I have a tendency to run from things.
As a child, I was non-confrontational. I would run to my room, shutting the door, shutting the world out. I would run outside, down the block to the high school track. I would run until I ran out of breath; or until my legs gave out, at which point I would sit on the bleachers and write.
In relationships I’ve run while retreating. My ex avoided conflict even more than I thought anyone possibly could. Sometimes I challenged him. Usually, I ran, because it was easier than being left behind.
I have learned, partially due to therapy and partially to D calling me on the carpet for it, not to run. I’ve learned to stick my feet to the ground and deal with the situation. But, I’ll tell you, sometimes I just want to take off.
Not from him, not from what we have necessarily; just from life. I want to run to a place where the only decisions to be made involve cocktail choices. I want to run away from cancer and sad parents. I want to run from indecisive bosses and demanding patients and acquaintances I just don’t know how to turn into friends.
When I was 8, I didn’t want to share a bedroom with my sister any longer, and I ran away. I ran down the street with my stuff and didn’t know where to go. After a few hours, I went back home and brought my stuff into the spare bathroom, where I promptly made a bed in the shower. Not the best plan, I’ll admit, but it was too cold to stay outside.
Sometimes I want to run. To escape someplace where no one knows me and I have little or no responsibility. A place that is warm but not too hot, where no guilt or obligation drive me. I want to go somewhere where nobody bothers me, unless I want them around.
Sometimes I want to run away from life. I just want to make sure this time, it’s not to a bathroom.