Backpack

One of the best things that calms me down is packing up a bag. It's like a safety line. It's there just in case things get worse and I just can't handle it any more. I pulled out my worn and patched up green back pack today. It's fabric is scratchy and smells like freedom to me, like lichen, dry and dusty and cool. I slunk from my room, silent, and gathered up my sketchbook, my car keys, and the colour embroidery thread I needed for a project. I packed them away with my favorite Lovecraft anthology. I grabbed a tin of unicorn bandages and stuffed a tube of Neosporin in with them, this seemed like a good idea, just to have around, like the little tube of tooth paste, and the chopsticks my best friend got me, with porn on their tops. In went a little towel, while I've never read hitch-hikers guid to the galaxy, I read a lot about back-packing across countries, they give the same advice. I paused at my medication. Did I put it in? Even if I wouldn't likely be leaving tonight, if ever at all? But I erred on the side of caution and put them in the full front pocket. I grabbed a pair of comfortable shoes off the floor, and my Andrew Jackson Jihad shirt from the bed. It felt more than right to bring that band along. I wished for my cut-offs to complete the look, but they were upstairs in the wash. In went my old gameboy as well, with Pokemon Silver and Zelda: Oracle of Seasons, for variety. A gift card, a few other odds and ends, then I looped the necklace scout gave me, the one with the skulls around my neck and I was ready. But I didn't leave. I sat and I looked at the time. It was almost time for work. I needed to eat, and my anger and my bitterness had calmed down, for the most part. I ate leftover rice, then shouldered my pack, laced up my work shoes, and climbed out my window.

I've always made up runaway bags, ever since I was a kid. But I've never run away. Because I wouldn't know how to come home, and my problems were never permanent. But I feel like I should have. I wish I would have. Would have done something to protest against my mom and her instability. My therapist says I should take some kickboxing or martial arts classes so I can have an outlet for the anger and the rage that's been building up in me for years. It's a good idea. I can't really contain it lately, and I'm worried I might do more than just dig my fingernails into my skin the next time I get angry. Which will likely be soon, considering my mom has nothing but how shitty a kid I am to pay attention to any more.