I can't even spell. Or use proper grammar. Or stop thinking. I'm so tired, and I'm wide awake. My bed right now feels like Christmas. A few minutes ago, a moth fell onto my keyboard because it wanted the light. It startled me, but I wanted to watch it anyway.
By grace though, even when I'm stoned out of my mind on Alprazolam, I can still do my job. I can help you plan your trip through the Badlands. I can show you Saturn, and tell you about the ice geysers on its moon Enceladus. When my mind is preoccupied with those things, it forgets that it's dizzy. I have to breathe because I have to speak. If I don't have to sit still, I can forget that my tee shirt collar feels like a noose.
And it had been almost two and a half months, so I'd forgotten how bad anxiety days felt. No trigger, just a bad day to drink coffee. I'm okay with it, though. I told myself that I wouldn't hate myself for taking medicine if I needed it. That's what it's for.
I am in, possibly, one of my favorite places in the universe. Badlands National Park is a saving grace and a graceful savior. And I'll say that it's beautiful right to its face, but as the poem in the Visitor Center says, the land will not flatter me back. It's too harsh and it's too real...but what if those things are exactly the things for which I'm searching? In that sense, I am flattered. I'm flattered that I can sit atop the most uncomfortable formations and feel rightly at home. Tough recognizing tough. Survivor acknowledging survivor. A land and a girl who both know that nothing is guaranteed and few worthy things are easy. Both being shaped by literal and figurative tempests; wind and rain and hailstones to end all windshields. In their seemingly woeful tales of erosion, though, both still wide open to the elements and willing to transform. Both knowing that change requires growing pains.
Both enduring, as long as the process allows.