December 24th, 2009 by Cy

It’s eleven fifty two as I slip my key into the ancient lock. Struggling with the few bags in my arms, I wiggle and jiggle the key until I hear the final click of the lock opening. As the door opens, the quiet rush of silence wisps across me.

I smile, wearily.

The past year has been the hardest of my life. Not only had I fought to be a collage student at the age of 15, but I’d also spent the past year in an awful legal battle for my very life.

One month after turning 15, I and my court appointed advocate filed the necessary paperwork to begin the process of my legal emancipation. A process that the woman who raised me fought vehemently, and sometimes violently.

The courts required so much in order for me to prove I was worthy and capable of self sufficiency just to become emancipated. My education in collage required my full attention and working to pay my own way, not just through school – but for housing, electric, gas, food, transportation medical care and every other bill your average adult had  too.

Grueling, agonizing and at times damn-near impossible…. and yet one year after filing, I became a legally emancipated adult in the eyes of the law. I’d just turned 16.

The hard work, long hours, discipline, determination and dedication had not lessoned after my emancipation – just the opposite. After being emancipated, I struggled even harder to keep my head above water. People will help a young lady trying to emancipate from her abuser – but they do not render aid to an adult. And now, at the age of 16 years and just over one month of age; an adult is what I was.

My hand reaches for the single light switch in my mini, studio apartment. The bare bulb flickers, then lights the tiny room. I close the door and throw the bolt and French lock. Then, still holding all my bags, I lean heavily against the back of the door and I sigh.

Closing my eyes I listen, hearing not a sound except for my breathing. tears attempt to sting behind my eyelids, but I force them back as I push off the door and stand upright once more.

As my eyes flutter open I hear myself chuckle at my momentary weakness.  I walk three steps and gently place the bags upon the counter.

Chinese food, some milk, and a loaf of bread rest gently on the counter while I toss my back pack towards my futon couch. I walk two steps down the counter and reach for a nearby plug. as soon as it is mounted int he wall socket, the tiny, twinkling lights begin blinking upon the single pine branch that stands as my makeshift X-mas tree.

I smile. Charlie Brown’s tree was voluptuous compared to this pine branch. But this branch was symbolic of the fact that I could, if I tried hard enough, have or do anything – including having a Christmas Tree.

Quickly I stow my groceries, and then grabbing the only fork I own and the Chinese food, I head to my futon. Just as I sit down in the silent, peaceful apartment, the cuckoo clock chimes midnight. My eyes glance to the tiny branch tree. Suddenly tears pour down my cheeks as I whisper to the silence, “Merry Christmas.”

There are no present to unwrap. I have no Christmas Dinner to cook. leftovers will have to do. But this Christmas I have been given, and earned the best Gift of all – my freedom.

This Christmas, I will face no beatings, awaken with no fear, and tremble not from the pains of an abusing woman.

Alone, overworked, exhausted and weary – I smile brightly into the night.

There is no greater gift then fighting for and winning your freedom. As a girl of 16, it was the best Christmas Gift ever.

As a woman of 40, I’ve never received anything better.

I am not sure I ever will.

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This blog post is a true story about The Christmas Gift I Remember Most. It is my post for the {W}rite-of-Passage writers challenge #3

It is also the greatest gift I have ever received.

Merry Christmas to each and every reader of Why Not – Right? no matter your religious or spiritual preference, I pray you peace, happiness, love, and freedom for this Winter Holiday Season and 2010

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Christmas, Why Not - Right?, Writing Challenge, X-Mas, {W}rite of Passage