This had not been a good summer for me. Like many first responders and nurses, I witness things others hope to never see. As a mental health nurse, I hear stories from our patients about so many traumas and grief, about abuse and harm. I think about and ruminate about my own traumas. Like many first responders, I feel that I am “stronger” mentally, and that all these things wont affect me, until they do. Until we have seen and heard and borne witness to so much suffering that we break. Ironically, I never really bought into therapy, mindfulness and deep breathing, though I encouraged my patients to use these skills. Now I understand the need to talk to other professionals about the demons in our heads, and to use those coping skills to keep the panic attacks at bay. I am still not back at work, as I continue to work through my own therapy, and while I may have had the summer off, I was so far inside my own head that it was not safe for me to be doing the things I love. Now, at the end of the season, I am finally ready to head out and heal in nature, where I find the peace I so desperately need.
In early spring I had booked a backcountry kayak trip in the Massasauga. I had spent my life blissfully unconcerned about the dangerous of what I love to do. In fact, I used to be overconfident in my survival skills, and I am sure more than a little luck kept me from harm. Now, now I am a catastrophizer, and envision the worst things that can happen. I imagine not only bear encounters, but my tent catching fire, a capsized kayak, drowning in a teaspoon of water and scary people in clown masks stalking me through the backcountry. Thus, it was not with anticipation that I looked at this trip, but with panic, and I began to make excuses why I should not go. Though I knew if I caved, I risked never being able to go back to solo hiking, kayaking or camping, and all the activities that I love. I worked through these feeling with my therapy team, and yes, my brain is so broke that I require a team, though I strongly suspect that they tag team to avoid all my neurosis. They suggested that instead of a solo trip, that I should ask my son to come with me for support. Of course, now that means I worry not just about me, but about him getting chased by gangs of evil raccoons after his granola bar.
Despite my misgivings, we loaded up the gear and had my husband drive us north with the kayaks. The weather was perfect, sunny and warm, with the trees just starting to turn colors. Soft yellows and oranges mixed with the dark green of pines and spruce. The water was deep and dark, the surface a series of ripples and small waves from the strong easterly wind. We paddled hard, and within an hour we were at our site. The routine of setting up kept me from dwelling on those scary thoughts, but before long the camp was ready and there was nothing to do but enjoy the scenery. I expected the panic attacks to come back but was surprised to find that I felt calm and peaceful, the first time in months that I was not anxious. My son went out to lounge on a sunny rock, while I took my camp chair down to the water to read. The flap of wings had me look up to see a low flying vulture, which had me concerned about what kind of odor I was giving off. Eventually I just closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the wind in the treetops, and the water lapping at the shore. No cars, no music, no people, just blessed solitude.
As the sun went down behind the trees, and our site was cast in cool shadows, I wandered off to explore. The ground was littered with pine needles, and mushrooms popped up from the detritus. Small wrens chirped and sang from the underbrush. Through the trees I could see a bright sunlight, and walked out onto a western shoreline, still bright in the setting sun. I went back and got my son, and we spent the next hour lounging on the huge granite boulders sliding into the still waters. Beside us a small marsh was thick with bullrushes and reeds. Fish occasional jumped from the waters to catch a bug, and frogs sunned in the shallow waters. I was so relaxed, that even the rustling sounds in the bushes didn’t bother me, and I remembered what I love about the backcountry. My son and I rarely spoke, just soaked up the last of the sun’s warmth, content with each others presence.
Back at the camp site, we started a fire and ate a small supper. As the fire crackled and bathed us in an orange glow, the sky darkened and the stars began to appear. The moon rose, bright as a lantern, illuminating the land and water. As the fire burned low, I turned into bed, leaving my son to enjoy his own solitude. I slept the best that I had in months, with no nightmarish figures chasing me in my sleep. I only woke once, to use the thunder box, but the growls and rumbles of what I swear was a very large cat had me reconsidering that idea, and I returned to the tent with a still full bladder to wait for the sun to come up. My son rose first, and I found him sitting on the rocks watching the sun rise over the lake. I left him undisturbed, to enjoy his own moment in nature, while I went in search of a cat free spot for my morning ablutions.
Doing this trip might have terrified me at first, but I am so glad to have pushed through the fear and anxiety. I am once again excited to be out in the bush, and I am already making plans for next summer. Fear serves a purpose, and that is to keep us safe from danger. However sometimes our fears and anxieties grow out of proportion to the dangers, and that can keep us from living our lives and finding joy. While I doubt I will ever enjoy meditating, as my brain just won’t shut up long enough, I will use the other skills I have learned. Skills that I can share with my patients, and an empathy that perhaps I did not have before my own experience with depression and anxiety. An empathy that I hope will make me a better mental health nurse.