The clothes are stuffed in messy mounds,
Every item pulled from old pine wardrobes,
Hangers clanging as I pull the dresses
Only worn the once, to some family wedding,
A second cousin I last saw at just seven.
Zipping up the bag I look around again,
The last time I’ll ever see this room
Where I cried when I failed that English paper
And the bed where I first had sex.
I shed a tear, even if I didn’t want to cry,
To show that weakness. I wanted the world
To see I didn’t give a fuck, but actually
Whenever I find myself going through a difficult time I always have the urge to run. My natural instinct is never to fight – it’s just to get the hell outta there.
I ran from college when life felt too hard, and I ended up in London and then South Africa. And then when I was struggling at the end of my time drinking, I always had this desire to just get in my car and drive.
The urge was so strong that I even had an exit strategy. I would park my car at the supermarket and get the bus into town, I’d draw a few thousand out of the bank and then pay cash to get on a train and just head north. I find it quite scary that I had thought about it in such detail.
I realised today, that I haven’t made any plans for so many years. There have been so many scary times and I’ve stuck it out – and wanted to stick it out too.
I think that these days I understand the pain that goes hand in hand with running away, whereas before, I just didn’t care. I didn’t care about my own pain that would come from running and, more importantly, I didn’t care about the pain I’d inflict on others. And for that I am thankful for the changes I have made.