My Runaway Childhood

After an abuse-filled upbringing, I left home for good at thirteen, legally emancipated myself from my mother, and finally took control of my own life.

Illustrations by Mardou

I pretended as if I were going to school. I walked to Palms Jr. High, where I was in the eighth grade, then waited five beats before turning around and going home. In the small roach-infested apartment I shared with my mom, I took my time. Packed my bags. Listened to her Motown records. Drank some of her International Delight instant coffee. I committed every last sad dumb thing to memory. I sat on the balcony and smoked cigarettes. My neighbor was there on the adjoining balcony, and as I put my cigarette out, I let him know, “I’m running away today.”

Then, I ran. Pumping my knees and arms, running alongside the bushes that lined the freeway until they connected with a bus stop. I was alive and afraid and thrilled. I looked up and down the street, cautiously tapping my foot and my fingers until the bus finally arrived. I took the number 12 Blue Bus to Westwood. My mom was at work.

Once I was on the run, I learned I’d never again enjoy the leaden hibernation that c…