“Hike your own hike” is a quote every hiker knows by heart. It’s not hard to memorize, but it can be hard to incorporate into your own hiking practice. It’s meant to say that there is no wrong way to hike. You can go fast, or slow. You can stop and smell the roses, or you can race up and down the mountain without stopping to take in what’s around you. You can use lists, trying to check off each trail or mountain, or you can hike the same mountain every day for the rest of your life. You can hike up and drive down, you can drive up and hike down. You can hike by yourself, or you can hike with a group. There is no right way or wrong way to hike. But sooner or later, there are going to be people, you are going to want to meet people, and you are going to need people.
When I finally do make it to the trailhead for my first ever hike up a real mountain, I see people. They all look so put together, so confident. They are all talking to each other, smiling and laughing. They all have maps, and cool jackets and hiking shoes and water bottles.
And they have backpacks. I have a backpack. But it’s shredded in half and all the supplies are shattered from being run over by my car. Hell, I don’t even know if the supplies in my backpack were the right things, so it probably doesn’t matter anyway. Why do they all look so happy? Why won’t they look at me? Why won’t they help me figure all this out? I want so badly to join their group, but I don’t know how to ask. I don’t even know the right questions to ask, and I certainly don’t know how to tell them all of the thoughts and feelings that are swimming around inside my head.
Rehab is like that. They tell you in rehab that there are two things that are crucial to your sobriety. First, feel your damn feelings. Fine. Second, make connections.
They might as well have told me I would have no choice but to fail. They tell you the way human beings connect to each other is through emotion, through the communication of feelings between one person and another. So, I sit in my car and stare out at the groups of people through my window. Maybe if I can find one person. One person who looks as lost as I feel.
There…I see her. Over there by the trail, looking at her map the same way I should be doing if I had remembered to bring a map. I get out of the car. I run up to her. I start talking. She stares at me. Why is she staring at me? Why won’t she talk to me? And then I realize that she is talking. She seems excited about something. Why can’t I understand what she is saying? Why can’t I understand what she is feeling? Why can’t I get through to her? I’m talking, but it’s like she doesn’t hear me either. It’s like a glass wall is between us. I can see her. I can see her hand gestures and her facial expressions. I can see her smile. I know I should be thankful. I know I should feel warmth and love and a sense of connection that all human beings approach one another with. But it means shit. I should feel her energy, her compassion, her willingness to help, her excitement and…her feelings. I should take it all in, accept her outstretched hand that is asking me to join her on this journey. But it means shit. Because I don’t understand her language. All I feel is apathy.
Because I just. Don’t. Understand. I take a step back. I walk away. I ignore her outstretched hand. I am engulfed by the enormity of disappointment, loneliness, isolation and anger that I feel every time I try to have a simple conversation with someone. Those feelings are all directed at myself, not to those around me.
What the fuck is wrong with me that I continue to walk away from people who are trying to reach me? Why the fuck don’t I try harder? I must not be trying hard enough. I can’t reach my friends. I can’t reach my coworkers. I can’t reach other hikers. I can’t reach my family. I must be lazy. I must be too shy. I must not have the strength or courage inside myself to be brave enough to overcome the laziness and shyness to form relationships with people. It’s my fault I’ve lost so many people. I’ve lost past, present and future relationships. What a life I could have known if I had just tried harder to reach people. I am the biggest, laziest and most pathetic loser I have ever met. Who turns down people who WANT to get to know the real you, and chooses isolation instead? Who does that?
There’s a knock on my car window. I look up. There’s a guy outside my window. He seems to be talking to me. I can’t hear him. I start crying, because I know he will turn away in frustration when I don’t respond. I look up again. Why is he still there? Why hasn’t he walked away like everyone else? He opens my car door. He holds out his hand.
“It’s not your fault”. I flinch. I turn away. I put the car in drive, ready to speed away when he realizes that I can’t possibly relate to him or understand him or care about what he is saying. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s not your fault”. Why does he keep saying that?
Because trauma robs you of so many things. It robs you of remembering a happy childhood. It robs you of family. It robs you of trust and honesty and faith. But most of all, it robs you of connection. The pain of trauma is so intense that you tell yourself over and over again that you will never, ever, expose yourself to that type of pain again. You block out those emotions. And along with those emotions, you block out everything else until you feel so numb it feels like you don’t even exist. That you shouldn’t exist. That you shouldn’t even bother to exist. And perhaps what is even worse is that you tell yourself that your inability to connect to yourself and everyone else around you is your own damn fault.
Why is he still here? Doesn’t he know I’m broken? That I might be able to smile and nod and answer his questions and tell him all the mountains I plan on hiking, but that really, I am just going through the motions of what I think it means to try and make friends? But he doesn’t leave.
Trauma is something that happens to you. It causes thoughts and emotions that lead to behaviors that we blame on ourselves. And this is the real tragedy of trauma. It makes us think we are broken. That we are shells of the person we so desperately want to become. It robs us of the one thing that makes us human and that allows us to connect to other human beings – the ability to feel. Rehab has taught me that this is not my fault. Rehab has taught me that it is time to let go. It is time to let go of the self-hatred that I have lived with for so many years. My inability to connect with the people I care about, and the people I am only just starting to get to know, is not my fault. Something inside me understands this. I grab his hand, and get out of my car.