And I'm Done.

My parents used to tell me that I was like the dog, Bailey. If you've met Bailey, you'll understand why this isn't a huge insult to me. She's a wire haired fox terrier, full of energy and 100% stubbornness. She refuses to behave, not because she's not smart, but just for the sheer sake of refusal. She gets really scared in thunderstorms, and the only way she'll stop panting and licking her (nonexistent) lips is if I full on lay on her. She doesn't find comfort in the simulated caves that the vet recommended, but she does relax as soon as you are covering all but her snout.

I, too, like to be squished. When I used to have a waterbed (you know -- back when it was fashionable), I would end up lying between the bed and the sideboard. All that warm squishing was unreasonably comforting. I, too, tend to be stubborn for no reason other than being stubborn. I also have too much energy and not enough to do with it. We like the same movies, and she'll watch the odd scary movie with me on TV, though neither of us is particularly happy about it.

That isn't what my parents meant though, not entirely. Bailey loves to run. She likes to escape, though she will only do if you've made it oh-so-easy for her to do so. Then she'll run, as fast as she can, away. She has nowhere to go, but it's thrilling. She does not come when her name is called. She barely comes over in the house when you call her. We always fear that she'll run into the road. (We have good reason to think so. Once, my poor brother had to run after her down our road, down a main road, and then down the wrong way on a freeway off ramp. Traffic stopped and then a van opened its door. Between the van and my brother calling her, she chose the van. Bystanders had to get in the van's way so it wouldn't steal my dog. She's not a bad dog though... she just wanted to see where the van was going, I think.)

My parents made the point that I was like the dog because I wanted to run, but had no idea of the various dangers they may await me beyond my own (figurative) backyard. They may have been right. I have not made any huge mistakes, though plenty of small ones. I have not (figuratively or literally) gotten run over by any cars. But my defense for Bailey and myself is that we just need to run to see what's out there. We'll come home eventually. Now, I recognise that Bailey might want nothing more than to run away forever. She might not appreciate the warm house, prompt service of food, and poop removal that the family has performed for her year after year. She might not fathom that she will get run over if she keeps running into the street. She is, after all, a dog.

But as her human equivalent, I feel the need to speak up for the runners. I have been running for a very long time. Not to anything or away from anything: just running for the sake of seeing what's beyond my backyard. I also remember a time when I was quite prone to minor panic attacks in high school. I was on a field trip with the band in California. I was just stressed. I'm sure there were many important and relevant reasons for my extreme state of stress. I don't remember nearly any of them now. But I just had to run. I needed to clear my mind and just be moving for a while. Momentum. And all of a sudden, I was just done. Nothing was "fixed", but I could handle it. My head was clear, I feel as tired physically as I was mentally and everything regained its balance.

Again, I wasn't running away from or to anything by coming here to New Zealand. I just needed to know, needed to get my balance back, to get a clear head. But I think I'm done. I miss not having a backyard to venture out from. Dare I say it? I miss roots. Luckily, I am going to settle into a place for a long period of time, and that place gets to be back in the States where most of my friends and family are. I'm going to do that soon.

But it's weird to be in the last leg of the race.