As a smart, attractive young woman, I could’ve been anything I wanted. Instead I chose to drop out of society. I was 22 when I left Portland State University to hitchhike the United States with a homeless Sioux Indian I barely knew. I left because I felt like a ventriloquist’s dummy with someone else’s arm up my ass, someone else’s thoughts in my head, and someone else’s words in my mouth.
Over the course of two years, I went from lover to lover, place to place, searching for authenticity and vitality in a strictly-programmed society populated by robots. My road lead to a choice: I could deny my own essence and live the stale life prescribed to me, or I could be myself, raw and unedited, and endure a penniless, rootless existence outside its borders.
I knew I couldn’t return to civilization; road life had revealed it to be a farce. And I knew I’d find no solace or satisfaction in the wasteland beyond its limits. My new perspective would separate me from everything and everyone. My home would be the endless road; my purpose, a search for authenticity; my soul-mate, Wanderlust. It was 2005 when I set out. I’ve been on the road ever since.