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, sometimes I’d go over 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. Please know the running ended much sooner than you’d think.

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 from getting called 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 something specific, 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-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.