This is Not a Brave Story

There is a quiet, patient voice inside of me, whispering.

"Write. Write. Write."

Fine.

Yeah, I feel better than I felt seven months ago. Yeah, I get out of bed and I haven't needed to take my meds in a while and I never really drank to forget. I realized that I need to travel as an incentive to stay alive, so I travel.

And people are losing their minds over it.

I get it. Traveling is awesome. It stretches every horizon and strengthens every muscular bit of one's character. It widens networks and eyes. It's adventurous and sexy and bohemian and impressive and fun to talk about. Look at this wild-haired wanderer, flying past and leaving kisses everywhere she goes! Look how free she is! If only I had the time or the resources or the people or...I'd be just like her. She's so brave.

No, I'm not.

We live in the generation of the glorified wanderer, and it's legitimate; it's what some of us are. But, it isn't always as easy or free loving as it seems. There is a niche demographic for which travel is possible, and I skirt the edge of that demographic as grace allows. I'm usually financially stable enough to fill the tank, but not always. My dependence on others tends to skyrocket during these seasons, and although it's so necessary, it always surprises me. I left to be free, but I'm bound by my first-world necessities and fear of bears and my own ignorance. I'm really just couch surfing, depending on the grace of the owners of the couches. I steal a squirt of hot sauce here and another of conditioner there, realizing that I never picked those things up at the store, and I needed my windshield replaced or a new phone, cringing and nearly self-destructing every time I burn another $100 deductible. I do my thing from my borrowed couch, which is sometimes going to work or out on an adventure, but sometimes it's just catching up on Pretty Little Liars under a blanket. I'm the same as you.

Often, I'll brag that I'm "really damn good at this," but I'm not necessarily good by my own gumption. I'm good because I have a good network, and I hope that those in the network will keep their timeshares with me. On one hand, I'm incredibly grateful and I do what I can to contribute, but on the other hand, this is starting to feel selfish and a little ridiculous. I'm probably expected to grow up a little bit, but I don't know how to do that without wandering around first. So there's nothing to do but keep going, keep searching. It's not bravery. It's not commendable. It's amazing, and it's terrifying. I'm excited, and I'm frightened. Glorification makes no sense, here. It's actually pretty confusing to hear. Call me what I am: a seeker.

Now that I have lots of time to myself on the road, I have lots of time to regress as I progress. Maybe regress is the wrong word. Maybe, hopefully, it's just remembering instead of regressing. Because I spend a lot of time worrying that I've just gotten worse, weaker. Likely untrue, but a valid concern nonetheless. Because PTSD is incurable, it pops up every so often (every day) and says hello in several different languages. It tends to get louder when everything else in my life is in limbo. And to prevent falling backwards, I tend to worry about my next generation instead. And end up falling harder.

Never mind dating in rape culture, because I don't need anyone trying to stabilize me at the moment. It's not happening. Don't waste my time, or yours. But assuming I eventually figure that out (right) and end up with a kid (okay) and a home (what does that even mean) that I don't want to leave every week (now you've lost it) then will any of this go away?

Nope. The truth of the matter is, I'm preparing myself for the day my kid gets abused. It will happen. Statistically, it will happen. And I'm telling myself that when it does happen, I can say that I'm prepared. Don't worry. I've got this. When in reality, there's no way I've got this. 

Civil war: commence.

There is one half of me who remembers what it felt like to have my needs disregarded. There is a very damaged, very wounded part of me who remembers. And she never, ever wants to see another child as petrified and lonely and frozen under covers, palms sweaty, breathing quietly, sometimes screaming, sometimes feeling the ice creep through her veins...never wanting to fall asleep but so, so tired. She needed a safe, warm body next to her. She still does. She needed advocacy. She still does.

But then again, there is another half of me who remembers what I actually told myself when I was that child. Because I was busy thinking of anything besides myself, I thought of my unborn child then, too. I decided that should I end up with a daughter in a similar situation, I would leave her alone. I'd keep watch, but from a distance. I'd let her fight her way through, by herself. I'd let her save herself. I'd let her build that character and that independence and I'd let her find her victory.

I wonder if I told this to myself out of necessity. Because now, it doesn't make me feel victorious. I know that I am strong and independent and I can survive because of this, but I remain devastated by the fact that my support system wasn't a support system. Years later, I remain devastated. Being strong enough to survive never soothed that betrayal. Now, home isn't a thing. Now, regardless of good character or how much I love them, men still aren't trustworthy. Now, people would rather point fingers than extend helping hands. Now, people would rather keep quiet than tell the truth. Now, I can't let a child grow up with those thoughts.

But, it's not really up to me. And at the moment, it doesn't have to be. As unstable as I am, I'm very pleased with the person I've turned out to be. I'll figure it out. I'll be fine. I'll have so much fun.

Some days, though, everything is too heavy and I don't want to anymore.

So I run.

Uplift

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: driving is my favorite thing in the known universe. My ability to drive is directly correlated to my ability to feel progress, and wonder, and raw, beautiful life. It's one of the reasons that I hated being on Xanax. Couldn't drive, couldn't escape.

I always need a way out.

Yesterday, I woke up in Austin with my toes underneath Jax, gave him a goodbye kiss, and pointed myself toward Colorado. I was pretty excited, but in no rush; I hadn't driven to CO by these roads before, and I didn't know what I'd see. 

I saw the city turn into suburbs, which turned into farmland, which turned into plains and prairies. Buttes and mesas randomly dotted the landscape, and I snapped pictures at 80 miles per hour. It was perfect. And I was glad that the signs reflected the things that I felt behind my eyes.

When I got to New Mexico, the clouds changed. I hadn't really been to NM before, except for Four Corners, due west of where I was driving through. I believe that I put one butt cheek on New Mexican land, and that was the extent of it. Turns out, one butt cheek was not enough. (It never is, is it?)

Upon entering New Mexico, the sign boasted a "Land of Enchantment." They weren't exaggerating. I was pretty enchanted.

I pressed on, and knew that something was about to happen. The land kept getting more and more restless, and so did I. Wide based hills, mesas, and (apparently) volcanoes (?!) popped up, and I wondered what had happened there to make it so.

Uplift is incredibly courageous. It is catastrophic and terrifying, but it's a slow blossom. I always feel so much better when I am surrounded by mountains and hills, like geological uplift is a metaphor for my life. It's what happens when things collide and everything doesn't vaporize. Some things vaporize. The things that have to vaporize will vaporize. And sometimes, that's really painful. 

It's painful, but it doesn't always have to mean that things don't work out for the better. There's beauty in uplift and erosion. There's growth that comes with change. And there's bravery that blooms, here. What's more terrifying than knocking heads with a tectonic plate? Not much, on this Earth. Fault lines prevail, and our planet will stabilize, and sometimes that stability requires us to push upward and nestle ourselves against each other until we fit together, weary heads in the crooks of comforting shoulders. We are conserved, in this equilibrium. We fit.

And then, like clockwork, I rounded the corner and there they were. An hour before sunset is exactly the time to cross from New Mexico into Colorado. It's the magic hour, when everything is on fire and shadows spike into the golden sky and snow kisses sunlight. 

There are things in this life that I cannot handle. The Rockies have always been one of them. The Rockies will never not make me want to cry unadulterated joy tears, or tug on my heart, or allow me to exercise my gift for extracting every ounce of wonder out of everything. And because of this, I don't want to handle them. They are not mine to handle; I was not raised with them, they did not rise for me. They are too big and too wide and too majestic to be held by one soul, so I share their energy and it makes me desperate.

It makes me weirdly desperate. My first reaction is denial, because there's no way that something in this world could be that beautiful. Then, deep gratitude. This is land that we've let evolve, and let alone. We're no match for it, and it towers over us like a protective father, so much like a god. Then, I kick myself for ever leaving the state of Colorado, because of the things that it does to me and the desperation it pulls from me.

It's an interesting self exploration, putting mountains in front of my face. I notice that I am the most desperate that I have ever been, in these situations. It's so strange; it almost feels as if I should be begging forgiveness for sins I have yet to commit, or clawing at the chance to stay just one moment longer, or to breathe the same air that the hills exhale...it brings me to my knees. It brings me straight to my knees. 

There I was, metaphorically on my knees as Venus herself looked gracefully down over the silhouettes, and I turned into a stuttering, blithering idiot. This is how you feel when you receive good news, or your life changes, or you see the Rockies at sunset. Add having been in the car for 13 hours by my lonesome, and I was pretty desperate to call somebody, just so somebody else knew that there is still beauty in the world. I called Amanda, my favorite person in the world, and left a lengthy, breathy, hurried, messy description of the purple clouds and the orange mesas and the fiery sky and the goldenrod on the prairie...because she needed to know. All of you need to know that there are good things in the world. Side note, you should all probably be thankful that you're not Amanda on the receiving end of my lunacy. Or, if you are Amanda, then hi, darling! I am ever, ever thankful for your heart and your grace and your willingness to do life with me, sometimes even from thousands of miles away. Also, expect more of the same in the weeks to come!

I expect to remain on my knees for the foreseeable future. Dragged through the mud and the grass and the sand and the ice, on my knees before this whole Universe and how perfect and gracious it is, in all its unlikelihood, for me to exist inside of it.

Dusk in the Sunshine State

One last glass of wine in Clearwater, and that was it. It was over. I'm done, I'm out.

I'm trying to decide what I'm feeling, and I think my body is fiercely defending itself against feeling anything at all, because I'm coming up empty. Not empty, but...mysteriously full.

Like, I was sitting on this couch in this house that became a home, and that's an absolute miracle. I don't think I've been able to properly express what a miracle this entire place has been, because there aren't words to do such a thing. A home. This is the closest to home that I think I've ever felt in my entire life.

...I feel like I should leave a pause, here. This is the closest to home that I think I've ever felt in my entire life. 

It isn't for lack of trying, or really, for lack of anything. Before, I mean. I wasn't missing anything, I've just never been...home.

A little over six months ago, I was laying in my old bed at my parents' house in Michigan, asleep. I had wanted to go up north to the cabin for a couple of wintry, frozen days to visit my aunt and uncle and regroup in the woods, but I knew I had something like a hundred dollars left in my bank account; one hundred dollars that I'd need to get to Florida, where I had jobs lined up. I knew I couldn't go anywhere. Even when I took a double dose of Xanax, I couldn't go anywhere. I couldn't get away. Nothing was taking me from where I was.

My mom snuck into my room and quietly slipped sixty dollars into my fingers. She didn't simply set the money on my bedside; she rolled it up and attached a note and wrapped the whole thing in a bow, an early Christmas gift. A trip, a full tank, the best gift anyone could give a person like me. My mom didn't have sixty dollars to give, but she gave it to me anyway.

She tried her best. She did everything she could. She told me that she knew that I wasn't feeling well, but that she hoped I'd still have a nice time at home; there was nothing that I in my overwhelming, stifling grief could ever give back. That fact broke me.

Things did not change as soon as I crossed the Mason Dixon. They did not change even as I was snuggled up close to my best friend on my way down. They did not change when I finally made it to Clearwater and my Jesse dog cried the happiest greetings, so joyful to see me again. They did not change when I landed a second job at a museum that I had desperately wanted, and loved. They almost changed when I started spending time with Maxwell again, but even then, they didn't.

New Year's Eve panicked me. I was scared, disinterested in seeing another sunrise, lamenting the fact that if I survived, I'd turn 25 this year and I'd have been nothing but a burned out shell of the woman I thought I'd be. But I did not try to hide it. Instead, I tried to get help, help that required taking time off from work and waiting for entirely too long; help that was, essentially, inaccessible to me. Help that never came.

I felt myself becoming the one who would slip through the cracks of the system. I accepted it. I didn't think that I had another choice. And like every other time, I took advantage of how easy it was to blame myself.

But then, something happened.

I began to become more financially stable. I worked every hour that I possibly could, and on my days off, I took some time for self-care. I strengthened the friendships that I had before, weaved new ones, and sank into my genome without needing or ever wanting to come up for air. I made travel itineraries. Instead of the dreaded suicide plans that my former therapist and I would discuss and try to productively counteract, I made a plan to stay alive.

It took time. It took an insane amount of grace, from everybody that surrounded me and from myself, learning to accept that grace as a gift that was for me. It took the crazy, previously unattainable idea that I belonged somewhere; a home where love permeated from wall to wall and everybody was accepted for exactly who they were. Because in houses that are homes, we are allowed to make mistakes and fall and cry and fail. There is space and grace for those things; we always wake up with a thousand new mercies in the morning and a brand new sunrise. And today, although I miss my Sunshine State and all of the memories it holds, it's time to move on to new spaces and graces.

I am not a finished product, but I'm still alive. I'm calling it a victory.

You're Not in a Cage

Oh, my. Do I ever have some energy to move.

And lately, I've been taking whatever minor toxins I have inside of me and vaporizing them into song, as I do. It has been marvelous. 

Makes it hard to leave, really.

Like, how much of a masochist do I have to be in order to stay, or leave? It's time. I know it's time. It's time, it's time, it's time. My level of "over it" is steadily increasing by the minute. My restlessness makes it difficult to hold a conversation or eye contact or keep myself grounded.

Grounded. The scariest thing.

I'm not sure if most people have foundations or roots; all I know is that I don't. And it doesn't always have to be a thing that makes me sad. In fact, it seldom does; having reached an unprecedented level of closeness while living here has actually weirded me out a little bit. It means that I'm unafraid to go exploring and adventuring and I have the opportunity to meet new people, try new things, learn. 

And there are many, many things to learn.

Reality is a lot like quantum physics, which is an interesting thing to say, but I think it's accurate in more ways than one. Feynman once noted that when a person thinks he or she has a firm grasp on the subject, the person is farther away than ever before. He, of course, was speaking of quantum physics; but he had a marvelous gift for driving the subject matter home. And once I think I know what I'm talking about, I get too comfortable. For somebody who tries to keep her privilege in perspective (and has legitimately never figured out how to spell 'privilege' correctly on the first try; there's no 'd'...why is there a 'd' in 'knowledge' but not 'privilege') and for somebody who dearly loves to learn and to open her mind to all kinds of different angles and perspectives, I can be pretty judgmental. And the worst part about that is, I get judgmental when I'm feeling well.

I don't think that my confidence is in the right spot.

Rather, I wish I could move it to other aspects of my life. I am overwhelmingly self confident in some areas, but detrimentally self deprecating in others. And most likely, to everyone a few years my senior, I seem to be endowed with a millennial's dose of self entitlement. 

But, that doesn't make any sense. Just six months ago I felt like less than a vapor stuck in a pocket of dark instability, but now that I'm feeling better, I confidently and happily own that instability as my home. How is that entitlement? I just want to stay alive and sustain. That's it. That's all. If that looks like entitlement to you, then shame on you. A thousand times, shame on your lack of perspective and compassion. Get out of here with your abrasive energy, and leave me to my own devices. If you wish to approach me, then approach me as a human being with an individual identity; not as a member of a demographic which you choose to scrutinize.

Or, was that wording too pompous and pretentious for you? Am I simply proving your point?

Whatever. Go away. I want to be around good energy, not this.

The whole world has gone mad, and I know it. Of course, my heart is heavy. But there aren't enough bytes of data in the world to post all of my irritation on the good ol' FB, nor would I ever want to. And besides, my silence is a recognition that I am not entitled to own an opinion on many of the goings on. My silence has never been consent. Ever. On the contrary, it's my refusal to own issues that are not mine to own. For example, I can have lots of feelings about the Charleston massacre, or Ferguson, or Baltimore, or Texas, or Rachel What's-her-face...but I can't own it. I don't know what it's like to be a black American. I don't, and I never will, and to try would be an act of ignorance and violence in itself. 

And even at this point, I'm almost ready to abandon (abandon is the wrong word. Vacate, maybe? Retire? Move on?) the issues that absolutely are mine to own. 

I just can't anymore. Maybe it's burnout, but more likely than that, it's my longing to move on. Keep moving forward. It takes a significant amount of energy to convince myself that I'm not in a cage. I have to keep going. There is nothing more that I can do for this healing process. I've been open, I've found community, I've found healing, I've come to terms with the fact that this does not ever go away. There is peace that comes with that. It doesn't even really hurt anymore. Not terribly, I mean. Not enough to die over. That's what happens when wounds turn into scabs. I'm not ignoring it; I'm letting it be.

Let me be.

I'll figure it out, but I won't know the right thing to do. I don't ever know. Nobody ever knows, for certain, what will turn out well and what will end up completely falling apart in some glorious, explosive way. So, of course I'm scared of my life. Who wouldn't be? It's a healthy fear! It's the kind of fear that will prevent me from plunging into the Grand Canyon without any rock climbing gear. It's a fear that just might save my life.

But I'm excited. I'll keep it exciting and progressive and as fun as I can. All I have to do is remind myself that I'm free to do all of these crazy things that I want to do, but to be smart about it.

I'm free. I'm not in a cage.