to normal; a sense of normalcy that hadn’t been achieved since before Veronica died.

I socialize with the other parents when I drop Eleanor off at school.

I participate in the water cooler banter at work; smiling and laughing.

I hug my parents after our weekend meals together, telling them I love them. This in itself isn’t normal. It’s something that was rare—an action and phrase saved for only the most special of occasions, which typically were occasions that weren’t all that special. I had told myself that they needed to see this as part of my healing process, so that when I was gone they had a really good memory to hold on to.

With Eleanor I took the opportunity to be more engaged with her. During our dinners together, instead of our typical silence, I would quiz her, asking her to tell me about three good things that happened to her during the day. She would tell me stories about her teachers and her friends; stories full of her strong opinions about who had wronged her and what their punishment should be. As cute and as funny as this was, I could see that her awareness of suffering was beginning to form. As that idea began to form in my head, I could tell that my marginal parental instincts were wanting to kick in; wanting to coach her about other people’s thoughts and feelings. Like this moment and so many others before, I felt connected with her and wonder if I am making the right choice. But as quickly as those thoughts bubbled up, I push them back down.

I’ve seen my patterns. I told myself that even if I tried, the hardness that had formed around my heart would only teach her how to be a creature that inflicts suffering in others, just as I do to her.

Regardless, of those short periods of good parenting or the desire to try to be a good parent, I knew that it wasn’t sustainable. At some point, I would fail and she would fail and we would be back on this never-ending loop of dysfunctionalism. But even with my strong sense of determinism, I still had these moments of doubt.

I couldn’t waver. I had to stay on the path I was on.

Behind the safety of a private incognito browser window, I began to plot out my course, committing as much to memory as possible.

My pack was mostly packed already: food, a light sleeping bag, layers of clothes, a few hundred dollars in cash. All in, it was pretty light; focused more so on survival versus comfortability.

Tomorrow will be the day.

I feel calm. Calmer than I should.

But everything has been set into motion.

The next morning, I drop Eleanor off with my parents to spend the weekend with them. It would be a weekend full of cookies and cuddles; the type of interactions Eleanor needed.

When I arrive home, I change into comfortable running pants and a shirt. I fill up my water bladder and slide it into the back of my pack. Realistically, it’s only enough for 30 hours, but it’s enough to get me far enough away from home, but close enough to a trailhead with portable water. Strapping on a couple trekking poles to the sides of my pack, I’m ready to go.

I leave my smartphone, wallet, and keys sitting on the counter. Going to the garage, I open the overhead door using the remote to close it. As it closes behind me, I slide the remote on the floor back into the garage to be found at a later date.

To my neighbors, this shouldn’t appear out of the ordinary. I go out for runs regularly. Perhaps this time, I have a bit more gear than usual, but nothing that should raise any red flags.

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I cut through the neighborhood, meeting up with a trail that cuts through to the foothills. No one was out today walking the area sidewalks. There were a few people on the trail: a couple mountain bikers and a few runners. The main trailhead was closed due to mud, so the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

This trail is familiar and it’s comforting seeing the familiar twists and turns of the trail.

After a few hours I reached a community park and jumped on a trail that took me deeper into the foothills.

Everything is going according to plan, so far.

Once I’m on a trail that is taking me deeper into the mountains, I begin to walk. The sun had started to set, but the goal was to continue through nightfall and into the next morning.

My legs are sore. The salty crust of sweat around my eyes begins to sting. My upper back is sore from the jostling of my pack. My neck is stiff from the angle I had been holding it in for several hours.

Once it’s been dark for a little more than a couple hours, I don’t see any other hikers for the rest of the night. It’s an odd feeling hiking in the woods completely alone. I didn’t bring my phone, so I don’t have any music or podcasts to keep me company. My headlamp casts strange shadows about me. Off-trail it catches the occasional glowing of some animal’s eyes. Most likely deer, I keep telling myself, even though I knew that one particular beast’s eyes were too large and too far apart to be a friendly creature.

Two hours before dawn breaks, my headlamp dies. I take it slow, using the light from the moon and stars to guide me. I carefully step around obstacles, but my cautiousness doesn’t prevent me from tripping over a rock. My trekking poles don’t catch me in time, so I land on my elbows and knees. It hurts, but I can’t see the damage clearly. Rolling up my sleeves, I touch my elbows and I can feel wetness. I hold my fingers up to the light of the moon and see a shimmer of blood. I wipe the dirt and gravel off and spray some water in an attempt to clean the wounds.

Pushing myself up into a standing position, my knees are immediately stiff and sore. My upper back from the impact is strained, causing it to radiate into my neck. I try to shake it off, but it hurts, so I continue on.

Once the sun rises, I can clearly see the crusted blood on my pant leg and shirt. The numbness had faded and was replaced by a lancing, red pain.

These injuries would be a cause for concern to any hikers I passed by, so once I heard the sound of running water, I left the trail, going downhill till I finally reached a small stream. In the cool morning mountain air, I stripped off my pants and shirt, washing them in the water, trying to remove the blood stains. The tears in the fabric will have to remain, but the fact that they were mostly clean of blood should help my presence on the trail be less noticeable.

Cleaning and bandaging my knees and elbows took a lot longer. I saw that during the fall I had also bruised my thigh in a circumference as big as my fist. It was already deepening to a nice dark purple and was another contributor to my hobbling gait.

After replenishing calories, I continued on. My legs and arms were stiff, so the typical efficiency of hiking and trekking poles wasn’t there. I found that the more I continued walking the easier walking became and the pain receded to a dark corner of my parietal lobe. Soon walking became power-hiking, which became the occasional spurt of running.

There was some strange internal energy that I was feeding off that made me feel like I was making the right decision.

Looking at my watch, I could tell that it was around the time my parents would begin driving Eleanor back to my place. They probably called me once to let me know they were on their way. It was a normal habit for me not to pick up, so they probably wouldn’t suspect anything until arriving at my house. My car would be in the driveway. They would knock a couple times, ring the doorbell, and call me again before getting out their spare set of keys and opening the front door. My smartphone would still be on the counter next to my wallet and keys. They’d wander the house, calling my name, before fully realizing that I’m not there. My dad will speculate that I went running and my mom would agree, trying to hide the tiny bit of worry in her voice. They would wait some more. Eleanor would occupy herself with her dolls unaware of the gradually increasing sense of paranoia and dread in the people around her. Eventually, it’ll reach a point where awareness or at least a suspicion will arise and they’ll come to the conclusion that they need to call someone, but can’t do it with Eleanor at the house. My mom will offer to take Eleanor home with her and Eleanor goes willingly; the joy of spending another night at Hotel Grandma. My dad stays at my house and as soon as Mom and Eleanor leave he calls the police. He tells them that he thinks that I went running and how it’s unusual for my smartphone to be at my house without me. There’s a few hours of back and forth with the patrol officer who stopped by to look things over, but by sundown there would be a full search taking place in the foothills and surrounding mountains.

I had six more hours to go before I needed to find someplace to lay low for a while. I had covered a decent amount of distance since I started—close to 40 miles by my best guess, but I had missed a turn off that would have pushed me further west and would have provided fresh water. If anything, I needed to go off-trail, crossing over the distant peaks before the sun sets and then and only then would I know for sure that I was in the clear.

It was stupid and risky. There’s a reason why there’s trails; paths worn down over time by people finding the easiest way to where they were going. But I had reached a point where I wasn’t sure where I was. I could see where I needed to go, but didn’t know when my path would intersect with a trail that would take me there.

The terrain was flat for a while, but soon it took me over several rolling hills and down into a steep valley that ended at a lake at the base of a peak. Best guess was that it was well over 13,000 feet. I could see the tiny outlines of hikers along the ridgeline, which most likely meant that the true trail was on the other side from where I was at. I looked up and down the valley, but couldn’t see a better alternative than heading relatively straight up to the ridge line.

I hiked to the base of the boulder field before packing my poles away. I begin making my way up and over them; carefully picking my way through the various sized boulders, occasionally slipping and causing rocks to tumble down to the valley below. Any time I saw hikers on the ridgeline, I stayed low, stopping to catch my breath.

It was a slow journey. Several times I took a path that led to a giant boulder that I couldn’t scale or go around and I had to double back. My water was running low as was my food supply. My stomach was cramping and I had to take a few bathroom breaks, crouched between boulders.

I had to make it to the top. From there I could follow the trail down to the trailhead and refill my water and use the facilities to clean myself up. If I was correct in my assumption about which mountain I was hiking up, it would be another 10 miles until I was in a small town and could buy food.

Walking. Hiking. Scrambling.

The closer I got to the top, the steeper it became. The sun was beginning to set and there weren’t any more hikers.

It was dark before I could reach the ridgeline. I had hit a granite wall and I was too tired to head back down. I wedged my right foot into a crevice and used that to push myself up until my fingers found another crevice to grip. With my left foot I felt around until I found a narrow outcrop of rock and I pushed myself up and over.

In the moonlight I could see the trail—maybe 100 feet up a hikable climb. I push forward, quickly losing my momentum and my hike becomes a crawl. I reach and grab hold of a small boulder as my feet go out from underneath me, but the boulder isn’t stable either. As I put my weight on it, the boulder turns, beginning to roll, and I push myself away from its path, landing on loose scree that starts to break up underneath my weight. I claw with my hands and kick with my feet, trying to find some type of purchase. In the dim light, I can see the approaching cliff of the wall that I had just climbed and my movements become more frantic.

In the final few milliseconds, I’m hit by a wave of peaceful inevitability and stop my thrashing, tensing as I go over the cliff, falling for what feels like forever, before I crash into the ground and darkness descends.