The Road to Safety

“From Connecticut to the Desert: The Road to Safety”

A cross-country escape, a stalking nightmare, and finding safety in the sun.

Leaving Hell Behind

There’s a reason you haven’t seen a new blog post in a bit. I’ve been driving across the country with my dog to escape a stalker.

No, really.

This is my real life.

The plan was always to eventually get to Arizona, maybe with an RV, maybe for treatment at the Mayo Clinic. But the plan changed fast when Bob—the same man who previously made me leave my home—moved into my apartment building, directly under me. After weeks of reporting, documenting, and begging the building to do something, I realized I wasn’t safe and never would be—not as long as he knew where I lived.

So I did what anyone does when they’re in danger:

I got the hell out.

I packed my car in the dark. I drove 1000 miles a day. I didn’t stop for scenery, for joy, for rest. I drove for survival. And I made it.

I drove from Connecticut to Arizona in FOUR days & I certainly did not do that for my health.

What Happened in Connecticut

Bob moved in, and everything unraveled. Despite warnings and fair housing attempts to block his lease, there he was—leaving notes outside my bedroom door, loitering around my apartment, staring at my dog and me with a fixation that screamed danger.

I tried to survive it civilly at first. I told him flat-out: I am not your friend. I let the dogs play. I held boundaries. I tried. But when he started blocking my dog from going to the bathroom and then his dog attacked us, everything changed.

Nicky and I both got hurt—her emotionally, me physically. I ended up with a sprained rotator cuff and ankle. And it was all caught on building security cameras.

Then came the final straw:

I caught Bob trying to break into my car at 5am on the day I was leaving.

Then I found a GPS tracker under the car.

That was it. I was done. Done hiding. Done reporting. Done surviving.

The Drive

We did it in four days. 1000 miles per day. It wasn’t glamorous. It was terror-fueled, prayer-drenched, and laced with grit. I connected with my higher power. We made this drive on coffee, Vicodin, and a prayer.

We took the Midwest route—New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania (first day) Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri,(second day), (third day rest… too much pain to drive) - Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, (Fourth day), New Mexico into Arizona. Every day I woke up early, sober, and drove as far & as fast as I could. No drinking. No speeding tickets, No hangovers. Just me and Nicky, God, and the open road.

New Mexico was hauntingly beautiful—flatlands, rising mountains, endless horizon. But I forgot something important: the elevation. I hit 8000 feet without realizing it, and then came the descent into Arizona. Hairpin turns. 85 mph downhill with no guard rails. Just mountains and the knowledge that I couldn’t afford a mistake.

I have never been more thankful to be in a small car. If I’d been in an RV, I would’ve died on that mountain. That was God looking out for me a few months ago… he knew what I was heading towards. That is why I never got my RV… my higher power intervened.

Arriving in Arizona

We made it. Barely. Shaking.

Nicky’s still confused. I’m still in fight-or-flight. My body is vibrating. I’m catching myself snapping at strangers for asking if they can reach for a banana in the grocery store.

But I’m safe.

We’re safe.

Right now, we’re staying in a hotel but we are set up privately down here. I’m giving my body time to adjust to the heat, to the light, to the fact that I’m not in danger anymore. That is the hardest part. That address is private and will remain that way. In fact, no one will ever have my address again unless they live there.

On the Physical Shift

Arizona is hot. Like, 112° hot. But it’s dry. And for someone like me, with trigeminal neuralgia and a body that reacts violently to humidity, this is a blessing. I already feel my sinuses drying. I’m hopeful. Cautious. Curious.

I’ll need to hydrate constantly, be smart about sun exposure, and gradually ease into my new surroundings. But this move? It could save my life.

Why I’m Telling You All This

Some of you reading this know me personally. Some of you don’t.

But if you’re here, it means you’re part of Dove Recovery Art—and that means you understand what we’re building.

We’re not just selling art. We’re telling the truth.

We’re creating space for people to say:

I’ve been there. I get it.

Or: I’m there now. Can you help me?

Yes. I can. That’s the whole point.

This blog is the heart of the work I do. It’s where we meet, where we connect.

And if you’re someone who’s been stalked, chased out of your home, or trapped by fear—email me. I want to know your story.

I want you to know you are not alone.

What’s Next

I don’t know what happens next. But I have what I need. My dog. My art. My recovery. My sobriety. My will.

I’ll be finding a backyard for Nicky, growing veggies and probably some pot too (because Arizona is fun like that), settling into AA here in person, and maybe even rocking yoga pants to meetings like a whole new desert gypsy.

I’m not planning 10 steps ahead right now.

I’m just here.

Safe.

Grateful.

Alive.

Special thanks to my family for coming through when the U-Haul movers failed spectacularly. They split the cost of real movers & handled the move, so I could get out of town right away. They helped save me from a truly terrifying spiral. I will never forget that.

If you’ve made it this far…

Thank you for caring. Thank you for watching this journey unfold in real-time. I’ll be back soon with updates on Mayo Clinic, recovery life, art projects, and hopefully a whole lot of peace.

Wherever you are:

Keep going.

Choose life.

Trust yourself.

With Love,

– Dana (aka- Elfy going forward) & Nicky

Founder of Dove Recovery Art