When a Mountain is More Than a Mountain

Oregon is a place of magic.

The mountains there are insane. The moss covered trees by the edge of the streams look like they’re from movies about fairies. The newts that scamper from one side of the trail to another feel like they were placed there on purpose, to be spotted during your journey.

Of course, we had to drive through rural Oregon to even get there, which meant dozens of blue and yellow signs every hundred yards or so that read JESUS as well as various Trump/Pence signs here and there. And no service. Can’t forget the no service.

But overall, Camp Myrtlewood where me and my housemates spent our fall retreat this past weekend, is a place of magic. The weather was cool compared to the constant bombarding head of the Bay Area where we reside. The trees were sometimes taller than the skyscrapers in the city.

And, simply put, it was a camp.

There is nothing more I love than to be at a camp.

Our eight hour drive up to Oregon was… long. It was also beautiful. We went from our city, to the dry fields a bit further up, to mountains twisting and turning and full of the oranges and yellows of fall. Living in a city made me forget that it was fall. Nearly November. Nothing in the Bay Area seems to change with the weather. Even when it starts getting cool, it warms up all over again so you’re perpetually confused about the time of year you’re in.

We were set to stay at Camp Myrtlewood, a small, centralized camp where the mattresses were stiff and hard. It was nothing like my camp, where things were all over the place and you had to hike up a mountain to get to the dining hall, but that didn’t matter. Summer camps across the nation carry a small, similar quality that will always make you feel like you’re at home even when you’re not.

I needed it.

I hadn’t realized how much living in the city had started to wear on me in little ways. Don’t get me wrong, I love the city, but it doesn’t always give me what I need. The air in Oregon was fresh and the wind was cold and the wet ground squished beneath my feet with every step.

Being in Oregon was something that our community really needed, too. Because, as it turns out, living in an intentional community can be a lot harder than people expect it to be.

I won’t get into the nitty gritty of it, but things had been tense for a couple of weeks now. Some people in the house put more stock into the intentional community aspect of LVC, while others might be more focused on social justice or spirituality. Then there’s the whole conversation regarding “community” and what everyone individually sees and defines community as. People haven’t been getting what they needed, pinning blame on one another, simply because we want different things or we’re not all on the same page.

In the end, we won’t ever, all be on the same page. That’s just not how people work. We, as a house, are full of fundamentally different human beings coming into this program needing different things.

We talked about it on Monday and I’m feeling better about our house, and I hope others are too. But our fall retreat came right at the end of all of this turmoil, and it was good.

So, back to the retreat, it sort of forced us to be together. We had the long-ass drive (where I listened to Hamilton for the first time, and am annoyed to admit I love it and I’m addicted and no one can stop me) and staying in cabins together and cooking meals together. In most cases, forcing people to be together does not work out in anyone’s favor. Forced hanging out can be detrimental to forming relationships. But in this scenario, it worked.

We took hikes together, finding the edge of the Earth, as well as creepy human-sized barrels in the middle of the woods. We carved pumpkins together, marveling at the talent of some while wincing away at the work of another’s. (Mine. Mine is the screaming one.) We were ourselves, without the pressures of work, without the pressures of getting it right, and it was nice.

Despite the cold and the wet that came with Oregon, I felt more like myself than I had in months.

There was a small service for those of Christian faith, and I got to take communion. There was a moment in which I realized that three months ago, I never would’ve eaten what was currently (happily) on my dinner plate. There was a small hissy cat named Courage who couldn’t figure out if she wanted attention or not. There was a decision, where me and one of my roommates, decided that we would commit to being vegetarians for the remainder of the year (save Thanksgiving and Christmas). There was Hamilton, played from speakers and headphones and car radios. There was laughter, again and again and again.

November is just days away (and so is NaNoWriMo!) which marks about the fourth month of being in this program, and I feel more ready for it than I did before.

At Least it Wasn't a Heart Attack

The sky is hazy.

It’s actually been hazy for a few days, but I never but two and two together. In fact just the other morning I was thinking about how the sunrise was strangely beautiful through the fog. Only--surprise, it’s not fog, it’s smoke that’s coming down from Napa where fires are literally raging out of control and we can’t seem to do anything about it.

Today one of my co-workers mentioned, in all seriousness, that some of us should consider getting masks. The smoke that we’re breathing in that’s coming down the coast is toxic. It’s housing burning to ash.

And listen, I’m not trying to make this a competition. Me breathing in the smoke of these fires is literally nothing compared to all of the people who’ve had to flee their homes from the rapid onset of fires that they just cannot stop from spreading. It’s just crazy to me.

Back in Maryland, the concept of California wildfires were just that--a concept. I’d never been able to actually understand them. West coast fires just remained this thing.

“The west is burning!”

That was it. It was just a thing that you knew about the west. There were fires.

But being here? Looking at the strangely beautiful orange light that filters through the windows at 1pm because the way the smoke changes the air? Walking down the street and actually smelling something burning? It’s insane.

I was supposed to go on a retreat with a local church this weekend that was cancelled because of these fires. Like--just, damn. That’s really all of the words I can muster up for this. Damn.

How the hell is this still happening? You hear about climate change (and boy howdy I could rant about climate change for a while, especially seeing as I did my senior project on sustainable living and the way it affects the environment (but we’ll hold off on that for now)) and you can see things happening but still, still, it’s insane to be experiencing this. Even the fact that these fires are 50-60 miles away, an hour by car, across a bridge and a bit of ocean, this is the world that we’re living in because we’ve been treating our planet like shit for way too long.

(When I was working on my senior project, I asked the girl who sat next to me if she believed in climate change. Her answer was, and I quote, “You know, I don’t know!”)

Lately it feels like there’s nothing but bad news. Natural disaster after traumatic event after political update after natural disaster after traumatic event after political update on repeat forever and ever. Humans are just not meant to absorb this much negativity. We just aren’t.

We’ll get stomach ulcers.

Which brings me to my next point!

I (probably) have a stomach ulcer.

Am I going to blame the state of the world for my stomach ulcer? Um, yes. At least a little. Does it also have to do with the fact that every time I take ibuprofen I pop 4 of them into my mouth and hope for the best? Absolutely! But like--just once I would like to wake up and not immediately hear about a new form of suffering that has emerged.

It just goes on and on and on and on and forever and ever and I always told myself I’d be one of those people to get away from the internet when the world started falling apart, but I can’t. It’s like I need to know. Who am I if I’m not informed?

But, anyway, stomach ulcer.

I woke up Thursday night (Friday morning) at like, 3am in one of the worst pains I’ve ever experienced in my life. (The worst pain would be that time I had a kidney stone where I literally laid on the ground of the Towson mall parking garage trying not to puke.) Everything is worse at 3am. If I was to be in pain at like, 11am, there’s sunlight and conversation and people all around that can convince you that you’re not dying.

At 3am, you think you’re dying.

I literally ended up on various websites reading “first hand accounts of heart attacks written by women”, FULLY CONVINCED that I was having a heart attack. This is one of those times that my hand time zone difference came in handy, because while it was now 3:30, my mom was awake!

Yay moms who can’t sleep in!

She convinced me that I wasn’t dying, which was actually a very good feat, and I managed to climb back in bed. After popping more ibuprofen. Like an idiot. I’m not dependent, but my motto has always been “well it hasn’t killed me yet!”

Well… it hasn’t killed me yet!

Thankfully my boss is literally one of the coolest humans on the entire planet (she recently adopted a teenage cat that survived one of the various hurricanes (see: the world is a mess, stated above) named Slipper and sometimes sends me videos of him) and really didn’t mind that I decided going into work would be a bad idea. I told myself if I was still in Weird Unnamed Pain by 10:30, I’d go to some form of emergency room.

I passed out (thanks ibuprofen, both evil and wonderful all at once) and didn’t wake up until the pain kicked back in around 11, so, yeah. Some form of emergency room was my next step.

I went to a Direct Urgent Care.

Google tells me that the definition of URGENT is “(of a state or situation) requiring immediate action or attention.” Please, then, tell me why I waited FOR TWO HOURS to see a doctor.

TWO HOURS.

“They were probably busy,” you’re thinking, and I’m here to tell you--thEY WEREN’T. I had to make? An appointment? At this urgent care? What kind of California bullsh--

The worst part about being in pain and not knowing what it is, is the not knowing what it is. Part of me was still convinced I was having a heart attack. Not knowing what the hell is going on with your body is just… scary. Humans are really tough sometimes, but literally one thing could happen and you could DIE. In a SECOND. That’s scary.

The second worst part about being in pain is when you have no one to sit with you.

My roommates were all really great. I kept them updated via our groupme chat and a few of them texted me individually to really make sure I was okay. One of them offered to go to the store and get me whatever it was I needed, checking in every few hours to see how I was feeling. Even my boss kept texting me, wondering if I’d seen someone yet, frustrated for me that I hadn’t seen someone yet, reminding me that everyone at work was thinking of me. So it’s not that I didn’t feel loved and supported.

It’s just, I was pretty alone. You’re never more homesick than when you’re sad and in pain sitting in an urgent care that isn’t actually urgent.

(Also, side note, that receptionist was so mean to me. Ma’am, I was in pain. Can you not.)

I got to see a doctor (after two freaking hours) and explain my pain before she diagnosed me with a (probable) stomach ulcer. To be diagnosed with a real stomach ulcer you have to go to the hospital and they have to stick a camera down your throat so they can see it with their eyeballs. Which like, hard pass on that.

They gave me antibiotics to help it pass and had this great tip of advice for me.

“You’ll know if your ulcer bursts because you’ll be in excruciating pain. Definitely go to the hospital then.”

Thanks Direct Urgent Care!

It’s been nearly a week since I’ve started my meds so I feel okay. My co-workers are very quick to remind me that I should not be eating as much chocolate as I am--or that I should really not be drinking that much coffee--or that vegetables really are good for me. Which is good, and also true.

But, like, in this awful world (again, see above) no way in hell am I going to give up my coffee.

We’re here for a good time, folks, not a long time. Drink your coffee.

Along with like, all of the above, life still goes on. Yesterday was World Mental Health Day, and today is National Coming Out Day. I could make individual posts on both of those as well. On World Mental Health Day I spent a lot of time reflecting on where I was a few years ago, the push I made on my end to get the help I needed, and where I am today. Same with National Coming Out Day. But, like, I talk about being a bisexual enough for me to not ramble on about it more.

(Regarding both, dear readers, you know yourself the best. Trust yourself and do what you need to do, whenever you're ready.)

In the end, I’m okay. The world is still (literally) burning, and every day feels like a punch in the face, but I’m okay.

I read a tweet today that was really helpful for me. Ha, ha, millennials and their Twitter, but like, seriously.

Take care of yourselves, friends. We're stronger together.

Find Me in 50 Years

Sometimes, even the train is quiet.

Normally it screams. The wheels don’t fit properly on the tracks, or something, and the entire system is old so your ride is nothing but high pitched squeals. It’s normally not that bad. In fact, I rarely notice it because I have my headphones in. I just hit the volume button to turn it up a touch and then it’s no big deal.

Monday, I forgot my headphones.

Monday, I woke up to the news of a domestic terrorist attack in Las Vegas.

Monday, the train was quiet.

I shouldn’t be left alone with my thoughts for that long. It’s the worst. I started getting inside my own head, thinking about how dangerous BART could potentially be, thinking about guns and how we don’t need them to exist, thinking about this and that and the other.

We talked about it at work, we talked about it at home, we talked about it online. I was angry and upset and Monday wasn’t a great day regardless. How could someone do something so horrible? You spend hours upon hours thinking upon it, and there’s never any real answer to come up with. And even worse -- what the fuck are we going to do in response?

The answer is simple. It doesn’t take hours to decide that no one needs to own a fucking automatic weapon. It’s not about upping the security of hotels or whatever bullshit is being talked about in response to Las Vegas, it’s about guns. It’s always about guns.

I saw a lot of people saying Pray for Vegas. In fact, I used the hashtag myself. But it’s about more than praying. Yes, praying can be a way to focus your thoughts, to center yourself. Yes, to some, praying is incredibly important. Praying can be healing for yourself. But to only offer prayers? When policy could be changed? When action could be taken? Prayers aren’t enough.

I’m tired of talking about it. I recognize that I’m in a position of privilege that not talking about gun violence is something I can afford, but I’m tired. It’s exhausting. Every day is another fucking horror that we have to wake up to, whether it’s the government and that absolute garbage of a man in the White House or another natural disaster or something that humankind has done to one another. I’m just tired.

It sickens me and it makes me ache and this week has just been full of pain.

Today is the three year anniversary of the day one of the people closest to me ended his life.

I was talking to a friend last night about suicide and he briefly mentioned how he hated the phrase committed suicide because it sounds like a choice. I agree.

I’ve heard all of it. That suicide is greedy. That people who commit suicide are selfish. That people who end their own lives aren’t thinking of others. Every time I hear it, oh God every time I hear things like that I want to scream.

What’s selfish is a man with a gun who takes lives as though he has a right to do it. Someone who struggles with demons to the point that they can’t handle it anymore, that’s not selfish.

David Arthur was the least selfish person I have ever met.

It’s been three years and it still doesn’t make any sense to me.

I’ve been sitting at my computer typing different things, again and again, trying to get how I feel into words for what feels like hours now. I write something and I erase it, and I try again but it doesn’t feel right. I’m not sure I’ve ever been able to put into words the feeling of losing someone like David. If you knew David, I’m almost certain that you know what I mean.

I will say this: I see him in the sunsets.

At his memorial, I stood in front of a crowd and cried and said something along the lines of there are pieces of him that I want to keep for myself, and I want you all to keep those pieces too. I was hysterical. I was being selfish.

Here are some of my favorite memories of David that I should have shared, that I would like to share now.

• David and I would sit in the Den for hours at a time, to the point where the guards would come in and kick us out because it was so late. Sometimes we would sit in silence and he would wait for me to share my story. Sometimes we would laugh. Sometimes we would play 2048 and be so still that the lights would turn off above us.
• If I ever needed someone to do something with, David was always there. It didn’t matter if he’d already eaten or if he had something else he was doing, he’d drop all of it just to accompany me wherever it was I was going. Once he came with me to West Village to get a care package my family had sent me and refused to let me carry it. We had a good conversation about gender roles.
• Every week at building council meetings, David would suggest filling the vending machines with milk. Every week.
• I took David to my summer camp, one of the only people outside of camp (if not the first) that I’d taken to the mountain. He was like a freaking dog, running down the trails and disappearing behind the trees, too excited to see it all to wait for me to catch up.
• Sometimes I would walk in the union and find him playing the piano in the terrace. I’d sit on the bricks and listen to him play, and then he’d let me play Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah ten times in a row before shooing me back to the bricks.
• We ate a lot of Sweet Frog.

There are more memories that I value above those, but those I can share. (The others I will hold onto tightly as to make sure they don’t disappear.)

One of my favorite still has to be the time he didn’t tell me he was moving to Texas permanently and we didn’t talk for a few days.

“I’m still mad at you,” I told him once the sting had passed.

“I know,” he said.

“I’m not actually mad at you,” I told him later.

“I know,” he said.

This post, these thoughts, they’re very scattered. Grief is hard that way. One day you’re okay and the next the wound feels fresh. I may not have known him for our entire lives, but he’s impacted me in ways I will never be able to explain.

What’s that quote?

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

No, David wasn’t selfish. He had a way of making you feel like even the stars were your doing.

And in a world where I wake up every morning to news that weighs me down and makes me feel small, I try to remember what he taught me. To look for joy in small places. To give people the benefit of the doubt. To push on, even when it’s hard, even when I’m tired.

The sunset was beautiful last night. I miss you.

--

Suicide Prevention Hotline 1-800-273-8255