The Bloody Doors Off

When I was at my worst, back in the fall of 2012, before the breakdown, I fantasized of running away. No particular destination in mind, just an escape. Purchase a bus ticket to anywhere and start over.

Obviously I didn’t. Because I was, for lack of a better word, chicken shit. I liked to think it was because I believed things could get better (and they did, after they got worse). But I was scared of making the leap. I’d have to pack up my sleep apnea machine, order all my medications in advance to carry me through the first three months gone. It got overwhelming. Everything overwhelmed.

And things got worse. Then they got better. I applauded myself for sticking it out.

Flash forward to 2016, and I’m wondering if I made the right choice. The urge to run has resurfaced, and it’s stronger than ever. Could I throw my stuff in storage, or my dad’s basement? How far could I get on the meager savings I still have?

Would I be happy?

If I thought the answer was yes, I’d be gone by the time you read this.

I still might.

The temptation is increasing.