Franz Jüttner (1865–1925): Illustration fom Schneewittchen, Scholz' Künstler-Bilderbücher, Mainz 1905This week David of Authorblog asks his readers if they have ever run away from home. I think I’ve mentioned before that I ran away a few times. I used to hide under my bed a lot. I liked the frame underneath, it was a spring mattress I think. I remember steal grey rods that I would stare up at, a maze of metal grating, like chicken wire, to support the mattress. I would hide under there and listen for my parents looking for me and smile because I was safe. For the most part, the bed was safe. At least, under the bed.
I once had a child eating bed. It was a hand me down from somewhere. But every time I climbed out of bed it bit my toe. My mother wouldn’t believe me, but then there was the blood evidence. Forensics would have found that the bed indeed was biting me, my mother said I got out of it wrong. She checked all corners for sharp edges, everything in the room. It was months of my toe getting bitten before we finally took that villain out of the house.
There was another time I ran away to Trin’s house and I sat on the floor eating out of the communal bowl with her family. When I was older, a teenager, a friend and I ran off with the circus. That adventure lasted a few days. We had both gone to dinner with a couple of the men that worked there, in ‘the oldest traveling circus in the United States’ before we left to follow them. It wasn’t even like we ran away for the thrill of saying – for three days we were part of the circus. We did it to get away from our families, to try and discover who we were outside the life regimented to us.
However, the number one way that I ran away is now called dissociation. That was how the name Victorya developed. Granted, now it’s just the name to remind me, but on a daily basis I went to this land where I was the sad beautiful little girl with no parents. I lived alone and peacefully in a little cottage and the nice ladies brought me food and there was music, always music. I talked to all the animals and my real mother was Nature, I was her only child. That was the main place I ran to in my life. I slipped out of the burden of being ‘the bratty little ragamuffin’ or ‘bitch’ (the first was my ‘nickname’ in my earlier years, the latter my mother’s ‘pet name’ for me as I hit puberty) and became Sister to Diana, protector of the wildlife, Victorya, The Last. A lot of times I was just ‘the Last’ in those fantasies. A child of enigma.
So yes, I ran away as a child. When I couldn’t do so physically, or realized I would always be caught and dragged back home, I did so mentally. I ran away to a world in which I was always safe, always valued, and always loved.
