Written by Lucy Waterson
Illustrations by Faith Freshwater
This piece was originally published in ‘Chimera’, Bossy’s 2022 print edition.
Growing up, children dabble in a variety of hobbies. Some try their hand at tennis or soccer. Others love their dancing classes, are always glued to a book, or spend every minute of their spare time drawing. However, there was no after-school class or training session for my chosen hobby. No weekend games at the local park. My favourite thing to do was run away.
Maybe it started with a disagreement between my sister and I over who got to choose the television show. Maybe Mum refused to let me skip netball practice, or my dad said no to a second Magnum ice cream after dinner. But that doesn’t matter. If ever I felt wronged, upset, or ignored, I was out the door with the tiny black-and-white striped suitcase my mum had handed down to me in tow. This donation was something she probably came to regret as soon as I was old enough to use and abuse it for my dramatics. In fact, that suitcase might have been the catalyst behind the increasing
frequency of my escapes—it would have been rude not to use it for its very design.
In my seven, maybe eight year-old mind, the streets I am about to encounter are rough and not for the faint hearted. I wonder where the next bus might take me and who I might meet. Maybe I’ll change my name and be free, kept warm with the feeling of vengeance as my parents search frantically, wishing they’d let me watch that extra episode of Hannah Montana.
In reality, I’m about 60 metres down the suburban street I live on, which is a kilometre minimum from the nearest main road. My dad is likely curb side, keeping watch as I stand furious at the bus stop for five minutes (an hour at least in my mind) before getting bored, tired, or hungry and deciding to sneak back home. I hope to go unnoticed, leaving my parents to relent over my disappearance.
It’s comical to reflect on the essentials I thought necessary to shove into my luggage, thinking I was facing an indefinite amount of time on the road without a dollar to my name. What made the cut?
The first thing I knew I couldn’t live without was a pillow I’d wittily
nicknamed Pilly, which by about age four, I had turned into a knotted
bundle of greying fabric scraps. Next on the list were colouring books and a few loose textas or Smiggle smelly pens. What if I got bored on the bus and needed something to do? I never brought any food, as my escape missions were far too covert to risk being caught red-handed in the kitchen. On a particularly considered day I might have remembered to bring a spare pair of leggings. If I was feeling a little more industrious, I chucked in a flashlight or a pair of scissors—for when I needed to build my outdoor shelter, obviously.
I wonder what exactly this eclectic choice of belongings reveals about my personality, both back then in my heyday and as I’ve gotten older. It certainly demonstrates a lack of forward planning, a skill I’ve still yet to fully master; and speaks to a lifelong sentimentality that has resulted in my keeping of storage bins filled with old stuffed toys.
In some ways, I’m sure I’m not all that different from the stroppy kid who insisted on storming out when things went wrong. Old habits die hard, and like many individuals in their early 20s, when I find myself able to escape my normal life for a few days away, I’m quick to seize the opportunity. Lately there are more and more things that I wouldn’t mind the occasional unannounced break from: the daily stresses of work, university deadlines, complicated relationships,
and the everlooming pressure to figure out what’s next. I yearn for
the simple days when the most upsetting thing I wanted to get away from was my parents’ refusal to let me have a guinea pig.
Running away is an idea laden with negative connotations, commonly associated with fear, cowardice, and avoidance. It’s seen as the inferior adrenaline response when things get rough: the “flight” over
“fight”. Older generations mock younger people for what they believe is a modern inability to endure hardships—as though it is a mark of weakness to leave behind careers, relationships, and situations that
cause us pain.
Maybe I’m biased, but in my mind, sometimes the running away is the fight. I can think of a few examples in my own life—struggling daily in unrewarding jobs, desperately trying to make a toxic friendship work—where “giving up” was the wisest choice I could make. Thankfully, with an ever-growing global understanding of mental health, we are finally beginning to recognise the strength and value of stepping away when we feel we need to. Running away also speaks to a traditionally unfavourable trait of defiance, an innate desire to rebel against the expectation placed upon us as we grow older to stay put, settle down, and carry on for the sake of those around us. With this in mind, I feel empowered by the idea of venturing a little further than the bus stop down the road, with plans to explore a whole new hemisphere and see where I end up. Travel is one (and perhaps the most obvious) of my personal adult escape schemes, but it’s certainly not the only option, with many far more accessible activities providing us with a well-deserved break.
Sometimes the trickiest fight we face is against our self-inflicted obsession with productivity, and allowing ourselves the time to watch our favourite tv show or spend a night out with friends is a bigger win that we think. When the time comes around, my travel bag may look a little different, and I’m afraid to say Pilly hasn’t left my childhood bedroom for a while. The colouring books have long since been replaced with shinier, electronic pastimes, and I rarely feel up to
leaving my embarrassingly heavy bag of toiletries and skincare behind, even for a night. My little black-and-white suitcase was retired a long time ago; it probably resides in the bottom of
the linen cupboard with a few relics of past getaways rolling around inside. I wouldn’t be surprised if my mum is keeping it safe for the day I might decide to have my own children and she can finally get her payback by passing it on to them.
After all, the childhood running away gig is a bit of a rite of passage: testing how far you can push the boundaries before coming back to the familiar comforts of home, then doing it all again two weeks later when you’re craving a bit of drama. Maybe I’ll try it out for old times’ sake the next time one of my housemates forgets to take out the bins.
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