October

Suddenly it was October. It felt like I woke from a fever dream and suddenly it was October. Somehow. But how? Somehow the spanning months between February and October had slipped past me like a fast flowing river, depositing me on the far side of a lake. Filled with torrential grappling, struggling against my flailing mental health the months dragged and bounded past me. Psychiatry and therapy appointments, medication changes, dark days, brief spiraling highs. Somehow it was already October and I wondered where the year had gone.

July 13th. Happy Birthday to me. The dour, tumultuous moods that had followed me since February persisted and now I was 31. My gift to myself was a solo backpacking trip to the Enchanted Valley in Olympic National Park. Following a long, river-cut valley, the trail meanders along until finally the valley widens below glacial ridges. The hike is dotted with little idyllic river-side campsites, each one called my name, entreating me to stop. My energy levels were failing, a physical manifestation of the illness in my brain, I desperately wanted to stop.

When things fall apart I cling to normalcy. Convinced as I was that faking it until I made it was the only way through I pushed on my hike. Eventually, eventually I made it to my valley floor campsite with a view of the river where I sat under a tree and tried to draw the darkness in my brain. It helped. Drawing almost always helped. It became central to how I understood my mental illness and I never left home without a sketchbook. 

The next day I hiked out, I drove home. Driving into Seattle I pulled into a tattoo shop. A spontaneous birthday present to myself. A simple, short phrase but the pain of the tattoo needle along my ribs was exquisite. Maybe that’s why I chose the spot, chose the phrase: never too late. That night, in the darkness of my bedroom I ran my fingers across the raised skin on my side. As though touch they would give me strength. As though by inking the words onto my body I would remember what they said and I would make it through this ceaseless storm. Never too late.

August. The Loowit trail runs a low, bobbing loop around the base of soaring Mt Saint Hellens. But on this trip the decapitated peak was hidden from view by low drizzling clouds. As I hiked the 32 mile circumnavigation I struggled to dredge up the elation I used to feel at these weekend trips. The clouds, like my mood, hung heavy and damp. Unenthusiastic emptiness, grey and bland.

Underneath my apathy roared spikes of outrage. Though quickly tampered they demanded to know why I could no longer connect to the joyous child within me. The part of me that rushes headlong into the natural world eager to look, to see, to breathe in the scenery through my very skin and be made whole by it’s embrace. I was out here but I was trapped within the cage of my skull. I was miserable. But the joy of hiking is that you can’t quit until you are back at your car. So I walked and waited for the trip to be over. The well I was trapped in was dark and deep and at times I felt certain I would never make my way back to the surface.

September. The rumbling plane swept me eastward towards the European continent. Starman sat beside me. We were on our way to hike the Tour du Mont Blanc. A 108 mile circumnavigation of the Mt Blanc Massif running through France, Italy, and Switzerland. In the weeks approaching the trip I knew something was wrong. I knew that despite new medications that something had never been made right and it was getting worse by the day. But I wasn’t on this trip for myself, I was on it for Starman. Normalcy. Just pretend to be normal I told myself. I wanted nothing more than for Starman to have a good time, after all his planning, after months of worrying after me I needed this for him more than I wanted health for myself.

And I did make it through the trip. There were minimal tears and no fights. I saw Starman snap photos and drink beer. We stayed at refuges, met chatty Brits, ate fondue. It was good, but inside I was struggling to hold on. From one hour to the next my mood would surge and the drop out below me. For half a day I would be in tears only to be laughing and joking with strangers over dinner. It may come to be one of my greatest regrets that when I looked upon the Alps for the first time I felt a hollow, buzzing nothing. My head was a fluorescent bulb, at once too bright and sickeningly empty.

Then it was mid October and one more wonder drug in my cocktail and I was stable. I did everything and nothing and somehow things got better. I was elated. I was enraged. How could everything simply get better with one drug. I felt impotent in my health, I could take no credit other than having lived through the ordeal. Though perhaps that is credit enough.

The episode was over. The summer was over and with it came the rains. The clouds closed in around Seattle like silence, and I marveled over this glorious blue dot. The indecisive weather left me in the hinterland of seasons. I felt I had missed spring and summer, I had missed so much of 2019 it felt like a personal loss. In October I walked through the city and waited for winter to come. In October I began to look forward to the coming snow. In October I was glad that I could look forward to anything at all.