Maya lives next door. She is supposed to be a house cat, but likes to roam. A few years ago while not yet fully grown, she ran away from home. Her owners looked for her and were hopeful for her return. After three months she was found wandering around a cemetery about 3 kilometres away. Now she is one of the cats who stop by often to visit. Yesterday she was at the door while one of her teenage owners was here for a piano lesson!
I used to run away from home. I wasn’t an overly happy child, and was given the nickname ”Sad-sack-Sandra” by my family. I don’t think I was always sad, just quiet. So quiet that everyone assumed I was sad. I think it was more a case of being misunderstood.
There were days when I was definitely unhappy, misunderstood and sad. Those were the days I would sneak out of the house unnoticed (that was easy because I was often invisible to my family) and then just as quietly, I would sneak back in. Thinking back to my childhood, the times that I ran away from home were related to being bullied, or treated unfairly. At least I thought I was being treated unfairly.
I returned before my parents even knew that I was gone. Getting in trouble was not my intention — I hated getting in trouble for anything and went to great lengths to avoid it. The running away was a chance for me to be truly alone and breathe.
As an adult, running away took on different forms: escaping bad marriages, finding new jobs, moving to a different house or different city. Starting over always seems easier to me than facing the current situation, or dealing with the past.
Reflections 