The Rest of Us

"Go anywhere but home." -the ultimate philosophical reference, Dove Chocolate

Seven Falls Trail, Sabino Canyon, AZ

Key West, FL

There are several reasons why I'd consider being a travel writer. However, there is one implosive reason why I know that I can't, and it's the fact that I've been traveling for six months but haven't written, really, many posts about it. I've had readers request updates while I was abroad and I had intended to oblige; however, my hands were busy clutching plane and train tickets and keeping my jaw from hitting the ground at every moment.

Switzerland Trail, CO

Tuolumne Meadows, Yosemite National Park, CA

Jökulsárlon, Iceland

Lots of people wonder about me. It's fair; I am wonderful, and I try very hard to keep my life that way. Perhaps many of us began as wandering children. Children who are, for better or otherwise, displaced. Displaced children grow up to become women like me. And at the minute, I must admit that I feel a bit incomplete and empty...though, I may just be tired. And those feelings are rare and far between when I am off exploring. 

Antelope Island State Park, Great Salt Lake, Salt Lake City, UT

Brugge, Belgium

So at first glance, or even for several consecutive glances, it would seem that I've followed Dove's advice like my life depended on it. And in some ways, I think that it did.


One of my California friends who invited me into her life during my brief spell of homelessness recently challenged me to write down one significant event for every month of 2015. If anyone would have asked me to do this one year ago, I might have broken down. I had an alright 2014, but it was difficult to survive and it ended in a complete and shameful disintegration. Honestly, I had very little interest in seeing 2015; however, when I started to feel a bit better, I conjured up a creative way to make sure that I could do my best to stay alive for the lot of it, and I have.

Rendezvous Point, Teton Village, WY

Most of you know about these plans. They weren't secrets. And they involved seeing the world.

Biscayne National Park, FL

Notch Trail, Badlands National Park, SD

Boca Chita Key, FL

Blue Lagoon, Iceland

So, I did marvelous things. I explored Biscayne National Park, which is 95% underwater. Hiked around Devil's Tower and blew kisses to its basalt columns. Walked around the Yellowstone caldera, watched Old Faithful erupt, and survived a car breakdown in Montana. Found a hostel in Teton Village, and rode a tram up into the Teton peaks. Got stoned in Wyoming and hated it a lot. Camped on the shore of the Great Salt Lake. Got caught in an alpine rainstorm at Great Basin National Park, then headed underground to explore its caverns. Summited Half Dome at Yosemite National Park and then ate half of an enormous pizza. Lived in my car for 45 days. Worked for a criminal. Learned how to teach online. Learned how to climb. Returned to Badlands National Park for Astro Fest, and debuted at Joshua Tree National Park for Night Sky Fest. Climbed the 366 steps to the top of the Belfry of Brugge. Laughed on the inside while being shown the supposed blood of Christ in Belgium, because it actually just looks like a tampon. Ate mussels in Brussels. Made Irish s'mores with my Irish family. Got caught up in Irish Time, and missed my flight to Germany. Fell asleep with Syrian refugees in Frankfurt, and made friends with a guard who kept me safe until my train arrived. Met my baby nephew. Met my baby niece. Lived with my biological family and hung out with Max all the time. Saw all of my sisters. Saw the Mountain Goats live in London. Visited Buckingham Palace and Big Ben a week after the Paris attacks and nothing bad happened. Hiked on Icelandic glaciers and crawled through ice caves. Saw the Northern Lights dance in the Reykjavik skies. Soaked in Icelandic geothermal pools. Drove thousands of miles across the US. Wasn't afraid.

Woodville, MS

Clearwater, FL

Old Faithful, Yellowstone National Park, WY

Sólheimajökull, Iceland

And for the most part, all of those things are things that I did by myself. More accurately, I solo traveled en route to visiting lots of my friends and family. But in between, I signed up for a lot of group excursions and was often one of very few who went alone. I never even think about that until I get there and meet the families and couples and friends who go together...and meanwhile, it's just me. It doesn't bother me though; I talk to them and everyone is friendly and wonderful. And I have so many people in my circle who would join me if they could...but it mostly ends up being just me. It wasn't at all lonely in the way that being homeless was lonely; instead it just makes me wish for, I suppose, a copilot. 

But now, here I am in Michigan watching the winter storm blow in and the snow accumulate. I'm home indefinitely, which absolutely nobody believes when I say so. But, I am for a minute. At least until my life begins to show some semblance of order, and until I can financially rebuild a little. I have plans for mini adventures, but ultimately, I don't know where my life is taking me and I can't make any long-term commitments until I do. I can't.

Those who are closest to me know that this is, in theory, phase two of my (hopefully) brief break from academia. Phase one involved maniacal traveling and trying a million different things, which based on the list above, I think I've done quite well. Phase two involves doctors, medication, and sitting still. An actual medical approach to the nervous breakdown for which I've attempted to self-medicate. Basically, a chance at healing disguised as a death sentence, because of its requirement that I stay put. 

I've already begun phase two. I've been medicated all month, which has allowed some beautiful days but it seems now that these particular pills are better at shortening my temper than leveling my dark days. It's hard to tell if I'm just exhausted from constant movement and just need several full days of sleep, but something is not right. Without reason, I am irritable, hot-headed, and angry more times than not, in addition to my baseline of traumatic stress that tends to make me feel frightened of being desired as well as feeling undesirable, simultaneously. 

Once again, I can take comfort in Einstein's branch of relativistic physics, which tells me that simultaneity isn't really a thing...but of course, observation triumphs over theory once again. And since my observables come from a chemically imbalanced observer, I'd never know the difference between reality and shadowy falsehoods, anyway.

And these realities and shadowy falsehoods are nesting grounds for the rest of us: the unattached needy, the ones who bask in love one moment and feel unlovable the next, the independent gypsies who secretly search for home, the wanderers who are afraid to stay put, but sometimes need to in order to get better. The anxiety and the sorrow mixed with the peace and the joy. 

Over the past couple months, I haven't felt like writing much, clearly. But, I picked today to write. Today was not a mentally healthy day. It was a lovely day filled with adventure and laughter on the outside, but it was not a healthy day inside my head. I'm not sure what kind of tone this post would have were I feeling better, but I suppose it doesn't matter. 

What matters is that, whether I like it or I don't, whether I feel like celebrating or I feel like crying, whether I'm wandering or staying, I'm still alive.

Half Dome Summit, Yosemite National Park, CA

To Davis

The first time I heard a song by Halsey was in LA, appropriately enough. And since then, I've lived in her electronic bliss and lyrical genius; exercising my body to Gasoline and stretching my body to Colors. 

You can't wake up; this is not a dream
You're part of a machine
You are not a human being

Sometimes, Skrillex would get me going in the morning, and Sufjan Stevens would sing me to sleep in the evening.

Tuesday night at the bible study,
we lift our hands and pray over your body
but nothing ever happens

In between the songs, though, exists the uncomfortable silence during which I had to address what my realities were. This post isn't meant to be about those realities, though, and it isn't really even an update. Instead, it's a gentle nod towards those who helped to ensure my survival during my time in California. A love letter, if you will, to Davis.

There are few better places, in my limited experience, that are better suited to a transient life than Davis. Resources, public parks, and an atmosphere of acceptance...movies in the park and film festivals on the weekends, book discussions and clubs, farmers markets twice a week. Something for everyone, easy on the pockets and delightful for my observing eyes and wandering feet. 

But out of an entirely different necessity, I learned something else. I learned how to climb.

I feel closest to God when I'm in nature. My relationship with God grows when I grow my relationship with creation, and part of that, I'm realizing now, is fostering an awe and a love for myself as a valid member of that creation. When I started to learn how to climb, I was able to feel my body getting stronger and to use my body and my mind in ways I hadn't needed to before. That resulted in a deep appreciation for my body, and fostered some of that awe. And over the course of six weeks, I traded my state of vulnerability for a state of acceptance.

Even if this particular post falls largely on deaf ears, I'd like to go on record and say that every individual who climbs at Rocknasium in Davis is a wonderful person. So friendly, so encouraging, so outgoing, so adventurous, so easy-going, so accepting, so strong, so talented, and just so good at grilling pork. I miss you all, I love you all, and I'm more thankful for you than you'll ever know! I found my tribe there, and I found a safe space, and you all made the choice to welcome a vagabond into your lives. 

Every day, you watched me grow. At a snails pace, maybe, but growth nonetheless. Every day, your smile felt like home to me. Every day, you asked how I was and offered kind words of complimentary encouragement. You memorized my shoe size, you fed me, you taught me, you cheered for me. Every day, you saved me a little bit. And a heart like mine can't forget hearts like yours. 

In fact, I'm not too worried. Adventurers and wanderers like us? We have a way of finding each other. We'll see each other again.

So, until then, know that I'm thinking of you. I'm incredibly thankful for you and your energy, and I love you. I love you, Davis.

Complex Plane

When thinking about the universe mathematically, I've recently been told, it's unphysical and too great of a limitation to think only inside the realm of real numbers. 

But, we want to.

To me at first, it seems more unphysical to think of things like space and time evolving perpendicular to one another instead of in parallel; especially when we're hit with the glaring reality that those two enigmas are intimately connected. But if we introduce into our mathematical interpretation the set of imaginary numbers and an imaginary axis to our geometrical model of space and time, what we've actually done is given ourselves extra degrees of freedom that allow the universe to behave mathematically congruently to the ways by which we perceive it to evolve physically. And that's a complex plane with some complex implications.

But on days during which I'm feeling particularly batshit, it helps me out to think about how the universe has both real and imaginary parts.

I have such a hard time believing that I am a real person, or that my instabilities can manifest as a real illness; rather, a real hardship. If I have time to reflect on any crimes against my heart, I dismiss them as logical behavior towards a thing that is not actually a real person. And I let myself live this way, think this way. I'm not really here. I'm not really real. Nothing matters, really.

Obviously, I extend the illusion. I have very little grace for my periodic seasons of mental instability, although I expect them to come and go as they do. What if this is how everybody feels about everything, and I'm just too weak to deal with my life properly? What if it isn't real; just a specter I've invented from observation or idealization? Thankfully when I ask these questions, the level bit of my brain speaks up.

But it was real enough for you to leave school, which you love with your whole heart, masochistically or not. It was real enough to make everything feel like an attack. It was real enough for you to dissociate. It was real enough for you to lose time and memory. It was real enough for you to do things like crash your car and doubt your ability to not wander onto the railroad tracks when you knew a train was coming. It was real enough for you to feel strangled by t-shirt necklines and imprisoned by your own ribcage. If it were any more real, it would have taken your life. Is that "real" enough for you? 

And at the minute, I very much am grateful that I survived these dark times, but I'm not in a terribly celebratory mood. My life is unsustainable, and it has to be this way in order to avoid going into further amounts of debt, but it really can't go on like this. And I'm tired of being in situations, mental or physical, that are unsustainable. It's easy to pin it all on me, to make it my fault that I apparently refuse to entitle myself to sustainability. But the resources aren't there. They're not. They're fucking not. I drink too much coffee because I'm tired of tea and coffee is cheaper, anyway. It buys me time to use internet, which I use to work, so that I can get out of this mess that has been wonderful and terrible. And people are happy for me and proud of me and sometimes it makes no sense. I've said it before: this is not me being brave. You are not seeing a beautiful display of survival. You are seeing a pathetic display of the long-term results of periodic nervous breakdowns that will absolutely repeat themselves because the resources required to stop this are not accessible. You are seeing a person who does not believe she is a person. You are seeing a person who does not feel entitled to live anywhere besides her car, which doesn't even actually belong to her. You are seeing a fundamentally self-destructive human, who is very good at making her self-destruction look like survival, art. 

Some days it is an artistic survival. But maybe, it's just another breakdown. 

A Dented Denial

Y'all, some things bring me straight to my knees.

Sometimes they're overwhelmingly marvelous things, and sometimes they're marvelously overwhelming things, so to speak.

I'm surrounded by warriors every day. People who endlessly advocate for everyone else and are learning how to advocate for themselves. I'm learning how to do these things, too.

But right now, I'm kind of faced with the glaring reality that there's nothing I can do right now but to take a goddamn seat. Sit myself down and pick up Symone and move that energy, but otherwise, do nothing. 

The healing process is a process, and I've done the things. I've found the communities and I've found my voice and I've been angry and joyful and sorrowful and radiant and I've been in love with this process and I've almost been killed by this process...all the things. But, now what?

Having all of this time for the first time in my life has some major pros but also some pretty considerable cons. It means that I have time to think about the things that I keep repressing, sometimes subconsciously. Things such as the fact that I am still so nasty to myself...and I don't even realize it while I'm doing it.

But it's so easy, isn't it? So easy and logical to be the one who isn't entitled to the space she occupies. That makes sense, doesn't it? That's my default. The one who embraces the adversity she's given as a gift; I'm entitled to the burden but not to the release. When in the world did that kind of thinking begin? And why? And how do I make it stop?

Simple things. Simple, simple things like brushing it off when a stranger backs into my car because, until days later, I only noticed the dents that I had put there myself. I told him that I wasn't worried about it. I pointed at the dents that I recognized and owned, failing to see the one he left there because I legitimately didn't let myself look long enough to see it, or I never had eyes to see it in the first place. It was as if he and his back bumper were the driving force necessary to restore balance to the universe, like I was getting a little too comfortable and a little too lucky and I needed to be put back into place. You shouldn't be apologizing, sir...it was my fault for existing. I must have been in your space; rather I shouldn't have been taking up any space at all. In fact, I'm so grateful that it was only a gentle reminder this time...I'll stay out of the way next time. I'm not entitled to even the simplest justice.

But I am, though.

Except I don't act like it. I'm still the one who will drive around, masochistically wearing and owning dents that somebody else put there. And that metaphor is just a little too strong for me right now.