A walk in the woods: Portrait of my selves

this story begins before the walk. like, a decade before. but, i will start somewhere in the middle.

with monday.

on monday, i decided that i was going to go on a hike this week. by myself. i have never hiked by myself. i haven’t even hiked that much with other people. this has been a season of new adventures on my own: at my writing table, in my kitchen. but i haven’t adventured much into the outdoors, despite my yearning to do so. there are longstanding narratives i have about the outdoor world belonging to white people, and never to me. but those stories are tangential for now. the reality is that i have been basking in the solitude. i like my couch. my writing table. my kitchen. my home. maybe for the first time; so i am sinking into it as much as i can. but yesterday, i decided i wanted to hike.

and i wanted to hike alone; not that i have much choice these days. but in this season of solitude and beginnings, it felt important to try it.

so i decided. and found that, almost immediately, the loop started playing: the preparation and the what-ifs; all cloaked in deeply-seeded anxiety about my safety. about my body. and my ability to protect it. i need to get that pepper spray my mom sent me two years ago. what if my car breaks down and i don’t have service? maybe i should tell someone i’m going out there, just in case. what will i do if someone tries to abduct me? on a loop. the same scenarios, the same stories, the same fears that have played in my head for a little over a decade.

i was a sophomore in high school when someone held my mom at gunpoint and robbed our house. she was alone. i was not there; but i was supposed to be. and it’s hard to imagine how much worse my internal world might be if i had been. my mom was not physically harmed. but when i got home, it felt like watching a movie. because of the panicked communication with my dad telling me to come home, i drove there not knowing if my mom was alive. and then the scene goes like: flashing lights in the driveway. and the 15-year-old kid breaking through a group of cops to let me in that’s my mom. and all of these strangers taking inventory of our home. and asking her questions. slow motion. i sunk onto the floor in the dining room, curled into a ball. i couldn’t move. i just kept saying i can’t live here anymore. we need to move. i can’t live here anymore.

i could not move from my place on the floor. maybe i am still there, sometimes. chained to that place. watching all of the worst case scenarios play out in front of me. my sense of safety in the world — and for my body — gone. just like that. taken by a man i never saw, in a place that never felt quite like my own again. and so i do this shit daily, when i feel like i am in a potentially dangerous situation. it’s not a choice, but a compulsion. what are the worst things that could happen here? what will i do if they transpire? on and on.

still, i felt like i needed to go on this hike; like something was being offered to me, for reasons that i did not understand yet.

so i did my morning practice and got dressed before i could change my mind. the anxiety seizing my body and then letting go. seizing. letting go. i got in the car. exhausted already. and i drove the hour to hawn state park, riding the same loop. no longer entirely sure why i was doing this thing. 15-year old me was raging against this decision, and i was letting them send heat waves through my body; and constrict my arms. the tension on our drive down overwhelming me. this journey with the teenage me; it was like nothing i’ve ever been consciously aware of. and i realize now, that i want to speak to them directly. so, here goes.

—

dear kristen,

you got stuck on the floor over a decade ago. in that home that no longer feels like your home. you got stuck on the floor, and i never realized that i needed to turn around and go back for you. i didn’t know you needed someone to peel you up, out of that fear, that despair; and to walk you back into a place that felt safe. and free. i am sorry it took me this long to get here. but i am here now.

yesterday we went on a hike. alone. we have never done that before, but i hope we will again.

i assure you, i was listening to you the entire time; i was not ignoring your pleas. i noticed the heat you were building up in this body that we share. i felt you tighten the grip on the steering wheel. and how you steeled our arms. making us heavy and tense. i wasn’t ignoring you. in fact, i was bowing to you. literally letting you drive the car. and write the narrative of how our day was going to go. i was letting you drive, listening to your despair, riding that loop; but, also, the universe had asked me to come. and to bring you. so i couldn’t turn around.

when we got on the trail, you relocated mostly to my head. my body felt a little bit more free; had a little more light. but you were freaking the fuck out. wreaking havoc up there. whipping our head from side to side, listening to every sound the trees made. every leaf blown. every branch bent. you were waiting for the man who would abduct us, or the wild animal that would eat us alive. you should have told someone we were here, you berated me. you should have brought someone along. can we turn around yet? please. i’ve never really noticed how much desperation you bear.

i looked at the time. it had been twelve minutes. and you had begun to draw your fears into the pit of our stomach. but we had driven over an hour to get there. and the universe had presented the offer. so, no, i said. not yet.

so we kept walking. and you got a little more quiet, and joined me on the trail for a moment.

and then the sky went kind of dark.

and the temperature dropped a little.

and the character of the trees changed — they were fuller, more imposing, you told me.

and you were back in that house, sitting on the floor. desperately afraid of the dark. it all ends here, you were telling me.

death. you were contemplating death. and i did not know how to soothe you, but to keep walking and hope that you would find a way to pull yourself together. or that the universe would step in and reveal her grand plan. but you were stuck on the floor.

we kept walking. me trying to ignore you over there, on the floor, in the fetal position. drawing darkness into my body. and i began thinking that maybe it was a mistake to drag you out here. maybe you had had enough. maybe we needed to turn back, seventeen minutes in.

and then, of course, there was a whisper. or, i heard a whisper; i wouldn’t be surprised if i had missed it before. i thought they were talking to me. out there in the woods. but i realize now that, no, the whisper was for you. the voice said, bad things don’t really happen to you. you perked up then. scoffed at the statement. at this voice, who dared to challenge the story you were spinning.

i stood back and watched the two of you engage. no, really, they said gently. bad things don’t really happen to you.

you raged on. calling the voice an asshole. insensitive. i’m not crazy, you said.

no, of course you’re not, even more gently. but you are afraid. for your body. that it will be ravaged or destroyed. and that you won’t be able to stop it from happening. but it won’t be. it has not been. and if there is a threat, we will respond. then. but not before. in this moment, you are safe.

i stepped back into the scene, joining y’all, and tossed that first statement around in my head, bad things don’t really happen to you. and i wondered why it couldn’t sound more eloquent, poetic, flowery. like, the universe walks with you. or, the sky watches over you.

because it is not for you. it’s for them. they said to me, nodding in your direction. their narrative is that: bad things will happen to them, because bad things have happened to them. they are still a child. and they need words that make sense to them. that respond to this fear. they don’t need metaphor or flowers right now. just these words: bad things don’t really happen to you.

you watched us go back and forth for a moment; and i saw it all unfold in your mind. you began walking yourself back through the entirety of your fifteen years. remembering the safety. the people who have protected you along the way. the ways you learned how to protect yourself. and yes, even the way god, as you call them, walked with you through it all. and it occurred to you, that even on that night that changed everything, you were safe. bad things don’t really happen to me, you whispered.

you got up off the floor, timid. but with a little more resolve. the voice left us; and we continued our walk in the woods. repeating those words — your new mantra — together.

you had heard the thing that you needed to hear; been reminded of how safe you have actually been all along.

you were lighter. less burdened. less afraid. i felt it. and we traipsed along in the magic of the woods, repeating this mantra when the fear crept back in. we were equipped. and connected. and i was seeing what you needed, for the first time. and finally.

i want you to know that i am grateful for that time with you. every moment of it. you are not a burden, even when i have treated you as such. i am sorry that it took me so long to come back for you. i’m here now. and i want to say thank you. for all the ways you have worked to protect us from the darkness. but i want you to know that i got us now. i will protect us. i will keep us safe.

and you, dear one, can let go of the darkness. you can release that night back into the universe where the darkness can be recycled and transformed. you can go back to being a child. you can be free.

i am here. and i love you. endlessly.

kristen