As a freshman at the University of Kansas I was miserable. Actually I had been mostly miserable the entire year. Now, at the start of the third quarter, I seemed to feel the worst. I lived in one of the more colorful dorms, Oliver Hall, with a roommate from high school and was one of the few students not from Johnson County, Kansas. Pictures of me during this time show a young woman with a Farrah Fawcett haircut and confident features. But inside I was a mess of insecurities and awkwardness. I wasn't really ready for college but I'd gone because it was what seemed best at the time. My major was psychology and I wanted to join the peace corps after graduation.
It had been an awful year. I'd been two-timed by someone I thought I loved, lived with an out-going roommate who had lots of dates, was insecure and felt incredibly alone. For one brief moment I had hopes that things had changed for the better. I'd recently been baptized as an adult and become a 'born-again Christian'. But old ways of coping with life soon reemerged. Soon I was drinking and living even more wildly with reckless abandon. Hoping to join a sorority so that I could 'fit in' and have a more active social life, I went through Greek rush during the winter break. No sorority asked me to join so I was feeling pretty worthless and abandoned. Life was just plain ugly. "Alone, Again, ... Naturally" sang Gilbert O'Sullivan. His words fit my mood perfectly.
Looking for an escape I thought of running away. For one brief moment I envisioned flying to sunny California where the beaches were beautiful and love was in the air -- I wanted to be one of those girls wearing flowers in their hair while dreamily walking along the beaches with friends. "It Never Rains In California", a song by Albert Hammond, told me all I needed to know. Visions of hippie-togetherness ran through my mind as I hurriedly began making plans for my escape.
I had $500 in my savings account and cute clothes. What more would I need, I wondered. I pictured myself finding work as a waitress at a beachside restaurant and settling into life in paradise. Soon I was driving my parent's green station wagon to the Kansas City airport at breakneck speed all set to began a strange three-day journey in hopes of finding peace and love. Sitting on the airplane before take-off, I began to feel the first pangs of fear. "What have I done?" I murmured to myself. And when the plane finally settled on the tarmac of San Diego's airport, I really began to question the maturity of running away alone. "Am I nuts!?" I thought to myself.
Naturally I went to the one place where we'd stayed during a family vacation in 1973. It was a nice resort called The Dana Inn located just a mile from the California coastline. Taking a taxi from the airport to the Dana Inn, I disembarked feeling nervous and scared. I'd not taken the time to make reservations ahead of time so I considered myself extremely lucky to be able to book a room at this facility. There was a little restaurant about a quarter of a mile away so I knew I'd have a place to eat. And Seaworld was close by, too, although I was too afraid to go there by myself. I had enough money for about one week.
The funny thing, though, was that I rarely ventured from my room. Not only had I forgotten to pack things like shampoo and deodorant, but I also hadn't counted on how scary it is to walk unknown streets as a lone 19-year-old. I did venture to the beach one afternoon, but after seeing tough and burly beach bums hanging around, I stayed for a mere 20 minutes before skedaddling across the bay back to The Dana Inn. And eating alone was not an option, either. I sensed people looking at me with pity. "Poor girl. Doesn't she have any friends?"
Humbly I called my parents -- collect. "Mom, Dad. I'm in California." My mother was crying, but Dad was pretty matter-of-fact. "When will you be home? Do you have money? Where are you staying?" he questioned. Without much fanfare I informed my dad that I'd be home in a few days and asked if he'd pick me up at the airport. I don't remember much about the arrangements, but I suspect my dad bought my return airline ticket. And my sister picked me up at the airport wanting to know all about my exciting escapade. She also told how angry and sad my parents really were. I felt awful for having disappointed them -- and myself.
Upon returning from my runaway adventure, my parents had serious questions for me. I shared how miserable I'd been at college and, I was encouraged to find that my parents would support me despite their disappointment with my behavior. They encouraged me to return to finish my last semester at K.U., and gently suggested that I transfer to a smaller university in Missouri (which is where I was from). I did just that, although it wasn't easy to return to my KU friends who had lots of questions about my experience. The rest of the school year was just as penetratingly lonely and empty as the first semester, but I did try to make the best of it. Truth be told, I was way too immature to be able to handle a university setting. I was still wrestling with internal issues stemming from poor choices made in high school (but, that's for another blog).
What I learned is that problems don't disappear when you run from them. My insecurities and pains came with me to California -- and returned with me days later. I spent a lot of money and learned only that the grass isn't always greener in other places. And I learned that I, too, was only human. For all my bravado, inside I was still Kathy who needed and wanted to be around people. I just wasn't ready to live alone in this great big world. The songs of the 70's made life as a flower child seem more exotic than life really was. I learned that life is what is happening at the moment, wherever we are in the present. We have choices and it is maturity and wisdom that help us to make wise decisions.
Whenever I hear a 70's song about living a free life in California, I smile. Freedom is here and now. I just didn't know it back then.
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