I used to avoid coming home. I didn't want to be the kind of person that needed to come home. I didn't want to want home either. I wanted college to sate all of my desires, to make me into the kind of person who feels most comfortable on her own terms, in her own separate space, away from the comforts of the past.
In the past seven days I've come home twice, first riding and then driving down 64, 295, back to 64, in my decade-old red Jeep. It was Tuesday afternoon when my sister and I jumped in the car, desperate to rush home, if only for the night, to visit my six-week old golden puppy. It was Saturday afternoon when I, contender for worst driver in the world award, tentatively placed myself behind the wheel and drove away from my frantic sister, who was certain that no, that was not a good idea.
It probably was not a good idea. Here I was, first time on the interstate by myself - maybe I'm slightly sheltered - in the dark with only half a tank of gas in a somewhat unreliable vehicle. All I had to keep me safe was my redbull and the constant dialogue I kept up with myself, consisting mostly of "dial #77 for the state police."
Why would I, the girl adverse to "going home on a whim" and "thrill-seeking" suddenly feel the urge to throw myself in a dangerous situation on the highway, all to reach the comforts I neither want nor need?
I was running away.
I've always had a penchant for honesty, mostly for self-honesty. I can talk myself into a thousand lies, but I can never actually make myself believe them. I'm all too aware of my thoughts and my actions and I can't convince myself that yes, I really do care about a cause when honestly I could care less.
But being honest with yourself is not always enlightening or refreshing. A lot of the time it just hurts. Sometimes it even does more harm than good. When I'm honest with myself, when I face my fears, my stress and my "demons," I feel that the only way to solve anything is to attack the problem full on. Recognize it. Analyze it. Work on it. If that is not an option, recognize it, then put it aside. Let it fester somewhere else while you deal with more immediate concerns.
It seems that quite a few items on my list have fallen into the "let fester" category. My room is in shambles, my grades are sub-par, my stress is ascending and I didn't think it was possible but I've managed to be asleep more hours than I'm awake.
So I ran away.
I've never run away before. Unless you count the time my sister and I found the hidden car keys and raced to midsummers under my mother's nose - but never have I actually run away to simply escape. Escaping is not supposed to be a part of my plan.
I'm allowed to have faults. I'm allowed to enumerate my imperfections a thousand times over. I just have to eventually deal with them, right? Because it's only endearing to be flawed when you know in the end everything will fall into place.
But I ran away to my house, my 100-year old farmhouse on my muddy marshy creek where my mother is thrilled to see me home again, "twice in one week!" She reprimands me as she hugs me "you can NEVER drive alone in the dark" and my father high fives me for finally figuring out how to operate a vehicle. I cradle my puppy as he growls at me because he thinks he's a lion not a six-pound baby and my cats rub against my ankles as I heat up real food as opposed to college food.
I called my sister to let her know that I had done the unthinkable - survived! She was proud and also jealous that she couldn't join me on my adventure. But when you run away it's best to go alone.\nI don't want to be the girl that has to jump into her mother's bed to finally release the sigh of relief she's been holding in for so long. I don't want to be the girl that can't handle everything she has in front of her. I don't ever want to have to give up.
If I'm being honest with myself, I'm glad I ran away. I've been happier and more relaxed in the last 24 hours than I have been in a long time. If I'm being honest, then I also have to admit that I'm ashamed, and afraid. Ashamed that I can't deal with a messy room and a hectic week ahead. Afraid that I'll start running away all the time.
But if I'm really honest with myself, then I'll admit that it's not honesty that I need, it's forgiveness. To be able to forgive myself for escaping for a little while, for seeking solace, for needing and wanting the comforts of home. it's OK to run away.
I went out on the boat with my family tonight, to "clap as the sun goes down" which my mother insists is not celebratory, but necessary. I lay on the roof of the old fishing boat my father loves almost as much as us, it chugging along back towards our dock. I worried about how slow we were moving, about how much more studying I had to do when we got back. I looked around me to try to determine how much further we had to go. I saw all the familiar markers, but I couldn't gauge our distance. I didn't know exactly when we would be home, it was out of my hands. So I put my head back down and waited.
Mary Scott's column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at m.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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