Do Epic Shit, Even if it Sucks

It has been a write, delete, write again, delete again, try some more, walk away, and now lets hope that this is the version that sticks. It doesn't really feel like it has been a couple weeks already since I had the chance to go backpacking with the First Responder Resiliency Project. Trying to do a recap without it being just a self-serving reflection or simply story telling has not been easy. Much like my healing path, it has been convoluted at times, difficult to process, feeling like it wasn't really happening. It has often felt like groundhog day, one day at a time, one step at a time, trudging forward and focusing intently on looking forward because to look back is to have to see where the trail came from. But sometimes that moment of stopping to turn around reveals something truly unexpected. On a hike, that moment to take a water break and look back shows you how far you have come and just how beautiful the view can be. Where you were is somewhere below, but no matter how hard you look for it, the path gets lost in the trees. And it is no just behind, but below as well, meaning that even when you look back the  most important thing is to see how far you have come. 

That was one of the most poignant parts of the trip for me. For so long during the early days of my healing process all I was trying to do was survive. Literally one step at a time, whether it was getting out of bed, eating a meal that was more than a bowl of cereal, being fully engaged in therapy, walking outside to get some fresh air. These were all things that I knew I had to do, and if I was to look back then it would feel like I wasn't making tangible progress. For parts of the hike, it was very much the same feeling. The weight on my back, the sun beating down, the slow trudging upward, trying not to slow the group down while still trying to feel like I was capable of continuing to move upward. Along the way there were moments with the group that we would stop together, Dan would make us all drink water and eat snacks, then we would move up together. True to the first responder spirit, no one wanted to feel like the slow mover, no one wanted to feel like they were going to be at the back of the pack, everyone knew there was a goal to attain and the best way to attain that goal is to put your head down, suffer in silence, and move forward. Well I did that for 12 years and guess what I got for my efforts? I got piles of shitty memories, a mind filled with betrayal and conflicted values, a handshake and a push out the door. I did so much healing on my own because there was no one else to rely upon and I knew that I wasn't going to get better if I didn't put in the effort. It has been the same since I retired. Weekly therapy appointments, intensive work using accelerated resolution therapy and EMDR, pushing myself as hard as possible because of the supposed goal at the end that only I could see. No time to stop, no time to look back because if I look back then all I'm going to see is all the things I am trying to escape from. No rest for the weary because there is always another demon waiting to crawl out of the darkness to try and drag me back down to where I was. Which is probably why I didn't want to stop for long on the trail, why I didn't want to look back or slow down because if I did then the work I had done to get to where I was would be lost. Which sitting here typing out sounds completely out of touch with reality, but when you have trauma brain it seems possible, and it is that little bit of possibility that drives so much anxiety. So in those moments when we had to stop on the mountain, I started making a point of looking back to see where I had been. Sure, at lots of points it was just trees which made it difficult to see what the progress had been. Then we would find a plateau, an opening in the trees or a ridgeline and when I looked back, the trail below was visible for a little bit then went back into those same woods. But beyond the trees there was beauty. There was blue sky, there were lake views that would easily fit any nature lovers wildest dream. There was sunshine. Sure, it was really fucking hard getting to each viewpoint, but those views made it worth while. And with each passing stop, the views got better because the trail was going higher, which also made seeing just how much progress had been made that much easier. Before I knew it, we had reached the final ridgeline and the hardest part of the day was winding down. Being able to appreciate where I had started the day was not something that I am used to and it is something that I know I am going to continue to struggle with because I have never been good at giving myself credit for the work that I have done. Going to bed that first night, I was exhausted but immensely proud of what I had accomplished. I showed up for myself simply because it was something that I wanted to do. I didn't need to do it, it wasn't recommended by a clinician or a part of any care plan, it was something that was simply for me.

Trying to sleep in the quiet hasn't been easy for me for a long time. Partly because of the tinnitus and partly because silence lets my brain try to fill the void. Yet I managed to sleep on the  mountain with no white noise, and without earplugs because they actually made the ringing worse. Waking up in the morning to serene silence, with nothing to do but walk down by the foggy lake and watch the sun slowly creep above the tree line forced me to remain in the moment, to not worry about the impending peak summit, to just be present. Even going for the summit was not nearly as daunting as the initial hike to the campsite. Sure, it was going to be upward, steep, rocky and out in the open, reaching the peak would allow for the best views of where we had been to start the adventure, closely mirroring the best chance to see how much progress I had made in my own life. Going for the peak there was again no rush, it was a chance to go at whatever pace felt right. And for me that meant being okay being in the middle of the group again, not worrying about keeping pace with the front of the pack and not being concerned about being somewhat a head of the back. I wasn't worried about taking part in the conversations because in those moments I could just be there myself, enjoying the hard work but also enjoying the chance to appreciate myself for what I was doing. Reaching the peak, being able to see the valley we had hiked, the higher reaching peaks on different ridges, I knew that it was where I was meant to be at that time. I could so easily compare my healing journey over the past four years to the work that had been done in just 2 days. There were plenty of moments that sucked, there were really hard parts and moments that felt too easy, like life was waiting for the chance to take me back down to where I had been. Even standing at the top, knowing I had to go back down to camp and then back further to the parking lot, I wasn't going back the same that I was when I started. These moments didn't come to me often on the mountain because I was focusing intently on being present. But they also weren't just spontaneous comings after the hike either. Being in those moments, seeing the views, being able to be proud of myself for doing something just for me really was freeing. These last couple weeks, being home and back to the realities of life, have challenged these ideas and thoughts because life isn't always exciting, it isn't always easy to see the work that has been done because it's not tangible or tracked the same way as hiking a ridgeline. Yet I know that I have made tremendous progress, even simply based on the fact that I went on a trip with a group of strangers who I had never met before.

While working our way up to the peak, one of the group members posed a very deep question to the rest of us. Besides your kids, what are you most proud of in your life? It took some time to find my answer to the question because outside of my girls I hadn't given much thought to things I should be proud of. It took some time to come up with my answer and in the end, all I had to do was look down. There's a reason that I carry death on my arm. Almost three years to the day that I got my reaper I was on the hike, and it was somewhere between the campsite and the peak that I realized just how proud I am of myself for making peace with death and not letting him take me yet. To look back and see just how close I truly was and then to see where I am now, the decision to keep going even when death was close was something that I hadn't given real thought to in a long time. We see so much death in first response work that it becomes normalized. We make jokes, we run head first into things that we shouldn't run out of on the other side, and somewhere along the way death just seems like an inevitable outcome. Up on the ridge I took some time to be thankful that I can still do hard things. Waking up each day was the hard thing for a long time because I didn't want to have to go through another day. Living that reality for years was fucking hard and I've never really appreciated myself for doing hard things. For so long I made living and healing about being there for my girls because they need their dad. Yet in that I lost sight of being there for myself too. I am allowed to be one of my reasons to keep going. I can be okay with where I was in those darkest of days because I still came out the other side. Somewhere back down the valley, in the midst of the trees lies the trail that I dragged myself along. And if I go back down into the valley I might find remnants of that trail, but it won't look the same because I am not the same. Somewhere along my healing journey I got into the routine of just focusing on surviving, on getting from day to day so that I could avoid falling backward into the hole I was in. But as I continue to move forward, as I continue to move away from the twelve years that fucked me up so badly, I continue to realize that surviving isn't living, its simply trying to delay the inevitable discomfort that arises in doing hard things. There are different levels of hard and different ways in which hard is going to affect me. But if I make my goal to simply keep going forward then am I really doing hard things or just taking the edge off and avoiding hard work because hard work sucks sometimes. Sitting up on the peak for a couple hours, watching the clouds roll along, seeing a red-tailed hawk riding the thermals, admiring the views, I was reminded of the importance of being proud of the progress that I have made. 

After finishing the hike to the peak, it was time to get in the lake. One of the last lake jumps I did was in Kelowna to celebrate the completion of the residential portion at Diversified. This one was nicer because the air temperature was well above freezing, yet the water really wasn't. Wading into the lake, feeling the shock of the cold water working its way up my legs, I stopped short of complete submersion initially. I did this because I frequently use cold-water immersion to rapidly ground myself if I feel the inkling of a panic attack coming. When the cold water doesn't work and the edges of the world start to fade I know that I am about to have a shitty time when the panic overwhelms my conscious awareness. Being in the lake, feeling the cold water simply because I wanted to reward myself for doing something hard, was something that I knew I needed to take slowly. Sure, it was uncomfortable but pretty rapidly I lost feeling in my lower legs and knew that I was going to be okay. I had to hype myself up a bit but eventually I said fuck it and flopped backward, letting the cold water envelope me and shock my system from head to toe. I stood up, let my breathing reset a little bit, saw the sun over the back ridge, and realized that sometimes being uncomfortable is really a good thing. So I squatted down, letting the water rest at my neck and just enjoyed where I was. Like my legs, things got accustomed to the temperature pretty quickly and by the end I was quite comfortable. Being able to enjoy something that I usually use to fight off panic was yet another example that I can use going forward to remind myself that hard things can be good things, that discomfort is not always a signal of impending doom or a need to fight or flee, that sometimes being uncomfortable leads to moments of internal calm and a sense of bliss. 

Breaking camp, hiking down the mountain, driving home. Things that I knew I was going to have to do, but really did not want to do. I truly enjoyed the quiet on the mountain because it gave me a chance to just let my brain do what it wanted to do without having to worry about why I was doing it. I wasn't prepping for another shitty ART or EMDR session. I wasn't worrying about writing papers or what I was going to do for supper. Or if I was being a good parent in the moments life got overwhelming. Or if I had made the right decision to make peace with death and not welcome him. In those moments of preparing for the downward part of the trip, seeing the other members of the group going through the same internal struggle, the desire to stay in the mountains fighting against the desire to see kids and get back home, I was reminded that even in hard times there are others that can be relied on. For help dropping a tent, for a kind word of motivation to put the pack back on, for silent support during a hard traverse down a skree slope. Support comes in many forms and it is there even in moments when you don't feel worthy of it, or like you need it. One of the things I was hoping for going into the trip was to add more community connections to my life, much like the ones that I forged in Kelowna. And as we loaded into separate cars, sharing sweaty hugs and promises to keep in touch, it felt genuine, it felt like going up the mountain together had created a bond that was unique to us. We all came from different backgrounds, from different homes, from different experiences, yet our shared humanity and desire to move forward from dark places brought us together. Difficult conversations aren't so difficult when those you are with get it. There is no need to delve into trauma because different uniforms have been to similar experiences, there is common humanity between us that allows for instant connections to be made. I know that I will be forever grateful for my time on the mountain with the group I was with.