Get your hiking shoes … March 19, 2019

I might be claiming this for myself.
 
As I struggle with current events, I am reminded:
I survived my family the first time.
I sent a man to jail for harassment and sexual assault after the seven (7) women he raped could not. The women in our city had a brief respite from at least one (term I should not use in public).
I left the man who stalked me for 11 years with my mother, who was the source of contact information for him. I still tend to move like a rabbit running from a coyote.
I left a husband who told me and treated me like I was a waste of time.
I am living in my car with two dogs who spent the night roaming the desert and came back, tired, exhausted, but with hugs and snuggles.
 
I am loved.
I have a warm and toasty car, and some warm and toasty friends.
 
I am a survivor and I live a rich life.
It isn’t conventional, but it is mine.
 
My mom called Christmas Eve to let me know she is not well, would I come for a visit.
I went. After 27 years of silence, it seemed like a good idea.
While on the east coast, I collected the rest of my things – including Christmas decorations I haven’t seen in five years. I visited my ex and confirmed that leaving was a very good idea.
I visited friends and family who love me.
I ate good food.
I went to see the touchstones of my past.
 
I am not in the East anymore.
While traveling through the southern desert, I realized my skin tone matches the scenery – same colors, similar textures. I match. I belong.
Here.
 
Not in the nightmares of the early morning.
Not in the anxiety of mid-afternoon when I have to begin to decide where we’ll stop for the night.
Not in the panic unleashed by the bats in the belfry, the ghosts in the attic, the skeletons in the closets, the dragons under the bed – who collectively are out and about and totally driving me nuts.
 
But I have friends and family who love me.
So, while my paradigms are being shattered, along with my soul, I am aware that I am becoming someone new, someone needed, someone loved.
 
I am.
 
Me.
So, yes, the mountain is moving. Some days by force of will. Some days just as the dirt clinging to my shoes.
But it’s my mountain.
And it’s moving.
 
It sucks and I am not really enjoying this process. But wotthehell.
 
Get your backpack and hiking shoes or get the hell out of my way.
 
Amenamy