Pills and Rage and Perspective

Sometimes, as some of you know, the pills I take with my lunch screw with me a little bit. They are so, so good at helping me not want to die every second, and preventing me from convulsing all over the place, and smoothing me enough to function...but they are very sensitive to changes in my physiological landscape. Especially impulse stresses, but also periodic hormonal influxes. 

So, I am a giant stereotypical cliché every month whenever my body realizes that it isn't pregnant yet. Even so, I'm convinced that it'll take me at least a full calendar year to realize and quantify the patterns that emerge from this interface between my meds and my hormones, especially since I can't ever stay put, but it seems to me that around this time I at least feel something too much. Sometimes it's sadness, in the sense that I pick some random colloquially sad thing and grieve over it for an entire day, regardless of its impact on my actual present day life. Or my life at all. 

This time, though, it's rage. And rage that I know has a very real foundation even if it may be enhanced by my neurochemistry. Bubbling, boiling, face-reddening rage and frustration with the fact that I can't put things into a perspective that fits anymore. Rage that comes from a source ingrained so deep that I didn't even recognize it as an anomaly until now. Because where I come from, it isn't an anomaly. It's normal.

But it's not normal, here. The only things that come close to mirroring this rage are the things that occur naturally here; specifically, the intense sources of powerful geothermal energy. It's almost like the land is so restless that it balances everything; there is so little social unrest here because the land has taken care of it. Laying in a thermal river, there are hot and cold currents that run down your body, one after another, the perfect grounding body scan. Everything that churns and burns is underground. It doesn't have to be inside of anybody's heart. 

I love living in Iceland. I love it fiercely. I am happy here; I don't think that I've ever been so consistently happy across the board. But, it is weird living here.

It's weird living in a peaceful country. It's weird when the expectation is that you will be just fine walking around town at night, that people generally mind their own business and respect your personal space. It's weird that Icelanders usually don't expect catcalls or street harassment. There is no police violence; in fact, there is very little systematic violence at all. Of course there are episodes of violence in any society and Iceland's history is incredibly violent, but it's just not the case today. It's not this constant thing. And I didn't realize that American violence is absolutely a constant continuum until I moved to a place where it is not.

I should be thankful. I am, so thankful. But I have spent the past month trying to reconcile this newfound peace with a hurricane I apparently have inside; the kind of hurricane that astronomers find on planets much bigger than ours. The kind of hurricane that lasts for decades, centuries. You can't just introduce a restoring force and expect the storm to quiet itself just like that. These storms have to run their courses.

They have to. They have to move, somehow. This energy has to be conserved, but here, there are few people with whom to share this rage; there is no reason to be so angry in the first place. So as my hometown and my home country continue to infuriate me with a constant stream of senseless violence and abuse that has has been so normalized that it all but runs through my American veins, there is nowhere to reasonably bleed it out. Honesty almost feels like an aggressive act here, but I know that it isn't; for example if I share some of my life's experiences or provide a glimpse into some of the stories that grew me and strengthened me, it almost sounds as if I came from a much tougher neighborhood than the suburban farm town from whence I actually came. Comparatively, I mean. Icelanders think we're crazy, and we are.

I didn't realize, until now, how violent America is. 

That lack of realization comes from the fact that we normalize this violence, but of course, it also comes in part from my privilege. I was spending time with friends this weekend and telling stories, funny stories about traveling and getting into shenanigans and narrowly escaping tickets from police officers and I laughed about it, never really having thought about the fact that I could have been narrowly escaping bullets instead. My adviser actually asked me about this; she asked me if it was really very scary being pulled over because "they will shoot you." I hadn't considered this, because they probably won't shoot me. I'm white. I'm a woman. The worst form of police violence available to me is likely to be gender-based, and the majority of the gender-based violence that has touched my life has not come from the police. But then again, I caught myself; I just said "the majority." It still exists. It's real, and even if I haven't witnessed police violence first-hand, there is only one tiny degree of separation between myself the next person who has experienced brutal police violence. And to be fair, there are no degrees of separation between myself and violence itself, but I write it off and I minimize it because I'm from the US and it's normal. Nothing separates me from violence except, so far, living in Iceland. And it's weird.

I was talking with Laura about this because I needed to find a fellow American with whom to rage. She suggested that it would probably take me about six months to calm myself down and get used to the absolute chill that is Iceland, but then I'll come home to be "enraged once more." This is absolutely true, and it's culture shock met with reverse culture shock. So for now, I'm approaching Iceland's chill with skepticism until I find out about some horrifying, deeply-rooted Icelandic social problem akin to those in the US, or until I give up and accept the fact that there are actually safe spaces in the world, peaceful pockets for such a time as this.

Make no mistake, I'm over-the-moon happy here. I'm more productive and more calm and more safe and more active than I've been able to be in a while. And however I end up channeling this rage, I am growing. 

Growth in any direction is growth nonetheless, and there is certainly enough grace for that.

Latitudes and Other Strong Metaphors

A year ago, I was south. I was in SoCal, soaking up some sunshine with a few of my dearest loves.

Okay, that's absolutely true, but more accurately I was paralyzed and drowning in those anxiety tidal waves. But whatever.

A year ago tonight, I fell asleep in a bed and tried not to think about the fact that I wasn't going to have a bed the next day. Or the next. Or the next. Or the next...

"Wait, so...were you homeless by choice?"

I never know how to answer this question. It's a valid question, I suppose, and one that people seem compelled to ask me for whatever reason. I mean, it makes sense, or rather it doesn't; what is this privileged middle-class woman doing, living in her car that she can't afford to fill with gas, in a strange town where she knows absolutely nobody? Why doesn't she just go home? 

Truth being told, I didn't think that I could go home. And according to the aforementioned empty fuel tank, I was correct in that assumption. I figured that I had made it all the way to the west coast, and even though the midwest coast is the best coast, I was out of resources and completely stuck. In a sense, my situation was a result of choices that I had made; I was there for a job that I had pursued and that had been promised to me. I was there holding up my end of a bargain that turned out to be less of a bargain and more of a dangerous, unsustainable game. But nevertheless, if I had the resources to rent a room, I would have. Although I had always wondered what it would be like to live out of my car, it was a hundred degrees outside. A hundred degrees with no privacy. Nobody chooses that. Nobody.

But I'm not here to talk about the past. Most of you know the rest of this story and how it's full of miracles and tears and growth, and probably all of you know how much I like to reflect, but that I reflect for a reason. And at the minute, the reason is this: I wanted to tell you that today, I am north.

Turns out, a lot of stuff can happen in a year, especially when you're 25. I turned 25 on my terms, which is a sentiment that is so important to me; I turned 25 by some miracle, I thought, and charged myself with the task to turn 26 someday. It's a little early, but I'm just shy of that goal and I think that I'll make it. And it's monumental, considering.

During the weeks surrounding my 25th birthday, I began setting some goals and working toward them. I wanted to be back in school, but I wasn't convinced that I was far enough along in my recovery to go. To be honest, I'm still not convinced that the butterflies or the fear of failure or the impostor syndrome, or even the PTSD, ever go away; but these are things of which to have a healthy awareness and they can be managed. For everything else, though, I needed help. I wasn't sure what more I could do, but I knew that it involved more doctors than the ones I had visited before. 

So, I visited them and moved forward. Even in my uncertainty, I filled out applications for school and wrote passionate, albeit verbose, personal statements and requested recommendation letters. I ordered my transcripts and revisited old physics problems and filled my time with all of the good things on this Earth, and one of the worst: waiting.

I traveled while I waited, and I waited while I worked. And eventually, the Earth turned and the Sun rose and there was a new opportunity. I took it.

Right now, after smoothing over months of immigration and logistical kerfuffles, I live in one of the most magical cities on this planet. I took a risk and modified my academic career and fell backwards, trusting I'd be caught, into Iceland.

I've been caught. In fact, I'm all caught up.

Tonight, underneath the strongest northern lights I've ever seen, I thought about where I have been and where I am now. Back then, I had fallen asleep afraid, but not anymore. Tonight, I'll snuggle deep into my covers and hold myself there, letting my body rest, happy and secure and ready. Terrified to be back in school, yes, but excited and ready. Doe-eyed in the face of a new city and a new country, but safe. Safe in a city that lights its own way in the darkness.

And that light, like a curtain fluttering in the ionic wind, sends powerful remedies to all of my residual insecurities; undulating down like everything good, and wonderful, and sagely. The power behind these particle storms is extraordinary, but the reason we see them at all is a testament to Earth's perfect ability to protect us from too much of a good thing. It's a gift; it's always a gift. Every time.

So here I am, a year later, as far north as I've ever been. Falling in love with Reykjavík, falling deeper in love with the northern lights, falling in love with my life's chaos and beauty and direction, finally direction. Falling in love with my north.

I'm telling you; wherever is your north, go there.

Y'all know that I don't have a fancy camera. Image source: http://www.northernlightscruise.is/ 

(A Formal Request For) Sanctuary

"Violet, do you know snakes are more afraid of you than you are of them? Few people do. When threatened, a snake will retreat to a place that is quiet, safe, remote. A sanctuary, where it can feel out of danger. That's why Peru." 

-Uncle Monty, A Series of Unfortunate Events, Lemony Snicket

*

I'm not alone in feeling overwhelmed in the world, but the feeling has recently come as a surprise to me. I feel like a different person than the one I thought I was, the one I thought I'd become.

I was an ENFP. But suddenly, I can't handle being an ENFP anymore. Maybe the ENFP has been medicated out of me, or I've grown in a completely unanticipated direction, or it's been medicated out of me, and that's what I was paralyzingly afraid of in the first place.

I need my space. My own physical space, as well as a large amount of mountainous, nebulous real estate inside of my own head. I can still teach and talk and hug and hang, but I'm feeling myself backing up far more often than usual. Backing away, shrinking, cornering, covering. Sheltering.

Looking for sanctuary.

If all goes well, I have five more weeks in the USA. I used to be a fighter...maybe. Maybe that's just what people thought, and what people told me. Maybe my fighting style has evolved into something else that resembles retreat, or maybe it is just retreat. I don't know whether or not I am brave; I kind of wonder if I'm not.

I'm not the person you fell in love with. I'm not particularly sure if I recognize myself.

Or, I'm just exceedingly overtired from waking up before dawn, deep in the Black Hills of South Dakota; fast forward and now it's sunset and I'm home. So my brain can't do this right now, but it wants to. It wants my fingers to write. It sends instructions to my muscles and tendons and joints and demands a narrative; it demands a reflection, but the reflection is scattered among pieces of a broken mirror, at best.

All is well. We all know this about me: I am all flight. I am all flight. I am all flight. Regardless of what is happening, I will try to fly away. Regardless of the fact that I am not in any danger, I will try to fly away. Fly away to a place with less chaos this time, pretending and assuming that this retreat will smooth me out with the lack of insanity surrounding me. Fly away to a place where I can feel out of danger. 

That's why Iceland.

The One About the Foothills Trail

Let's just say that the Foothills Trail is an obstacle course. A 77-mile obstacle course...made of cobwebs. 

Cobwebs. Cobwebs as far as the eye can't see. And I don't think that it's an exaggeration to estimate that I ran my face into at least one thousand cobwebs, but I only (knowingly) swallowed one single spider. A considerable chunk of my time on the trail was spent attempting to release myself from cobwebs, the stickiest substance in the known universe; but hey, it's nothing that a dip in the Chattooga couldn't fix!

This is a story about 8 days and 7 nights and 77 miles. It's a story about my very first solo backpacking trip. It's a story about quads and calves, wildlife, water sources, thru-hiker magic, Facebook, slug hair, and emergency blankets. It's a story about a change of heart and an attitude adjustment. But most importantly, it's a story about cobwebs.

I couldn't really sleep the night before. I had spent the entire previous week in a stressful miasma of immigration paperwork in order to prepare for my big move at the end of the summer, and I was ready to get away. I had just driven 800 miles and landed at my best friend's house just south of Keowee-Toxaway State Park, snuggled up close with her and her three littles. Hungry, wired, and anxious, I wanted the ground below me and the stars above me and nothing else in the whole world. So when she dropped me off at the Oconee State Park trailhead, I took off like a bottle rocket, pressure finally being released. It was relatively easy, those first ten miles and some change. I wasn't alone; I came across some hikers and a little baby turtle (tortoise?) as well as hundreds of cobwebs. 



I did, however, run out of water that first day. This took me by surprise, because a month before in Alaska, my water bladder had lasted for a couple days worth of hiking; and these were Alaska, next-level types of hikes. For me, anyway. It became pretty obvious, though, that I was sweating a whole lot more in a Carolina June than I had in an Alaska May, and really needed to suck it down to prevent any inevitable spells of dehydration. I panicked a little bit and stopped just a fraction of a mile short of the day's goal in order to take some time to relax in the Chattooga and water up. 

That night, I fell asleep around hiker's midnight (7PM) and woke up several times to stars rising and falling around me. Being familiar with the night sky helped, as I kept time using the stars and rested easily underneath Mars and Saturn, who were resting easily in Scorpius. My easy resting, however, was cut short by the realization that bringing an emergency blanket instead of a sleeping bag was a terrible idea.

Just...a really terrible idea.

I thought I'd save space and weight, and I did, but...at what cost? Turns out, emergency blankets do exactly what they're supposed to do. But when it's humid, and you're sitting pretty on the beach border between South Carolina and Georgia in the soggy Southern summertime, your blanket becomes a mylar rainforest. Having captured my considerable body heat and condensed it into tiny raindrops on the surface of the blanket, I tossed and turned in a sticky, shivery hell until first light. 

It was the worst.

But, I moved on. And several miles later, giggling because I had just pulled a giant slug out of my hair, I was getting the hang of this whole backpacking thing. For reference, here's a list of the stuff that I brought with me. Being my first time, I didn't bother with cookware because I thought I'd try to ask around on the trail and get some good ideas (mission accomplished) so instead, I brought bars and bags of soup/lentils contained within my super heavy duty Bear Vault 500. It worked, but it was heavy.

The pack: Ascend MSX4400 Mountain Series

The contents: 

• Bear Vault 500
• ~18 Clif Bars
• ~9 Clif Builders
• 6 pre-packaged Campbell's Soups
• 3 pre-packaged Tasty Bite Madras Lentils
• Personal First Aid
• GoPro Hero
• Phone, Cords & Batteries
• Solar Charger (It sucks a little bit, but it worked for a couple days. I might just need to get the hang of it)
• US Army Camp Towel
• 7x7 Ozark Trail tent (Okay, I know. Way too big. But, it's the one I had!)
• 7x7 tarp
• Eagle Creek packing cube with 2 pants, 3 tanks, 1 sports bra, 5 panties, 9 socks, 1 Buff
• Super fun lady stuff
• Wipes and Hand Sani
• Trowel and TP to-go
• Sawyer Mini Water Filtration System
• Coleman water bladder
• FTC Guidebook and pen
• Toothpaste, toothbrush, essential oils
• Bug repellent
• Sunscreen
• Climbing shoes (didn't need 'em)
• Emergency blanket (aka Death)
• Light My Fire Titanium Spork
• Combination compass/thermometer keychain
• Survival Bracelet (combination paracord, flint, knife, compass, whistle)
• Bear bell
• and obviously, Hiking shoes, steel-toed

The weight: I didn't weight my pack because I didn't want to know. But for reference, my pack turned out to be just about the same weight as my best friend's solidly adorable and adorably solid seven-year old.

Within the next few days, I made some trail buddies and learned how to keep up to date with my hydration. I revised my sleeping situation and ended up using my tent's rain fly as a secondary blanket, which made my sleeping situation slightly less sticky. I learned that thru-hiker etiquette dictates that I ask about health status and destinations first, water sources second, names later, maybe never. I stumbled upon my first "thru-hiker magic," a cooler full of Cherry Cola and ice donated by "Taz." Rest assured, Taz, that this offering was deeply, widely appreciated! I was thoroughly unfazed by the two Black Bears that I saw, the first a little more "derp" than I had expected, though he caught me by surprise. He had been eating a snack right next to the trail, but didn't want to stick around to tell me about it. I found his scat about half a mile later, so he had been coming towards me the whole time! The second bear came as no surprise at all, as we heard each other coming. We kept our eyes on each other and kept going our separate ways, no drama, and thankfulness on my end that Black Bears are generally flight bears. 

In addition to the bears, I also saw loads of bees. Rather, the bees saw loads of me! Since the spring blooms had greened out, the bees turned to me as a possible source of nectar. Silly, really, but if they would take sweat instead, then they ended up with the better half of the deal! I was licked up and down by sweet little honey and bumble bees for nearly the entire hike. That, and pecked at by fish, who would eat the dead skin off of my feet as I stood in streams at the end of the day. I loved it; it was just like a spa day!

Throughout the trip, I camped on the bank of the Chattooga, then somewhere about 3 miles west of Sloane Bridge, then in the Nantahala National Forest, Bearcamp Creek Campsite, Toxaway Creek Campsite, the top of Laurel Fork Falls, and finally somewhere about 1.3 miles from Hwy 178. I didn't have trouble with any of these sites, and all came with a proper water source and, sometimes, friends! I met Bill and Gary while camping at Bearcamp Creek, and we ended up as neighbors at Toxaway Creek as well. I learned loads of valuable information from them, as they're a bit more experienced than I am. They helped me determine the sorts of cookware I might want to buy for next time, and we swapped stories from other trails we had conquered. 

The last night, with about 13 miles more to go the next day, I had dehydrated and heat-exhausted and it was my own dumb fault. I was stubborn and I just wanted to get to camp before what I thought might be a rainstorm, but it thankfully never came. I was down to reserves when I found a small spring as well as a water cistern, gratefully filled up, and pitched my tent expecting to cry myself to sleep, exhausted, scrolling through Facebook and missing my friends and family. But then, two hikers around my age came up to my tent, asking to share my space. Just seeing them lifted my spirits, and we spent the next several hours talking about the universe (as suggested by our bag of dehydrated Thai Curry) and sharing the first hot food I'd had in a week. With the sounds of cicadas and owls surrounding me most nights, I had very little reason to feel frightened of anything. However, having Charlie and Desiree sleeping soundly next to my tent, I felt an extra sense of security and camaraderie. The next morning, I set off at 8AM carrying leftover lasagna and a re-energized sense of determination, refreshed by my new friends.

I made excellent time to Sassafras Mountain, and continued on, pushing myself to beast those last four miles into Table Rock State Park where I met up with my best friend. Hot, tired, thirsty, and proud, I finally had the chance to take a proper shower. A storm came just one hour after I got off the trail, and if that isn't grace, then I don't know what is.

Returning to the "real world" is an odd concept, because I am always so much more in tune with the Earth on the trail than I am off. And if the worst part about the trail was the cobwebs, well then, that's a pretty good hike right there. I remember wondering what this week's Cincinnati Zoo Gorilla story would be, what would be the Facebook sensation of the day that I had happily missed, and I was deeply saddened to learn that it was a massacre in Orlando. So while I was running into literal cobwebs on the trail, blissfully unaware of the world's disintegration, loads of hostages were ensnared in a web of their own. And really, we all are. 

Maybe I needed a change of heart, certainly I needed an attitude adjustment. I needed to chill out and remember to give as much grace as I frequently receive. But I know that no matter how much I hike and how forward I keep moving, I've spun my own webs in this life. And one of the things that I wanted to do was to refocus, regroup, and maybe work backwards just a little bit. I've been in transition for the past couple of years, and it often makes me very ornery. Those that know me know that uncertainty can be like a drug for me; getting high off of the unknown keeps me going on some days. But, it also gets very old very fast. I become restless and pushy and irritable. And when I'm feeling these things, sometimes the only solution is to walk it out. Travel, but travel by foot. Walk until I can't walk anymore, or until I've seen the things I needed to see, or until my heart switches its perspective and its priorities. Walk until I've spun myself a web that I can work with, that I can work out of if I need to. Walk until I've spun a safety net. Walk until I figure it out.

Walk until the trail ends. Walk until I make it.