Camping was beautiful. I’m going to do that a lot more in my life. I’m also, come hell or high water, going to learn to rock climb.
I climbed these.
I also have been having one too many panic attacks in a short period of time. And having trouble stopping them once they start, which is no good at all.
I’m working on it, but I’m slipping a bit.
I got stuck once, up on those rocks. F. was above me a few feet and I couldn’t get my leg up on a boulder. (He’s 6’2”; his legspan is hilarious and makes climbing look way too easy.) So I turned around and looked for another way up, (it’s beautiful, creative problem-solving, with sweat and the good type of pain mixed in… I’m in love with the act) and I wedged myself on this little shelf and realized I couldn’t move in any direction. I was gripping on by my fingertips and couldn’t turn around, couldn’t go back, couldn’t go forward. My feet were dangling over the edge.
My mind did what it does when I’m really drunk, which is to be perfectly conscious — almost observationally so — but unable to match up thought with action. I remember thinking, “Huh.” This didn’t at all match how I was feeling, which was panicked. I called to F., who I couldn’t see, (he had strapped a whistle to my wrist earlier in the day out of kindness — not patronization) and he yelled, “stay there!” and told me to keep talking. He ripped through boulders to find me stuck on the ledge, and together we figured out how to get down. He was out of breath when he got to me, which was sweet in an odd way.
Anyway. That was a calm, belly-panic. It’s the real type of panic that’s healthy, and okay, and natural; it’s what our bodies do. But the other type of panic is keeping me up at night, making me hyperventilate in my car. Tearing my brain up.