I have gone through a lot to open myself, to look at myself with honesty and compassion. Let my guard down. Take in as much information as I can; I read Carl Jung, Carolyn Elliott, Sam Harris, and all of the goodness he brings to the World. I meditate on feelings and emotions, but feelings “literally” has the word feel, like you have to feel them.
It has taken time, but I’m learning to feel deep; through my whole being, purposely letting my soul break open with love and compassion, To hold myself in fear and sadness. Love is more painful than you can imagine; it’s not a warm fuzzy feeling; it’s a soul screaming desire for joy, easily all-consuming. Truly letting my body feel love, Like holding my breath underwater, I can’t experience it for long, before it becomes too painful, but I’m getting better.
There are nice, not-so-deep levels that fill me with joy, smiles, and hugs—playing in the shallower end of emotions. Easily a comfortable place to play, realizing it’s safe and fun after exploring deeper waters, where the pressure of the trueness of love can crush you.
I’ve spent time in meditation, playing with the levels of depth love can go, and training myself to feel. I’ve become comfortable in the deep dark abyss of pain and love. I hold myself there, fearlessly exploring the depths of myself. The ocean within.
Letting it be ok to truly feel, as the depth of love is as crushing as the depth of sorrow. When you dive that deep, trust yourself here, and you learn to feel safe swimming in the ocean of emotion. Enjoying its beauty and getting to know all the creatures living there. The monsters in the deep are no longer monsters.
So many people live right next to this ocean, aware of it, living in fear of it, and the things that reside there. Being controlled by their fear of it or desire to control it, told over and over that is a bad dangerous place. So many beaten and bruised by the shore break.
I had to train myself to feel again. I had to let it be ok, to feel deeply, and it was a terrifying experience. Easier to keep the headspace of analyzing and thinking about how it all works as a way to control and not feel.
The Ego tells itself it understands and does not need to feel. The Ego can read books about the ocean, think through the concepts of atmospheric pressure, and say, No, I understand the sea; we don’t need to dive in. I can tell you all about it, but I don’t know what it feels like to experience it.
When you let yourself feel, the difference is that you know the experience, viscerally, feel the cold dark abyss of the ocean, feel the pressure of it crushing your bones. Learning not to fear the creatures there but becoming curious and friendly, comfortable, safe, and free to swim with them. Nothing is bad or good in the ocean, Sharks, angle fish; they just are; I don’t need to have an opinion of good or bad here. That’s for people that have never swum that deep; they can be scared of sharks from the shore as I swim with them within. Swimming with my needs and desires, fear, pain, anger, and jealousy. All these things that have been condemned by society 2 thousand years ago, the same people that thought wales were demons. Stupid humans, Vilifying emotions.
I know the fear of possible damage when going too deep, and calm myself, holding myself as I take the time to rise to the surface. I relax, and let the currents help me swim. The Ego that reads the books does not know the joy of swimming in the ocean. The Ego assesses and judges that a shark is bad and dangerous from above. The Ego will never experience the joy and thrill of Swiming with Sharks the beauty and wonder of the power in them.
The Ego, I think, fearful maybe, tried swimming in the deep end, with no training, almost killing them, learning how terrifying that World can seem. The Ego says, No, I am ok, never going there again.
Hard to explain the joy and beauty of diving to someone who was almost destroyed by it. Or only read books and seen pictures. That is enough, Keeping the World of emotions at a safe distance and never admitting to their fear of it, making excuses. That World makes you weak, Less of a “man”. It’s filled with bad things, like sharks and stingrays and jellyfish. But these are the things of our dreams, songs, and stories, the forbidden desire to swim with sharks, to be tied up, to be desired, to take joy in rage. Some outdated idea saying it’s bad. Bad to let yourself feel…
The deepest courage a person can know is to dive into this World. After learning the full depths of your soul, you can come to the surface. Walk this World wielding vulnerability as the most powerful strength you have. As you can walk this World being aware and unharmed by others’ pain, fears, and insecurities. As you swim with your own, with joy, compassion, and understanding, you can swim and dance with theirs.
Wait until this little mermaid becomes Pisidian in her world….. Terrifying!
Many have tried They fell for the free spirit, their desire to become intimate with the nature of a storm Admired the unpredictable strength and courage to be true to her desires The contagious joy in experience To FEEL
But they feared her wildness, her freedom
Their fear of loss made them act in anger, condemning, manipulating, restraining, and controlling.
A need for dominance, the force of will. They had no faith that they were enough, worthy of love.
Without the gates and cages, strings, muzzle, harness.
No one could have tamed the wild woman in me. Except me,
I had to gain my trust. I had to listen to my desires I had to provide for my needs I had to love myself unconditionally, fearlessly
In the face of possible loss, loss of those around me. I have faith that I am enough, uncaged, wild, and free. I am enough for those that have faith in love.
I am not here to cage or condemn the storm; The wild woman in me I’m here to feel and witness the power, and beauty of freedom
Success is a difficult concept: a double-edged sword, two sides on a spinning quarter, unsure what side will face up. Heads I lose, tails you win.
Why do I fear success? A lifetime of wanting to be accepted, to fit in. Success is isolating; it breaded resentment and jealousy.
Fearful of giving something 100%, showing up short, true failure. Fearful of succeeding and seeing that look of jealousy in their eyes.
Success makes people feel their insecurities.
I want to be accepted; liked. I’d rather be dull in a group, laughing quietly in the corner at bad jokes. Then shining bright outside; averted eyes, wishing I was not there.
I know the feeling of hollow success, proving something to those that don’t really care. I needed them to care, not the success. Success was an attempt to be accepted, not a desire for success.
How empty the feeling was. Bittersweet, the taste of success, the bitter in my heart, the sweet in” look at me now.” That fuck you success.
The look of resentment from someone you love, when you shine bright, their jealousy. That pain would make me want to spend a lifetime being dull, unseen.
Sometimes I’m afraid to show off something I’m genuinely proud of—the forked tongue of jealousy, finding a way to dim the light, discovering shame in my pride.
They say comparison is the thief of joy. When you compare yourself to others,
We don’t talk about the joy; drained when others compare themselves to you.
How others view themselves around me is not my responsibility.
I will take joy in the success of others, in the small and large.
I will be courageous in taking pride in my accomplishments. Not to prove to others, but to prove to myself, without fear of failure, but with a curiosity of success.
Time is a funny thing; I wish people were more aware of its passing, not in the movement of a clock but in a person’s growth. Often enough, time crosses my mind, especially in difficult situations, as in, in a few hours, this will be over.
Skinning back over a frozen Leigh lake, seeing the faint image of my track from 13 hours earlier, a track I made at the beginning of this journey, in the dark of night, lit only by the brilliance of the Milky Way. I had the eery feeling of walking through myself. At that moment, the veil of time felt so thin, like I could almost hear the whispers of this morning’s lake crossing. I could feel the fear, nervousness, and excitement in the air, like walking past someone on a busy street and recognizing them from another life, remanence from another self.
Mount Moran the ominous broad peak in the northern part of the Teton Mountain Range. The Skillet, a wide couloir at the top, opens into a broad face; it looks like a skillet or a shovel from Jackson lake. Six thousand feet of sustained steep, beautiful skiing, one of the 50 classic mountain climbs in North America. And the hardest thing I have tried so far.
I have spent many summers on Jackson Lake with Mount Moran in the backdrop, the Skillet visible and holding snow. Stories from friends on the climb’s difficulty, how scary and deadly it can be, how badass it is to ski. It has weighed on me for years, curious, awe, and wonder. What it would be like, to be someone that could do that. Never in my wildest dreams would this be for me; that would be for athletes and professionals, a separate kind of human better at things than I am. I’m just some girl.
The day before the climb, I tried to stay calm; I had worked this moment up in my mind. I almost said no; I don’t think I can; I was scared. I’ve anticipated the text saying Moran was a go, knowing I had been training for this in a non-training way. The Goal was set last year after Matty’s passing, knowing this was his favorite mountain. I wanted to climb it as a way to be with him in that vailed thinness of time. Knowing he had been here, excited, he had created memories on this mountain and shared laughter and curs words with friends. It’s in these places where memories are created that I think time thins. This is why Brad had been avoiding it all winter; facing the memories. Climbing six thousand feet with a heavy heart. That is a lot to carry up a mountain, walking in both the present and the past, to see a friend.
Crossing Leigh Lake, the astounding beauty of the Milky Way in a moonless sky overshadowed the terrifying realization we are walking on a frozen lake in close to pitch-black darkness. A low level of primal fear rushed through our vines with every step. The sound of the lake ice settling, large womfs like mysterious sea monsters coming to the surface, and back under, the darkness lets the fear sink into your bones. What if it breaks, never far from conscious thought.
In the darkness, we navigate around Moran with no trails, just our phones as a compass, digital guides. Trying to find the best path through the woods, carefully picking our way through uncomfortable underbrush and trees, icy side slipping down to steep boot packing up dark wooded terrain. Physically this is hard; the variation of activity, at least with skinning, you are comfortable with the repetitive movement; this is like gorilla warfare on your body, with no rhyme and reason to what you will be up against next. Finally, a break in the woods, the crescent moon peeks over the horizon, and I see the outline. Moran!
I am not the same person now; after, I know what ‘hard’ really feels like, which is a new place for me. Getting to the base we can barely see the outline of this massive mountain in front of us. My mind is screaming; I don’t think you can do this; this is too big. I was already a bit beat up; I had 4 hours of unrestful sleep, and the alarm went off at 12:05 am. To a cold 8.5-mile bike ride with all my gear and split-board on my pack. Made only possible by the e-bikes, in the darkness crossing String Lake and then Leigh Lake, then the woods around the base of the mountain. We had already traveled over 12 miles.
Brad asks, “how are you?” I just say “I’m doing ok.”
It’s 5:00 am; we start the ascent, wet slide avalanche debris, massive rivers of ice chunks from the past few weeks, like crossing lava fields, but of ice. I often count to 100 over and over to push through difficult climbs; this was different. I was scared; I was doubtful; my mind, in a stern parental tone, “you can’t do this. This voice in my mind always shows its ugly opinions when I face my fears. I have spent the past four years battling with this voice; I’m familiar with the demons of self-doubt. A never-ending war, me against me, winner takes all. I win some, I lose some, but I’m battle-hardened; I don’t go down easy anymore. I start an old mantra I’ve used many times, fighting my mind, every step gets a word; practiced at home, on the skin track, familiar like a worn-in pair of shoes. “Strong, confident, capable, beautiful, worthy, deserving. My Mantra, I slowly built over a few years as meditation and practiced hiking Glory. I use to drown out my fears of inadequacy, worthlessness, and failure.
I’m on the climb, watching the sun crest over the horizon, a frozen Jackson Lake, memories of me four years ago, on the boat looking up at this mountain, in wonder at the people that climb these. I feel as though I am looking down at myself, looking up at a version of me I never thought possible. A moment where time felt thin again as if I could reach back and touch her, me from then.
I was a little behind, but I usually am, I’m comfortable here. Before sunrise, we transition to crampons and verts. I am strangely impressed by my boot packing strength. But last in line, I have the most settled steps. I am wearing Matty’s crampons. Pink light on the walls above us as the sun peaks over the horizon. This moment is frozen in my memory. I can bring myself here, time travel in a way. It’s a little fuzzy as I blissfully forget the intensity of my doubt, the pain in my quads, the strange rubbing in my right boot that could take me out if it worsens. I remember telling myself that just saying yes to this was a victory. It was a win over doubt. I could always stop and go back down, I was not going down easy, and I was not going to quit because I wanted to, I would keep going until told to head down.
We had switched back to skinning, the guided group ahead of us had set the track. We are in the handle, they delayed us a bit, standing on the side of the couloir. Waiting for them to descend, they were 2 hours ahead of us, waiting for the fog to clear at the summit—slow going for them as visibility was close to nothing at the top. I wish I could have used that time to catch up or hydrate and fuel; I was not being effective, and the thinning oxygen always makes me weak.
I can’t see the summit, and grateful, as the sun would have warmed things even faster. I am 15 minutes behind the guys, and they are 30 min from the top, about 500 feet. I stopped to get some water and food; my body was weak, tired, knowing we were entering our time window and not at the top. The sun came out, and it was hot. I hear the snow falling from the cliffs around us, the rocks holding the morning heat, melting the new snow off.
I hear it in my mind. Get off the fucking mountain; this is not my negative voice. It is different; I don’t question it. A voice from slightly outside, it’s not entirely mine.
I plan to radio the guys at the next switchback, I think it’s a good time to ask about their status; I can see two of my buddies. On the next kick turn away from the warming cliff wall with the snow falling off it, I will ask if it is safe to continue or if heading down would be best for me. I can hear the danger around me. “Get off this mountain;” maybe it was Matty. I hear more snow release above me from the cliff; it hits the fresh snow in the couloir and grabs momentum and mass as it continues gravity’s path down. I’m in the middle of a kick turn. I see a small bubbly wall of snow, about 10 feet wide little over a foot tall, coming at me. I brace myself. I will never underestimate the force of moving snow, like a wave in the ocean; it took me, I can’t see, it’s all white, I am digging for anything solid. Yet, I’m aware and grateful that so far, nothing hurts, and I am still upright. I know this is a steep slope, and I can go a long distance; I thought this could get better or worse; either way, it will be over soon; awareness of time, an unknown future coming at me fast. I feel myself slowing down and crawling to a stop, not buried but having to shake the snow off myself. I traveled perhaps 60 or 80 feet.
I am cold and scared; I’m ok! I yell; I find my radio and reattach the antenna that always detaches. I think to myself; I need to duct tape this. I radio up. I’m ok, just scared, and I’m going to transition and head down.
It took some time to unbury my split board, tangled up, my polls further down. I hear Ian coming down to check on me; he stops a little above, sending slight snow debris my way; I freeze in terror at the noize, aware that I might have some lingering trauma from this event. I find a safe place, needing to transition quickly, to get down so the rest of the group can descend safely. In a reassuring calm voice, Ian reminds me that slow is safe and safe is fast. The last thing I need is to drop anything down the mountain. I get my board together and shove all my stuff in my backpack.
This mountain is a steep mother, with a maximum slope angle of 50 degrees. I’m sore, weak, and shaking with adrenaline, and now I have to make turns. Fuck I say to myself; each turn, I coach myself through. You are a strong badass bitch; now make that turn. Sheer willing myself down the mountain.
We make it to a safe place; Brandon comes down, watching his beautiful turns; this kid can ride. He stops to let us know he will continue his line. I waited for Brandon to get into a safe location and follow him down; my insides shook, stiff. We watch Brad come down; I know he enjoys the turns and is also concerned about me. We meet up, and just a hug, are you ok?
Yes, I’m ok, just scared. The heat of the sun turned the snow from morning ice to fun slush, it’s a fun ride out.
Regroup, laugh, smile, and tell stories, talking about the almost summit today—all of our struggles and moments of sheer awesomeness. We talk about my push off the mountain and the warming, and we laugh overall. We all look up at Moran in full light, beautiful, lightly aware of time passing; not long ago, we were up there, hidden from our current views. Aware of an unknown impending future that is always coming. We still have 3 hours to get out of here, a long walk, unhurried in the light, and the warm day, filled with funny stories and dumb fuckery, time can move with more ease now. Everyone takes a few moments to check in with me and make sure I am ok. The light-hearted banter on the walk back was healing and reassuring.
We are crossing the lake back the way we came, warm sun, a little slushy; I see our skin tracks, and I can almost hear myself; through the veil of space and time. To the person, I was 12 hours ago. I want to hug her; she is brave for sure. Tell Her I am proud of her. I am curious; I may have heard myself this dark morning crossing the lake, a future self telling me how proud I am, drifted through the thin places in time.
what if I’m enough, what if I always was enough, what if I’ll always be enough
I’ve been contemplating the idea of enough. It started as an unworded feeling floating around, a seed in my mind and heart not ready to sprout.
Does anyone else get things, feelings that are not quite ideas yet? They have not come up from the soil of your subconscious. But it’s germinating there; you water it, feed it warmth and sunshine, until it arises as a sprout one day.
I’m still curious what this sprout of ‘enough’ will turn into, but it is a beautiful thing to grow in oneself. I see it growing in the feminine side that I am enough as a woman in body and spirit. The confidence is frightening. She will show up soon, the woman I’m scared yet to become. But what if she is also enough.
To feel sufficient, to be satisfied with what we have: Chisoku in Japanese.Of course, by some measures, there’s never enough. We can always come up with a reason why more is better, or better is better, or new is better, or different is better.
Enough becomes a choice, not a measure of science.
The essence of choice is that it belongs to each of us. And if you decide you have enough, then you do.
And with that choice comes a remarkable sort of freedom. The freedom to be still, to become aware and to stop hiding from the living that’s yet to be done.
To have enough is one part, to be satisfied with your haves and have nots. That is a great practice. But what if you are satisfied with who you are. You are enough. Satisfied with your progress and failures.
It is a little scary, the initial thought. What purpose do I have, what drives me, what propels me through life? What if I’m not better than so and so? I need to be better, more valued, more popular more liked. I want them to know who I am; they need to know how great I am—ego living in a world of comparison, terrified of losing relevance.
I am well aware of my progress from anger and the energy it gives. The progress I have made in feeling inadequate, a failure, the running I have done from my inner critic. The amazing things I have done to prove my worth to others.
I look back at the anger and jealousy, a thief to experiences. Joy clouded by the lingering thought, “well, if they could see me now,” Instagram these days makes sure they can—our world is seen through the eyes of thousands of watchers.
Enough, as I am, at every stage, content with the journey of becoming, unattached to the outcome. I am just becoming—self-betterment or progress as a curiosity about what can be done with my life. No more, I need, you need, I should, they will see and think.
Just an open what if?
I like me now; what if I like me, and I see if I can do this. What if I like myself and I fail. If success and failure don’t matter, you are enough; either way, see what amazing things can happen if you are so inclined; many are not easy, often painful, and often require a lot of work and discipline like most things worth doing require those things.
But funny how work and discipline make me feel better as a person, so that’s a plus. I’m not sure how we got it in our head that work always sucks. Honestly, it’s an incredible feeling.
How cool would it be if you pulled it all off? And if you fail, how cool were all the things you learned. So maybe armed with this new information, you try again—self-worth and value are not attached to these things.
But joy and pride in accomplishment, how much more you like yourself when you allow yourself to be curious about your potential. And put in the work to do it.
When you walk upon death’s door, smiling, like, “oh man,” that was fun, look at all the cool shit I did, the incredible people I’ve met, and the tremendous impact I had on maybe no one. Death would look back and say, “you were enough the whole time, and you knew it, did it right, and lived for you.”
Labels, the identity we pick up, “That’s just how I am,” is not truly so. That’s just what I was told I was. I can let that go. I don’t need to hold on to these.
I was following Brad up Pandora, it was getting pretty warm, as he tells me, “Spring has turned the heat lamp on too soon.'” We both feel the effects of global warming on the snowpack. The second winter in a row, spring heat feels too warm. Glomping is an issue, glomping is where your skins get a little wet and the snow stick to it, and suddenly you have 5 lbs of snow sticking to the bottom of your foot. If you rub wax on the bottom of your skins, it can prevent this, but it’s the most frustrating thing when it starts.
My mind often spins on these long uphill walks, gnawing on a piece of information; if the uphill goes for long enough, my mind shuts off, finding that peace of no thoughts. People refer to this state as ZEN- I think it is a reprieve. I meditate enough to know the difference between watching my thoughts and when my brain is too tired to do much. Both have a place, serving a purpose.
I have been mulling over my mother since my last post. Unsure of opening these doors and how to do it best. My mother is a beautiful, fun woman, small, and always ready for whatever social occasion is afoot. I am pretty anti-social, preferring the company of nature, birds, and animals, listening to the wind and the trees. I am like my dad this way; I could spend hours collecting rocks, they could easily be my friends. Rocks do have much to teach a person. I might tell you what they say, one day, about acceptance and patience.
My relationship with my mom was not the easiest for me, and I don’t think she thought it comfortable either. Of course, she tried, but we are different people, and she usually dismisses anything she does not understand. These days we are better, as I can help teach her how to react to me; she listens and tries her best.
I was in the middle of a kick turn, not exactly paying attention to my movements, my mind hit on the perfect description of my mother. She is a verbal bull in a china shop. She is opinionated in her world of right and wrong, black and white, a set in stone, finality. She does not think before she speaks and has little concern for the aftermath of her words. Assuming its other responsibility just to let it go. Or, in a perfect world, take on her assessment as truth and do as she would about whatever the topic is. If anyone disagrees or has a counter opinion, she will label them as drama and dismiss them from her life until she forgets about the incident and goes back as if nothing ever transpired.
I remember my mother buying me everything I needed to learn how to decorate cakes. We made a tremendous mess in the kitchen with icings of all colors. I learned to make flowers, leaves, and all kinds of things. I ate too much frosting; it made me sick; I could not be around frosting for almost a year. I still get a little queasy when I see cupcakes with buttercream frosting.
I remember the countless trips to the allergist where I would get shots to help me deal with my severe allergies. Then, she had to take me to the emergency room every so often when I reacted badly. I can’t imagine how scared she could have been all the little emergency room trips. I remember hours learning about plants and flowers at the nursery and getting to pick some to plant in the yard; I would draw pictures of them later.
My barbie villages that would take up the whole living room for days must have driven her nuts with how immaculate the house was. My mom is still the only person I know that takes the screens out of the windows twice a year to clean them. Being a farmer’s daughter, I will say she knew how to work.
Thirteen years of little brown bag lunches, gram crackers with frosting, tuna, ham, peanut butter and jelly, all the crackers and snacks individually wrapped. My mom was great in all the things she did. But, these things are so complicated, muddied grey areas of emotions that are hard to separate, understand, and process.
My mom’s dad passed when she was 16; she started losing her hearing at about the same time. My mom does not talk much about it, but I can feel the pain, hurt, and sadness in her words when she does. My grandmother put on makeup and went out drinking at the VFW to dance the night away. My mom would say that as that’s how things went back then. Processing grief and fear and confusion by hiding it deep and putting on a smile, better to have fun; life is too short to dwell on these things. Put on your face and pretend it’s all happy. I think my mom internalized this as how you dealt with life’s hardships. That is her way, and that is the only way with my mom. It worked for her; it should work for everyone, black-white, problem solved. Don’t bring it up again; we have dealt with that, it is behind a door, and I’ve locked it. Let’s have martinis; her 4.11′ frame bounces off to find something more fun than the issue.
I know I can open those locked doors I have done it a few times. I have also learned that I’d rather leave them closed for her sake. I don’t like to see her hurt like that. Perhaps I’m a little jealous she can compartmentalize so well. I defiantly can’t. I wear my life on my sleeve.
Verbal bull in a china shop. This is the hard part, where love gets confusing. Although I believe everyone has things hidden within their life and family that cause all kinds of issues, the most perfect of parents will raise kids that do not know how to handle the difficulties of real life. And they will be crushed the first time they feel rejection and failure. Blame their parents for not preparing them. That is the root of the millennial issue. I am no longer upset, confused, or take any of the things my mother has said on. In learning to do that, I have learned to become my own woman, to create my own identity. I have learned to let go of others’ opinions and rely solely on my own. I am grateful; it is a fantastic thing to be able to do. Finally, I learned to decide who I am and what I am capable of. By sheading the cloak of her labels of me.
I don’t think she is aware of what she has said to me; perhaps she was thinking out loud, being deaf maybe she thought I could not hear them. But I absolve her from the responsibility of those names, words, and labels. I’m no longer angry, hurt or take them on.
That woman had her troubles and demons to fight. She was born in a generation where women had fewer choices. The life she lived was not of her will. All of that reflected her frustration, pain, and hurt. Yet, perhaps she was holding to freedom of speech. One of the only freedoms women have left in those generations; before that, I didn’t think women had even that.
My mother did a fantastic job with what she had, and no one is perfect, as I don’t think we are meant to be. My mother set challenges in me that would later turn into my most significant revelations and triumphs. She laid a lot of dark in me, a path that took years to navigate, taking me on some of my life’s most amazing adventures. She gave me many demos I had to fight, but it made me a great warrior of my mind. Coming out of the other side, I can rest in the light and love she has for me after battles are done. Grateful for all the great memories, and be appreciative for the harder ones. She made me stronger than you could imagine.
There is no need to unleash the words she has used. Those are a conversation for my mother and me, one day, or never, I can let it all go. I do not need to unleash that pain back on anyone. It serves no purpose. Those words did what they came into this world to do. To teach me, they are others projections, others pain and hurt frustrations and confusion. They are not me, and now I can see another person’s hurt, fear, and pain by what they put out in the world. And that s a special gift; my mom gave me.
How to start a story as old as me, one so intertwined hiding under the surface of so much pain through my life. How do I begin in a place so dark and hidden in my mind? I am barely aware it is there.
I will openly admit that I have an eating disorder; it started at about 11 or 12. It has gone through many fazes. It’s closer to the surface when I’m at my worst; when I’m doing well, it’s still hiding in the shadows, less prevalent but still making decisions for me.
Where I am now,
I am more in love with my body today than ever. I have had these fatigue spells; they have been ongoing for at least 20 years. But looking at the real problem opened a door in my mind and fallowing it back a dark rabbit hole. One I have no desire to relive.
I face myself in these mountains; they burn through me like nothing before. I face my fears, my goals, my limitations, my stupidity, and my self-beliefs. I see the worst of my mind here.
As soon as I start feeling strong in these hills, going bigger, further, a whisper starts, a lie in my thoughts, one I hide from myself. “you should not eat that, you are working so hard, eat less and become thinner.’ So quiet that for years I didn’t even hear it. ‘You are doing so well; look how fit you are becoming; if you eat less, you will look even better; if you are thinner, people will like you more, I will like you more.”
These days, I’m more aware of my mind; I’m watching now, listening more closely. I just hiked 4k vertical feet in 8 miles, burned about 5k calories, and may have eaten 1,500. I know food is fuel; why won’t I let myself eat.
Something in my mind telling me, quietly, I barely notice it, or I pretend it is telling me good advice. I believe it wants the best for me. Yes, I want to be happy, people to like me, and all my ex-boyfriends to be jealous, an evil Jedi, a Sith. “These are not the foods you are looking for.”
This has been happening to my unwitting self for so long. —the cycle of over-exercising and under-fueling. And then confusion as to why I am tired and sick. Then the natural weight gain, depression, and the long lag time to get moving again, healing my body from its trauma. Then, finally, feeling good, going hard, getting thin, and the whisper starts, “you are doing so well, look how thin you have become if you don’t eat this, you will get thinner, people will like you more, I will like me more.”
This is the most hidden of my eating distorters, the most difficult for me to spot; Im not in full anorexic mode, as I’m eating 1,500-1,800 calories a day, but with sustained activity, that is not nearly enough.
The definition of a Heather belly,
Someone whose stomach is protruding like a basketball under their shirt.
My issues with my body started pretty early; I love my family, they did the best they could for me, and that is a whole other issue to address.
I’m not angry, and I don’t want to place blame; it was the 80’s parenting. It was pretty loose back then, smoking in the house, no seatbelts, kids just freely roaming the streets. Emotional health was not a hot topic, hell heath, in general, was not a hot topic.
Hence, the store Hot Topic, created for a whole generation of emotionally stunted children from emotionally stunted and reckless 70s and 80s parents.
Put it straight; My mom was not stoked on the idea of having kids; she is happiest in her fun stages of life, children were a lot of fucking work, and I don’t blame her; I don’t have them for the same reason. I think most moms are overwhelmed and under-appreciated for their work.
But being frustrated at your job can cause a toxic work environment, within that, when your job is a mom, and you are unhappy. All things to unpack a different day.
I was a thicker kid compared to my sister, who, at graduation, was 5 foot tall and weighed 98lbs.
The difference was noted, pointed out, and made known my whole life, her this frail light thing. Me a sack of potatoes.
Graduation for me was 5’2 and 125. A lifetime of being referred to as “Deadweight, Sack of Potatoes and heifer, with the occasional pointing out of a “heather Belly” In my mind, I was Jabba the Hut. I had no positive body references to look to within myself. All I saw was dead weight, heifer. I look back at photos, and I look like a normal kid. But, in reality, I could not escape those labels. I was what they called me; that was all I could see.
Girls are mean; why I’m not sure, also another story. In seventh grade, the queen of our girl click decided I was not good enough for our friend’s group. So I was voted off the island, the steps by the orchestra room where we ate lunch together. I cannot express enough the damage done to me that day, how long it lasted. It was one of the most emotionally devastating things that has ever happened to me, and I barely started to recover 25 years later.
Given my already fragile state, this kicked me into a major depression. Suicide was a nagging chirp in my mind. I started restricting my food severely at this point; I lost about 15 lbs that year. I spent the rest of middle school and high school playing with anorexia. Funny, I started to enjoy the pain of hunger; it felt better than rejection. This glitch is still part of my life; when i feel rejection, I begin to control my eating, as huger is an easier pain to process. I am letting myself feel these days; it helps.
Sports were not a large part of my life growing up; I was allergic to outside, constantly drugged, and didn’t want to put effort into it. I don’t think I liked that I sucked at everything.
But I started running, as a way to lose weight, a great combination to not eating. Exercise boosted the thinning effects. That is how I spent most of my high school years. If anyone in my family noticed, they did not bring it up to me. If they did, I would deny it, and the conversation ended. My family did not like confrontation, so it was easy for them to pretend I was ok; I said I was.
There was a lot that happened from the age of 17-25. I can’t even begin to unpack that hell hole in my mind. The amount of self-hate and disgust. Fear, confusion, and shame that I had taken on with the events in my life that unfolded. In this stage, the cycle expanded, adding binge and purge to over-exercising, laxatives, and extreme calorie reduction, give or take when ephedrine was legal. I remember clocking in 80 miles a week of running off of apples, granola, and yogurt.
My insides were broken, but I if I could keep the outside looking fine. Maybe people would like the broken insides, or perhaps I would like broken in me.
WRONG!!
Funny, the thinner I got, the more I disliked myself, the more the mean voices in my head would remind me, “you are not good enough, you will never be like them, no one likes you. But if you are skinny, all that pain goes away.”
My dissociation with my body and fear of food has been a part of my life for so long; I barely notice it as it wreaks havoc, but with watching and actively trying to face the hard parts of me. Finally, it’s gotten easier to see this and begin the process of owning it.
I’m in a better place inside my mind and soul these days, self-love is a large part of my life, and with that, I see others love for me, thin or not. There is still a large part of this puzzle that needs to be addressed. But for now! I will acknowledge my pain, fear, and struggles; I will not abandon myself when I cry out for help! And I will not listen to the lies in my mind. I will do what it takes to help heal this part of me.
For now, it is acknowledging the problem and letting the bottled-up emotions behind it free. And I have had people to talk to that understand and encourage the healing process. I am here for anyone else who wants to talk, though currently, I dominate the conversation. Letting my insides be heard. Hopefully, soon, Il settles and be able to listen better.
Fifteen minutes into a solo hike, not a big hike, just something to get me out, to test the waters of my body’s mystery illness. It’s not helping that there are sustained 30 miles an hour winds blowing snow sideways across the ridgeline.
Something is wrong; I can feel it in my muscles, bones, and lungs. I can’t see it from the outside; so is there really anything wrong, gaslighting my health is a learned behavior. Always left to rely on others’ opinions more than my own. My body is running on half the cylinders. My Idle is off; I struggle up the hill, I can’t get enough oxygen. You are just being weak, knock that shit off and push past, nothing wrong with the outside.
Like diagnosing a car by its looks. There are no obvious dents, nothing can possibly be wrong.
I move slowly, trying to keep steady ground against the icy pellets blown like needles at my face. Assessing my body; is this in my head, or am I not feeling well. I have learned not to trust each system entirely, and I’m trying to learn a better way to self-assess.
Having techniques to focus and push my mind through body complaints is good and bad, as some complaints are made up, and others are not. Funny you think it would be easy to distinguish, it’s not. I start the most straightforward practice for focus I know. One, two, three, four, counting each step slowly. I see how many times I can count to 100 without needing to stop for a breath.
I usually don’t need to stop, and this is a technique I add when I’m pushing hard or fighting my ADD; look squirrel, wait, why did I stop, shiny things.. It is a way to focus.
On this ridge, I push through dizzy spells, hot flashes, and the need to puke; I remind myself this is not morning sickness; I’m on my fucking period. 47, 48, 49, 50. There is wind loading on the northeast aspects; I see it happening; you should turn around, it could be dangerous, and you feel like you will puke 95,96,97,98,99……
Maybe I had too much coffee again; too much coffee before a big day is horrible on my stomach. But no, it’s One in the afternoon. Yesterday’s group hike, the same thing happened; I felt it. I was nauseous and dizzy, 100,102, 103, 104,105, 6, 7, 8.
Frustration at my body wells up in my mind. Why the f-do you always do this to me mid-season. You were doing so great; why are you quitting on me now. Why can’t I have a normal body? Why are you so sickly. So I Berate myself on the skin track, growing the never-ending negative narrative of who I am. The well of not good enough, being exuberated by the wind trying to knock me off the track. The wind is my least favorite element; it finds the cracks of mind and blows it out of proportion, like gas on a fire to negative self chatter. It’s howling to me, “Get off this mountain.” Though I know, it has no agenda other than warning me about the North East aspects.
I hate this feeling, not good enough, these thoughts that take away from the other perspectives, which remind me that what I am doing is not normal. Solo hike with no cell reception in a light gale while feeling like I’m about to puke, Not to mention the large bump showing up on my foot that is causing excruciating pain; I ignored that a few hundred feet below. 42,43,44,45,46, but I need to see what the hell is causing the foot pain. Slowly slowly, I might be slow, but I’m not going to fucking quit.
Meditation has helped me to separate myself from the ongoing in my head. I get to watch the melodrama unfold about my body’s rejection of the experience and remember I am in complete control of all of this. 72,73,74,75.
I start burping randomly, my stomach releasing gas from whatever was causing its upset. So this is not in my head; there was something wrong. The internal drama subsides, I can focus 98,99,100,101,102,103, 4. Still weak from Covid relapses but not fighting my nausea hot flash fiasco, I can hunker in and push.
The wind dies down; the hike becomes easier. My body’s rejection of the experience was not wholly made up; something needs to be addressed—something on a larger scale that should not be ignored. Also, I should see what is wrong with my foot. These are the things if I ignore; they could potentially be serious. I am adjusting to a body that has always been a little sick as it gets older. I need to watch myself more, listen and assess, Learn to trust it again. I want to be more compassionate but not let myself off the hook too quickly, what a slippery line in the soup. (soup-bad visibility)
Within all of this, I remind myself that not all strength is physical and that on these days, that is not the muscles I’m growing. It’s the ones inside my mind that are getting stronger. The ones that can push past the pain, the fatigue, there is a different dig deep going on. This strength is more valuable; it crosses over into many aspects of life.
Ok, let’s see why my foot has been…. oooooooohhhhhhhhhh shit!
if I’m not even worried about that! something is wrong here
The full story I’m not ready to tell and may never be. I’m not sure how much of it is even my story. But it helps to let go, of all the surroundings, to let myself feel what I could not then.
photo from a different time, I have no photos from this time of my life.
The smell of wet asphalt and gasoline on a cold November day. My body is still pulsing with anxiety that does not seem to leave my chest. I’m not sure if I have slept in the past few weeks; I’m not sure if I have been home more than a few hours a night. I don’t think I have been in my body for some time; everything is still a soft blur. As if I’m watching myself from a place lightly above and not in this world.
Everett Washington not far off the Puget Sound is known for never-ending depressing drizzles and low covering clouds. My home not far from here, the light blue house, originally so small on its 3/4 acres. My dad had expanded the garage into what we called the wreck room, at one point a Polygon structure was attached to the house, tall cathedral-like windows housed mother’s indoor plants, and a hot tub that made my skin ich from too much chlorine. The yard is beautifully manicured, an artist’s color pallet set off against the green lawn in the summer. Roses of all kinds were planted out front. These beautiful monarchical flowers stand superior to the rest. China Rose Damask Roses, but Mr. Lincons always draw my attention with their classic structure. As if it stands with more dignity and prestige, I always wondered if the other flowers were jealous of its grandeur.
Small bushes of white and purple Heather make some low ground coverage. I was always proud of the strange tiny bell-shaped flowers, my name shake. Overshadowed by tulips and daffodils. My flower, Heather, somehow pulled me into something older, something with lineage, it had a place in the world, and I took comfort in that. I never paid the flower much attention, always drawing and collecting the others. Heather, left alone to live, not a flower picked for a bouquet its soft hanging flowers were not for a vase, and too difficult to draw, with its tiny tiny leaves. A small shrub, just ground coverage, settled with that identity.
I come back to the smell of rain and asphalt; my dad is with me, the low buzz of small planes overhead. I’m not sure if this is a punishment, I want it to be. I’ve lost the ability to assess the ongoing of my life. Numb, with the tightness of anxiety, stomach clenched in shame, or maybe guilt. Is this a punishment, scared and wanting a penalty, deserving a sentence. I’m not sure what it should be; I can’t even think of the punishment I deserve, I can’t think of much. “It should have been me.” That thought is the only clear thing in my head. Gonging loud, bringing me back to reality as if set on a timer, in a grandfather clock, that will live forever in my mind.
My thoughts bring me back as my dad talks to a lovely Ms. Fox. She is a beautiful lady, her blond hair seems big to me, I feel like I’m wasting her time, does she know I am in trouble, does she know why I am here?
I am not sure if my dad seems scared or excited. Excited I get the opportunity to follow one of his dreams. A passion he has that life never gave him the allowance to pursue. He is scared for me, my life, my numbness, my choices. The desperate act of a desperate man scared for his daughter.
17, I had not been home for a few weeks, school and work yes, home no. I could not face the emptiness of it, the silence of no one having anything to say. The cold, how are you, knowing full well no one wants the honest answer. With a quiet, “I’m fine,” whispered before I shut myself in my room. Just the knowledge of them in the same house weighed on me. I can feel it, the confusion, the fear, the shame, and concern, the anger also. Like a weighted blanket thrust on me when I enter the house, crushing my chest, making it hard to breathe. I wish they would punish me and get it over. I don’t even know what punishment looks like for what I had caused; it should have been me, I hear the gong.
Ms. Fox and I walk over to a little Cessna 152, and I climb into the right side as she goes through pre-check. The putt putt purr of the engine before we taxi to the runway. Paine Field, the mini airport used mainly by Boeing and local pilots, was about 10 miles from my house; my dad and I watched the stunt pilots in the back yard, sometimes we would play with small styrofoam gliders. I’m not sure I liked the air shows we went to, or I liked seeing my dad happy and excited. He would tell sorties of how he learned to fly in Vietnam. So proud of those flights, as the memories gleaned in his eyes, a younger time, with less responsibility, in a war with no oversite.
I try my first “touch and go” this day, unsure how to handle what is happening inside of me; flying a plane brings me to some focus, my senses alert to new experiences. Ms. Fox is astute in her processes, following the list, she must see the glaze in my eyes, the look of one whose soul is trying to lave. She would spend hours with me hoping I did not kill us both I’m sure. I was rarely scared or nervous. Except when speaking to the men in the towers, speaking always made me nervous, I never liked to talk.
I enjoyed the solo flights the most, no one watching, no one judging, Stall outs where I play with my mortality, it was then that I would feel. Pushing the plane straight into the air until there was not enough speed to keep the oxygen in the engine. You hear it putter out, and watch the blades slow down, as the plane turns into a nosedive. I could feel here, something, excitement, fear, anything over numb, as you pull the choke and throttle into the dive to restart the engine as the oxygen floods back in. Like my soul, flooding back for a quick moment. I always did this out in the cow pastures a little too low to the ground for regulation, I wondered if I was scaring the cows.
When we landed, my dad asked if I had fun, with a pleading look on his face. Please let this help fix you; I don’t know what to do. I smiled, and yes, it was fun. The shame for causing his hurt finding new ways to burry deep into my soul, the soul running from me. Gong, it should have been me.
If the cheerful candy-coded exterior cracks, I don’t know what would spill out of me. So I keep smiling. Is this my punishment, flight school? With the sinking feeling that punishment would never come from an outside source. I had not yet realized that the need for punishment would slowly sink into my subconscious. It would become part of my shadow, that would subtly control my life, a puppet to my pain, shame, and guilt.
The Mountains Inside 