I Am A Runner

I am a runner. No, not in marathons. No, I don’t put on my professional running shoes and an expensive running outfit and run along the streets or on a track.

I learned in my teenage years to run – away from abuse and trauma. Unfortunately (or fortunately), it worked beautifully. So that connection was made in my brain, a fight or flight (in this case, flight) connection that would assure my survival. And it stuck.

At thirteen and fourteen, when my step-father (Jesse) would come in my room at night because I was “making too much noise” and push me down or talk to me with his finger in my face, (the final time by kicking my entire bedroom door and frame out of the wall), I learned to run. I was afraid of him and absolutely believed that, with mother’s support, he would critically injure me one day.

So I learned to run. I would pack a few things and leave for my Grandmother’s apartment that was about four blocks south of us. Of course, this infuriated my step-father because at this point, I was out of his malevolent control. Too bad. It worked.

The first time, I ran, I went to Grandmother’s and spent an entire month, returning to the apartment during the day when mother and Jesse were at work. Even knowing that they were away, I went about gathering things at a frenzied pace because I knew if caught (in the apartment where I actually lived) that I would be hurt.

Mother didn’t even call during that month. She didn’t check on me. She didn’t check on Grandma. Finally, Grandmother called her to see if she had any intention of taking me back home or paying for my living expenses. Mother made some lame promises about “it will never happen again” and I returned, hoping for the best.

Of course, it happened again. And I ran – again. So I learned that running was the way to solve imminent danger. Unfortunately, this reaction also extrapolated itself to cover any sort of situation. Unhappiness at work. Unhappiness at home. Discomfort with life in general. Then evolved into full-blown Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

It also explains my extreme tendency to run from anything uncomfortable. Because my brain knows (or believes) that situations that begin as discomfort will evolve into life-threatening situations. And you can’t reason with what your deep, deep personality inside your brain knows.

This explains many things, however. It explains my record of leaving jobs. Many jobs. Not that they were dangerous, specifically. But that I was simply more comfortable in a “safe place”. (that was home).

And that is the key. “Safe Place”. I would live under a house if my brain considered it a “Safe Place” because I am continuously seeking safe places. Until familiarity turns a place or situation to safety, I am inclined to run from it if anything unexpected happens.

This explains my boyfriend. During the tornado that was my life in my teen years, I had a boyfriend who loved and cared for me. He was the ultimate “safe place” for me and many times he held me while I cried my fear, panic, and anxiety out. Unfortunately, his mother didn’t approve of me (rightly) and even that situation became uncomfortable for me who was already suffering from living in a world of danger and uncertainty (it’s really hard to mature into a reasonable adult in this environment).

So I ran. But a few years ago, I accidentally ran into him again and I knew at that time that I would never let him get away from me again. He instantly established himself once again as my “safe place”. And there he remains to this day. I have wondered why it is so easy to forgive him for all the craziness in a relationship (he, also, had a troubled upbringing). It’s because he is forever established in my brain as my “safe place”.

It is only very recently that I put these pieces together to make a picture: because of my relationship with my mother and my having to live close to her because of present circumstances, I have a strong desire to pack my car and run as far away as I can. I even have a preferred destination. Sometimes the desire is so strong, I’m afraid I’ll subconsciously pack and drive away and wake up to find myself on the road.

At times, it’s all I can do to stay here. Because I just want to be away from it all, the memories, the stress, the trauma, the damage, the triggering of mother’s voice, of mother’s illness. All of it.

But I remain here, hoping for a better future, cherishing my little house, my dog and cat, my car, my music on Pandora, and my friends. And, far away in Memphis, my boyfriend and my amazing daughter.