A Not So Triumphant, Somewhat Furtive Return

I haven’t been here (read: posted) in a long time... One year and four months to be (relatively) exact. It’s not that I haven’t tried. It’s just that I kept trying to play catch up. I’d start writing and at some point, find myself unable to continue. Maybe it was shame. Or self disgust that prevented me. Maybe I just couldn’t stand the idea of being publicly vulnerable anymore. Maybe I was just trying to ensure the interest of certain entities died out prior to my return. I can’t say entirely for certain, but I know it’s time to come back. This blog was always supposed to be part exposure therapy (being vulnerable is hard), part sanctuary (a place where I get to write whatever I want).

The nomadic part of my journey might end soon -- or at least, go on a prolonged, indeterminate hiatus. Many (realistically, most) of my efforts since I started living this way have failed. I’m sad, I’m down, my confidence is low, but I still think there’s value in what I’ve been doing... Even though I feel lost, unattractive, stupid, foolish, battered, and kind of worthless... Even though in some ways I feel like all of the healing work I’ve done has done little but provide an ever-increasing and endless illumination of just how broken I am... My inner optimist is still whispering to me from the dark, “Just hold on, my sweet. The diamonds are in the tar pit; it’s only natural to get stuck in the muck while searching for them, but we won’t stay. Eventually we’ll rise to the surface with our riches, and all we have to share. Just hold on. Be patient. Trust me.”

I started crying while I wrote that last part. 

Trust. Faith. What elusive commodities. The world is broken. So am I. What is there to trust?

But trust we must. 

Anyway, dear void (blog) and non-existent readers: I love you. Thank you for co-existing with me on this little blue pearl. Can you imagine how terrible it would be if we existed alone in our own individual universes?

May we learn to love ourselves, each other, and our Great Mother Earth better every day.

Hopefully, I’ll write again soon, and when I do it’ll be a real story, instead of... Whatever this was.

Seclusion: Part 1

Divide, Colorado

Day 1: I arrived at my pre-scouted site in Divide, Colorado in the late afternoon of May 15th. I had planned to arrive much earlier in the day, but I had dragged my feet. When it came down to it, I just didn’t want to go--I felt afraid and underprepared. After I arrived I felt a little better though; happy to be remote and off the grid again. 

I had eaten only a couple apples that day (part of the dieta recommended to me by the last shaman I worked with), so I made rice for dinner. Afterward, I lit a mugwort bundle. I offered the smoke to the spirits of the land, the plants, and my ancestors. I did a short ritual and offered prayers. By then it was cold, so I watched the eclipse from my trailer, then went to bed.

Day 2: When I awoke the next morning I felt exhausted. I spent the day fasting and only left my bed a few times. Every time I stood up I felt dizzy. I hadn’t realized when I chose this spot that it had an elevation of 9000 feet. I had also forgotten that the town I had previously lived in when I became sick has an elevation of a little over 7000 feet. For whatever reason, I had made it up in my head that all of Colorado has an elevation equivalent to that of Denver, which is 5279 feet. 

This was a serious oversight. I had come out to this location to heal my narcolepsy.  It’s a neurological disease. High altitudes have a serious impact on brain function because of the decrease in oxygen. It can also cause increased metabolism, which makes people hungrier and requires them to eat more in order to feel neutral. High altitude also has a tendency to increase fatigue. I have narcolepsy, I’m already fatigued. You know what else increases fatigue? Going off narcolepsy meds (necessary for the sake of the experiment though). None of these things worked in my favor. 

On day 3 of seclusion I spent most of the day sleeping and reading. I observed my dieta (eating apples and rice), and managed to get out of bed long enough to make offerings of sacred smoke to the land, my Goddess (that’s usually how I refer to my primary deity; she doesn’t have a name), and Cernunnos. 

Day 4 (May 18): I went to Walmart to pick up a couple things and bought a flat of mason jars while I was at it. Living in an RV somewhat inoculates you to any conflicted feelings about shopping there. They’ll let you camp in their parking lots, which is useful in a pinch. Also, I just kind of got used to it while I was in Baja, because there was one not too far from me and it was convenient (among other things it had an ATM and was next to an AutoZone).

I also stopped by Monument, which is the small town I lived in when I developed Narcolepsy. I had been there the week before to have dinner with my aunt and uncle, who moved there the same year my family left. They’ve lived there for over 20 years and love it. Despite their own progressive politics, the conservative, evangelical nature of the place doesn’t bother them. They’re Minnesotan to the core--polite, friendly, and utterly conflict avoidant. Their ability to be that way puzzles me in a way that my brain enjoys (it’s like a very interesting math problem I’m never going to solve). They’re wonderful. 

Part of my seclusion involved having as little contact with other people as possible though, so this time around I was there to visit places, not people. I took pictures of my old house and the first middle school I attended (I went to two different schools in the year and a half we lived there) so I could meditate on them later. 

My foster sister called when I was on my way back to my campsite. She was brief and business-like. She and I had talked about these check-ins prior to my sojourn. They weren’t for chatting; they were just to ensure my mental and physical safety. However, now that I was alone and off the grid, I wanted to talk. I chose my foster sister for these check-ins because she believes in what I’m doing. She understood why it was important not for me to talk to people; I was trying to keep myself clear of external influences. As such, she didn’t take the bait when I tried to be conversational. She put on her mom voice. It should be noted that my foster sister is a single mom and probably one of the best mothers in existence (she has parenting down to an art; it’s fascinating to watch). Her ability to hold healthy boundaries is formidable. She spoke to me calmly and firmly, “I’m glad you’re okay. I believe in you and that you can heal yourself. You can do this. I’m going to go now. I love you.” I held back tears and told her I love her too. 

We hung up and I let the tears fall. I examined my response to our call. My inner child felt lonely--I had a moment of connection when I really wanted it, but it was already gone again. I did some internal self-talk to soothe this part of myself. I imagined holding a younger version of myself and telling her that I love her. I tell her that I know she wants people, and I understand. It’s okay. She’s never really alone. I’m here and I’ll never leave her. Our isolation from other people is only temporary. 

Nota bene: the above are techniques that I learned from my last therapist while living in Oakland, so if they sound odd, please just know that there’s a science to the method I’m using. I’ve had a lifetime of therapy (I’m always working on myself), but it wasn’t until I started working with attachment, self-compassion, and plant spirit medicine (the first two starting in September of 2020, and the last in January of 2021) that I began to interact with myself in a truly loving way. It helps. I don’t always do it perfectly, but I love being loved by me.

The other thing I thought about after I hung up the phone that was bringing me to tears was something that I’ve been mulling over for the past couple months: how healing it is to have people you love and admire believe in you. It always shocks me a little how much this moves me and how deeply some part of me craves this. It makes me ache, but in a good way. I’m not used to it. It feels like medicine.

After I returned to my trailer, I spent a couple hours grinding reishi with my mortar and pestle to make a tincture. I also strained/finished processing a jar of rose tincture I’d been brewing for the past month. 

Day 5 (May 19): I was tired of being tired so I decided to take a microdose of LSD. LSD makes me feel very open and connected spiritually, and it also facilitates the rewiring of neural pathways, so even though it felt a bit like cheating, it also felt appropriate. I ate a mandrake truffle to see if I could contact the spirit of mandrake and do a little shadow work while I was at it. I spent most of the day wandering the forest and getting sunburnt. 

I noticed the sap was running on some of the aspens nearby, so I foraged some resin. Sap is to trees what blood is to humans; it only runs when a tree is wounded. Its job is to plug the wound and keep the tree from getting infected. Despite their notable pallor, aspen sap is bright red. It looks even more like blood once it dries. Thus, gathering the sap made me feel a little parasitic, but I was careful to only take from the runoff and not from the areas where the trees were healing. I thanked each tree and left gifts of organic tobacco (it’s common practice amongst plant spirit communicators) here and there to express my gratitude.

I did a brief healing ritual with the sun after returning to my trailer, and made a lavender tincture before bed.

Day 6 (May 20): I stopped taking the prescription GHB I use to manage my narcolepsy on Day 1. GHB takes 5 days to clear the system, so on the sixth day, I was clean. To my way of thinking, the real work could now begin. My body could once more become aware of the dysfunction in my hypothalamus (the part of the brain that is damaged in people with narcolepsy), and hopefully this would allow me to more easily target it.

As a result of having Type 1 narcolepsy, I am completely dependent on GHB. My brain doesn’t produce the chemical that would allow it to move through my sleep cycles effectively, so I take GHB three times a night to ensure that it does. Without it, I can sleep for 20 hours and wake up feeling as though I’d never slept at all. Historically, if I do not take it I become very physically and mentally ill. My usually robust immune system tanks, I hallucinate at night and when I nap, wake myself up multiple times a night because I’m talking in my sleep, have vivid nightmares, can’t drive, can’t work, can’t focus, experience more frequent and severe cataplexy (temporary paralysis; it’s mostly harmless, albeit awkward and kind of annoying), am hyperemotional, sleep 12-15 hours a day, and am so exhausted that it actually hurts to be awake. Usually while in this state I avoid human contact as much as possible. People don’t need to be around the somewhat pathetic creature I become, and frankly I’d rather not be seen that way. Much of the way I’ve been living my life for the past 18 years (since I started taking medication consistently) has revolved around ensuring that I have access to prescription GHB. 

However, all of this changed while I was in Baja (more on that later), so much so that this time around I was not at all intimidated by going off my meds. I was looking forward to it, and hoping that the combination of being off meds, fasting, doing ritual and shadow work, engaging in neuro-focused meditation/visualizations, and exploring the spiritual origins of my illness would allow my brain to heal itself.

On this particular day, I’d run out of toilet paper, so I had to go into town again. This was unfortunate as there was a serious snow storm and several feet of snow already on the ground. I am not accustomed to driving in snow, let alone on unpaved, deeply rutted backcountry roads. I got stuck twice. Once on my way into town (for over an hour) and once on my way back to the trailer (for 30-45 minutes). Fortunately, my truck Lancelot and I travel with a shovel, boards, and the expectation that things often go awry when pursuing adventure, which kept me in good spirits despite having to dig him out of mud and snow, and losing control multiple times. 

I fasted all day and made a skullcap tincture before going to bed.

Day 7: By this time I was a little frustrated. From the moment I entered Colorado, I began to purge emotionally (tons of crying), but since I entered seclusion, all the intensity had faded away. My excessive emotionality had disappeared; it was like I just couldn’t access it anymore. I felt like I wasn’t getting any real work done, and I was annoyed.

Due to my fatigue and the cold (the snow was still very much present), I was barely doing ritual.

I was also distracted. I was getting lost in daydreams of what things could be like when I left seclusion and went to California. Maybe my manifesting efforts would work, maybe I’d finally find a partner and an equal to travel with... There are always dudes sniffing around me, but the truth is there are very few people I’d want to partner with. Many people in my position would just settle to avoid being alone, but I don’t know how to settle. I can’t abide placeholders. I need to be with someone who, among other things, is strong-willed, tenacious, and very physically hardy. I’ve always known that my life would get less luxurious and more physically arduous (even though I wasn’t always sure what that would look like)—as far as I’m concerned, the way I’m living now is just the beginning.

At some point, I might want to live off the land in the Amazon and learn from primal peoples. I plan to keep exploring my depths and searching for alternative methods of healing. I want to climb mountains, go backpacking, sail around the world (been thinking about getting my captain’s license for years), and become a certified wilderness EMT so I can use it to further my ability to become a backcountry witch doctor. I’m rambling now, but these are the kinds of things I was thinking about. I just want to be with someone who’s down for anything and wants to grow and build things with me... Who thinks we’ll be stronger together and wants to hold my hand while we build both his dreams and mine... Is that so much to ask? Okay, fine. It’s a lot. Whatever. I still want it and I have every intention of finding it.

Anyway, at this point, I was starting to lose steam in terms of my experiment, but it did finally occur to me that the intermittent fasting was part of the problem. It was making me feel numb, and instead of amplifying me spiritually, it was doing the opposite.

It makes sense. I was anorexic from ages 12 to 16. Although I started watching my weight when I was 10 years old (for no real reason since I was too athletic to have any extra weight on me), it was during the time I lived in Colorado that my obsession with my weight really took off. It was a way to feel in control, superior (other people needed food, but I “didn’t”), and to numb myself emotionally. Thus, it’s not that surprising that my body couldn’t use fasting as a healing method. My body doesn’t know the difference between compulsive food restriction and fasting. It interprets being deprived of food as a punishment, and a separation of self. So ultimately, I had to give up fasting, which was a bummer.

For people who are not me, fasting is an excellent healing method. It’s also been shown to increase hypocretin (the chemical people with narcolepsy lack) in the brains of people with narcolepsy. This effect does seem to diminish once said individuals begin eating again, but I think combining fasting and neuro-visualization techniques could be used to sustain the aforementioned hypocretin-producing effects if used strategically (it’s a theory I have and something I was planning to test on myself).

That night my trailer batteries died. Due to the snow and checking my battery levels throughout the day, I knew this was a possibility. I spent several hours sitting in my truck with the motor running in an attempt to charge the portable battery box that lives in my backseat, but after a couple hours and still no full charge, I gave up. I went back into my trailer and put on several extra layers of clothing.

It was 20 degrees outside and I had no heat for the night. The human body can freeze to death at any temperature below 32 degrees fahrenheit.

I chuckled to myself a little and thought, Hopefully, I survive the night… And this will make a good story later.

Then I went to bed.

Plans, Commitments, and Manifesting

The view from Lookout Mountain in Colorado.

Please excuse us while we interrupt our usually linear style of storytelling to bring you into the present (I’ll backtrack later)... 

You don’t mind, all of three people who read this blog, do you?

Great. Thank you for tolerating me, my sweets. You are all gems and I appreciate you.

I’m in Colorado currently. I don’t like Colorado. We have history. I’ve been here since Sunday. The first couple mornings after I arrived I basically woke up, cried for an hour, and paced around my sister’s empty house until I felt like I could focus. I’m scared and I’ve just been trying to release all the fear and tension from my body. I can feel myself trying to resist everything around me, so again and again, I’ve had to coax my internal forces: Don’t raise the shields, darlings. I have this. Trust me. The best thing to do is to let the energy pass through us. Attempt to block it, and it’ll get stuck within. Block nothing. Our love and our strength is greater than whatever this is. Let it pass. Just let go.

Plans (and Stuff)

I’m in Colorado on a mission. In a few days, on May 15th (the full moon), I’ll go into seclusion where I will remain until the 30th (new moon). I will be fasting every other day, consuming/journeying with plants including poisonous nightshades (these are specially prepared by a trained herbalist and not a threat to my mortality), meditating, doing lots of shadow work and ritual. On the days when I consume food I will be mostly limited to eating white rice and apples. I won’t have any contact with the outside world (no social media, email, blogging, etc.) except with my foster sister who has agreed to call me every few days to check on me. It will just be me, my trailer, the woods I’ll be camped in, the plants, and the work I’m there to do. 

I’m going to attempt to heal my narcolepsy. I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen during my seclusion. I don’t know exactly who I’ll be when I come out of it. All I do know is that one way or another, I will emerge from this experience altered. It’s like I’m staring down the barrel of a small death (metaphysically speaking). I have to give away all sense of control and put all my faith in the divine, which scares the shit out of me. No matter how hard I work on it (and I do), I still really like having the illusion of control. 

The people who engage in the kind of work I’m about to do are usually shamans or healers who are very skilled at visiting other realms and states of consciousness. If they travel outside of their bodies they know how to get back in. By comparison, I am underqualified, and that’s why this is all a bit frightening. I’ve been a witch for the better part of two decades, but I am not a trained shaman. I’m afraid of what will happen if some part of my consciousness gets stuck outside of my body. It might sound crazy to some, but anyone who has spent time studying mysticism (or even advanced meditation)  is familiar with these risks. 

I don’t want to lose me--not now, not when I’ve finally figured out how to love myself. The version of myself that I am currently inhabiting is the best of my adult selves. I’ve fought hard to get here. It took 7 years for me to build this self--the progress of the first 5 years were very slow, whereas the last two have rapidly snowballed. Still, deep down, below the fear, I believe that the process I’m about to engage is supposed to happen--that it will only further strengthen and uplift me, that it’s needed to happen for a very long time and in fact, that maybe that all the things I’ve experienced as blocks, have occurred because without this initiation I could not move forward. Whether or not I come out of this experience fully healed from narcolepsy, I do expect great things to occur.

I’ll be doing all of this just outside the town I was living when I first became sick. It’s a small town. When I was living there (over twenty years ago) it had a population of about 4000 people and 7 churches... I was the only non-Christian (not exaggerating) in a middle school full of conservative evangelicals. At 12 years old I was already very politically conversant (I wrote my first petition at 12 and circulated it around the aforementioned middle school) and more progressive than either of my parents. I had my own thoughts and opinions about everything and a limited ability to keep my mouth shut, particularly around anything that seemed unjust to me. Naturally, these things did not bode well in the environment I was living in.

When my family moved back to California after only a year and a half in Colorado it was in part because my mom was worried she’d lose me if we stayed. By then I was sick (but still undiagnosed) and my mom felt like she was watching me sink. Children who were less stubborn and perhaps more sensible would have learned to conform, but I didn’t. I thought most of the people who surrounded me were hateful, ignorant, and bigotted, and I wasn’t willing to ingest what I perceived as their poison. In Colorado I learned how to be disliked and ostracized. Brightside? I also learned just how strong my convictions are. I can withstand just about any alienation as long as I still have my integrity.

It’s no surprise to me that I became ill with narcolepsy while in Colorado. For me narcolepsy is an off switch, a way out, and a barrier that exists between me and other people. It’s also something to rail against, to conquer, to fight... And the thing is I don’t want to fight myself anymore. I no longer want to hold barriers between myself and other people. I’m not trying to heal my narcolepsy because I think that having it means that I am broken or somehow not enough. I’m already enough. I want to heal it because I don’t need it anymore. I don’t need it to protect me from experiencing my life fully. I want to heal it because I can accomplish more without it and I want to show other people what is possible. If I can heal, anyone can.

Perhaps this is a good time to clarify: I do not believe that those of us who are sick choose to be so. I would never have chosen to become narcoleptic. Narcolepsy is a crappy, exhausting, frustrating disease. I’ve spent most of my life feeling like my body betrayed me by getting sick. However, I do not believe that illness is a punishment. I also don’t believe that illness is any way the fault of those of us who get sick. I think we become sick because we are wounded. We are physical beings and many of us have been taught to suppress our emotional and spiritual woundings, to pretend that they don’t matter... But they do, and our bodies are the keepers of our primal intelligence; they know better. I believe that diseases that are non-environmental in nature (getting lung cancer from working in a coal mine would obviously be different) exist more often than not, because our bodies are trying to communicate to us in the only way they know how that we need tending to--that something inside of us needs healing. 

Commitments

When I emerge from my time in seclusion, May will essentially be over. I plan to spend the first week of June in Colorado hanging out with family and decompressing. There’s a bunch of possibilities that have been thrown my way for the month of June, but the only thing I’m committed to is that at some point I have to go back to Sacramento to move my stuff out of my best friend’s attic and into storage. 

I suspect that June will be when I finally start making plans to fulfill the promise I made when I committed to my current lifestyle. When I decided to uproot myself last year, sell off most of my things, and start traveling full-time it was because I had a vision. My last few years in Oakland, I felt devoid of any real purpose. Every year on my birthday I prayed to my Goddess for guidance. In 2021 I received an answer: I was told to go on the road and teach plant spirit communication. I saw myself touring North America and teaching in community centers and  churches in cities and small towns to anyone who wanted to learn. 

There are people already teaching plant spirit communication, but they’re teaching it to people like me--people who are ecologically and spiritually inclined, people who want to be herbalists... People who are willing to pay for it. I want to teach everyone to communicate with plants, and I don’t want to make money off it (I have other means); I want to give it away. I want to take this skill to people who have never heard of it. 

People need to know that Earth and all of her creatures are sentient. That we have an abundance of love and healing at our fingertips. We need to start relating to Earth as the mother who loves and nurtures us, who is deserving of our reverence and our care. It’s the only way we’ll ever stop seeing our beautiful planet as a commodity -- the only way we’ll stop trashing and abusing her. It may seem like a strange way to go about it, but this is a large part of how I personally plan to fight climate change -- I want to help us heal our relationship to Earth.

There are obviously more immediate climate change efforts, but that’s not what I personally have to offer. As it is, I am confident that other brilliant minds who are more equipped to make such efforts happen, will. My work is to sustain those efforts by changing our relationship to Earth, by teaching people to value her, fight for her/ourselves, to remember how to live here and be a helpful/healthful part of our ecosystem.

Manifesting

Since the very beginning of my nomadic journey, I have wanted a partner to come with me on the road. I travel quite well by myself, but all of the wonder and magic I experience would be infinitely more fulfilling if it was shared. My initiation in the woods will mark a new beginning in my travels, and I’d like that beginning to include my person. I want my warrior king (I tend to think in archetypes) — someone strong, sensitive (even if he hides it), intuitive, intrinsically powerful, and passionate — at my side.

All I ask is that this person come to me alone and unattached. I have been pursued by men with girlfriends, fiancees, and wives before, and it’s very uncomfortable for me. If I am prepared to jump into something with both feet, I need the person I jump with to do so with both feet as well. If he still has one foot in a past/present that includes someone else, I won’t be able to trust that his true intention is a future with me. I have so much love and affection to give; I don’t want anything to get in the way of that.

Perhaps I’ll be lucky and my would-be partner will simply fall out of the sky and land in Colorado or California to meet me, or perhaps he will be a connection I make through Tinder. I don’t know what will happen. All I can do is keep myself open and receptive and see what comes to me. So that’s what I’m manifesting--a wonderful, loving, supportive, adventurous partner who can deal with all of my weird witchery, wants to travel with me, grow with me, and thinks he might enjoy being adored by me.

Anyway, so mote it be, loves 🌟

Post-Aya Reflections, Narcolepsy, and the Road Home

The morning after my experience with Ayahuasca in Cabo I woke early. I had slept in my truck. It was still dark out. I drove to a beautiful beach, thrilled to find that I had it all to myself. I walked around barefoot for a while, enjoying the sand under my feet. I put my hands in the water and as I often do when I’m near Ocean, touched my wet hands to my third eye and to my heart so that I might be cleansed, opened, and blessed by her. I left just as a man arrived. I enjoyed the synchronicity of our timing, imagining that he would enjoy the empty beach the same way I did—as a rare gift of the early morning.

I was able to drive the two hours back to my trailer in La Paz without stopping. I spent the remainder of the day resting.

The next couple days brought many reflections. Ayahuasca stays in the body for four days after ingestion, and it’s considered fairly normal for the plant to continue bringing insights even a couple weeks after a journey.

I had a lot of thoughts about the women who took care of me toward the end of the ceremony when I was struggling. Apart from the shaman, they were all there doing their own journey work. Still, they checked on me, brought me water, a shawl… I was genuinely grateful for their help, but I really just wanted to be left alone. I did not want to be a burden, nor did I want anyone to watch me suffer. I am hardwired to project strength. I don’t expect people to take care of me. I don’t like accepting help, and more often than not if I do accept it, it’s a leap of trust on my part.

And here’s the other thing, remember what I said about groups? Historically, I do not trust groups. My knee jerk reaction is to assume that they are dangerous and potentially hostile. I spent much of my adolescence in communities that were hostile toward me. I never attended one school for more than two years. I always had the option to be popular, but rejected it due to a disdain for social politics and elitism. Rumors about me followed wherever I went. I was too opinionated, too outspoken, too self-possessed, and too skilled at emotional misdirection for people to know what to make of me. By the time I was twelve, I also had severe narcolepsy, which my teachers deeply resented (I often fell asleep during class) and punished me for. I was constantly in violation of the social contract that slim, pretty, athletic, intelligent, blonde girls are meant to follow -- get good grades, be friendly, smile a lot, avoid conflict, be non-threatening, straighten your hair, shop at Abercrombie & Fitch, don’t fight, don’t fuss, don’t make a stink, look pretty and keep your goddamn mouth shut. Apart from upholding the standards of my own personal vanity (read: beauty standards), I did none of these things. I had teachers who went out of their way to publicly humiliate me. My female peers (those that dared) broadcasted their disdain for me. In response, I developed a legion of defense mechanisms. I was cold, intimidating, and known to verbally backhand anyone that crossed me. I trained myself out of showing any emotion including laughter. I was relentlessly poised and disciplined. I managed to convince everyone but the people closest to me that I felt nothing but anger and boredom. I was deeply unhappy, angry, frustrated, and no one’s idea of a “good girl.” So even now, unless I’m leading the group I’m in (it puts me into cheerleader/nurturer/protector mode), I spend much of my time in groups just quietly mining my environment for potential threats. 

Even though I believe that people want to be good to one another, the reality is that I don’t expect kindness—that’s why I’m always so moved when it shows up. I do not expect people to help or care about me. I rely on my self sufficiency and I expect very little from other people, particularly strangers.

As the only participant in the group that night who did not speak Spanish (not very well anyway), I felt a bit isolated. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. I was the youngest woman in the circle and the women of the circle rallied around me despite my attempts to hide myself away and insist that I didn’t need help. These women saw me struggle and did their best to nurture me.

It was a potent reminder about community. While I experienced community during college and living in Oakland, I have spent most of my life without it.

This experience reminded me that even when we’re outsiders, we can find welcome. People will bring us into the fold and take care of us if we allow them to. The universe has shown me numerous times since I’ve been on the road that many people want to help simply because they can. Over and over the universe is constantly reminding me: humans are kind. Let them be kind. Be kind in return. Love them. Be vulnerable. Open your heart as wide as you can. People are worth it. 

At some point during the ceremony I started crying over an ex from seven years ago, which was a reminder about emotional purging. I have a deep well of sadness inside of me and everything in it needs to be excavated and released. It all needs to be cried out. I can’t carry it anymore, and frankly I just don’t want to. The more I cry, the more I cleanse my heart of old pain, and the lighter I feel. When we keep our emotions inside they harden us, weigh us down, and make us sick. I cry a lot these days, and counter-intuitive though it might seem, it feels really good—I feel happier and calmer. My tears are like a polish that helps me shine more brightly.

Two days after I sat with ayahuasca, I began the trek north and that’s when the other major impact of the ayahuasca showed up. While I was in Baja I stopped taking adderall. Stimulants are the lifeblood of people with narcolepsy. It’s how we continue to function and fake normalcy despite having bodies that are exhausted and want more than anything to sleep.

 At first I ceased my adderall consumption out of necessity; I had planned poorly and hadn’t brought enough to Baja, but then it became intentional. I have wanted to discontinue my relationship with amphetamines for some time. Amphetamines are terrible. Long-term use of them has changed the way my body looks, feels, and functions, but I’ve had to take them in order to work full time and drive long distances. After choosing to no longer work full-time and start freelancing, my strongest remaining motivation for taking adderall was its ability to keep me alert while driving. 

Adderall allowed me to do things like drive for 10 hours with only short breaks and the occasional nap here and there. Once I started detoxing (detoxing from many years of use takes about 3 months), I could not drive more than an hour and half without pulling over to nap. On days when I would drive to La Paz from the little kitesurfing town I stayed in during my first couple months in Baja, I could get to the city and run my errands, but I never managed to get all the way back without stopping for a quick nap. By the time the ayahuasca ceremony rolled around I was dreading the drive back to the States. It takes 18 hours to drive from La Paz, BCS to Calexico without towing (you drive much slower while towing), so even though I’d made the drive to Baja Sur in less than three days, I was expecting the drive back to take anywhere from one to two weeks. 

It took three days. I was awed, impressed, and excited. It didn’t seem possible. I marveled. It was like I’d suddenly developed superpowers.

During my return pilgrimage to the US, I drove 7-8 hours a day without taking any naps. I can’t stress the enormity of this enough: I have never managed to drive longer than two hours in one sitting without the help of amphetamines--not in the entire time I’ve been alive. I don’t just have narcolepsy, I have Type 1 Narcolepsy. I was diagnosed by one of the world’s foremost experts and am considered one of the most severe cases on record based on the amount of cataplexy (temporary paralysis) I experience and that analysis of my cerebrospinal fluid shows almost no discernible evidence of hypocretin (a sleep-regulating chemical made in the hypothalamus) production. All this just to say, the fact that I managed to drive 7-8 hour days on the way back from Baja aided merely by drinking a single can of Monster per day is nothing shy of miraculous. I should not have been capable of that. My neurologist would be floored. 

Yet, here we are, months later, and I’m still not taking any of pharma’s stimulants. Ayahuasca gave me a huge gift by healing this part of my disease, and she also reaffirmed that my narcolepsy does not have to be permanent. I’ve known since I was 21 years old that our neuroplastic potential is infinite. I was in college when I started biohacking this disease, and now? Let’s just say I plan to finish the work I started nearly a decade and a half ago.

Western medicine and pharmaceutical companies have done a great job of convincing us that we are stuck, we are sick, and we cannot be healed. I’m convinced it’s not true. We may be sick, but we can heal. We are so much more powerful than we have been led to believe. Healing is hard, painstaking work, but it can be done if we are willing to do what is needed. We can heal ourselves. We can be the architects of our healing. 

I have spent the past year-plus healing like it’s my full-time job. I started with my heart and now I’m healing my body (referring to my focus since these things are inextricably intertwined). My claims might sound fanciful or far-fetched, but I promise they’re not. By the time I turn 40 (hopefully, MUCH sooner actually--I have plans), I intend to have the data to prove it.

Watch and see, loves 💛

Editing note: don’t be surprised if I re-write this in the coming weeks. There are more details I want to share, but for now I’m favoring expediency.

Ayahuasca and the Life Changing Magic of Throwing Up

Secreto de las Rocas, Cabo San Lucas

My arms were shaking. I’d been kneeling on the concrete outside a Montessori school in Cabo San Lucas trying to purge for the past two hours. My stomach heaved, my abdominal muscles contracted, all of the typical physiological responses would occur, and… nothing. This happened repeatedly. I’d heave to the point of exhaustion and end up staring dejectedly into the empty lavender plastic bucket before me, feeling completely defeated.

I’d taken three doses of ayahuasca during the ceremony, which was more than anyone else in the circle that night. It had taken me longer than everyone else to come up, so much so that I peaked just as everyone else was coming down.

This was my fault. I had called in the spirit of ayahuasca as I took the first dose and she had responded immediately. At that time, I was the very first person in the circle to feel the effects and I was not okay with it. I have done a lot of work on myself the past couple years to get myself comfortable with being vulnerable, but I still don’t love it. Also, I don’t love groups. So being vulnerable in a group full of strangers? No thank you. Please excuse me while I don a mask and lie through my teeth about how utterly impervious I am.

I blocked the ayahuasca and her spirit because I could feel all my pain, my sadness, and my grief start rising. I felt the corners of my mouth draw downward. I could feel my body preparing itself for a particularly impressive deluge of tears. I had never been in this kind of setting before and I did not want to be the first person to break down.

In retrospect, I wish I had been braver, that I had led by example in terms of what we were all there to do, but I couldn’t. Being vulnerable in a circle of people where we could all see and hear each other was just too much.

Eventually, the others started to feel the effects. They began crying and vomiting. I sat and waited. After an hour or so the shaman motioned me over to ask if I wanted to take another dose. I did. Swallowing the medicine made most people gag, but for whatever reason, it didn’t bother me. I sat back down. I waited. Nothing. Another two hours passed. The sun had set and it was dark outside. I returned to the shaman for another dose.

This time when I sat down I communicated with the spirit of ayahuasca to apologize. ‘Please,’ I implored her, ‘forgive me for acting small and foolish. I’ve waited so long to meet you. Please come back. Please don’t let me fail at this too. I need you.’

Ayahuasca returned. Within moments I was huddled under my blanket, crying quietly. I began chastising myself for every interaction I’d had that day. Why couldn’t I be friendlier? Why couldn’t I just relax around people? Why did I always have to be so awkward? I know how to be charming, why couldn’t I just turn that part of my brain on more often? Why did I always have to alienate people? My brain then starting picking apart specific interactions I’d had (all fairly insignificant), shaming me for them, and pointing out how I could have done better. I grew more and more anxious. I wanted to leave. Disappear. Never see any humans again. I observed all of this and thought, ‘Why am I being so cruel? How is this helpful? This doesn’t feel healing. I didn’t sign up for this.’ This was exactly the point Ayahuasca was trying to illuminate for me.

I am hypercritical of my interactions with other people. It comes from a good place—I want to be good to people. I worry that I will harm or burden them. I worry that I will say or do the wrong thing and hurt someone’s feelings or make them uncomfortable. Also, being in large groups of people has a tendency to put me into a state of hypervigilance.

These behaviors have abated a good amount in the past year because of the work I’m doing on myself, but they’re still there. My internal criticism does not help matters, so Ayahuasca was pointing out that I need to continue cultivating compassion for myself around social situations.

When I was finally done crying about that, I started crying about an ex-boyfriend from several years ago. He was the last guy I actually referred to as my boyfriend. I had felt incredibly safe with him… Until he cheated on me. It happened at a party and he did it with the explicit intention of having me see. It was his way of reasserting power in the relationship. I had recently gotten out of a relationship with a different man who had also cheated on me and I wasn’t ready to commit as deeply as my new guy wanted. I had been falling in love with him just before he cheated. I think of this man very rarely so having him come up was a surprise. Ayahuasca wanted me to shed the tears I’d denied myself when the betrayal occurred, so that’s what I did.

 There was beautiful music during the ceremony. More often than not the shaman’s husband would play his acoustic guitar and the two of them would sing together. At some point after I took my third dose the shaman rose from her cushion and began to dance. She invited the others to dance and sing too. I was too nauseated to rise from my blankets, but their joy relieved me of some of my melancholy. The shaman called for us to draw in close and begin a sharing circle. I joined reluctantly. I only sat for a couple minutes before I realized that this was untenable. My insides were willing to share, but not words, so much as bile.

Not wanting to pull focus from the group, I took the plastic bucket allotted to me and went outside. I walked far enough outside that I hoped to be inaudible. I knelt on the ground and prepared to expel the contents of my stomach into the bucket…Nothing. Over and over again I heaved, my abdomen convulsed… Still nothing. I curled up on the ground next to my bucket and hoped for the nausea to pass. A woman came outside and covered me in a shawl. I thanked her. The shaman came outside to check on me. I apologized for worrying her and told her I was fine.

The cycle continued. My body would attempt to vomit. Fail. Periodically women from the group and sometimes the shaman come to check on me. They were trying to help and while I was touched by their kindness and concern and thanked them profusely… I hated it. I don’t like being fussed over. I don’t like being a burden. I knew I’d be fine. My body doesn’t believe in dying; it’s merely a glutton for self-torture. My body just wanted me to feel as though I might perish; truth be told you’d have an easier time eradicating the world of all its cockroaches than you would separating my soul from my body. I’m basically the creature in the horror movie that you stab several times, empty a magazine into, but rather than dying, it just gets really angry and continues to charge after you. That’s me. Impossible to kill.

Finally, the shaman decided she’d given me, myself, and I enough time to try to work things out. She parked herself in front of me. She talked to me and blew smoke in my direction. She covered her hands in essential oils and held them in front of my face to administer aromatherapy. She had someone bring me lime juice that had been watered down. Over and over again I heaved, and every time… Nothing. I hung my head over the bucket. I felt exhausted and defeated. I apologized to the shaman repeatedly. She was lovely and I didn’t mean to take up so much of her attention. “It’s okay, Kristina,” she says. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t worry.”

I nod. She pulls out a pipe. “This is rapéh,” she says and asks if I want to try it. I say yes. She inserts one end into my right nostril and blows. My eyes shut involuntarily as my head explodes. I’m gasping and my hands grab for the grass off to the side of me. I feel like I’ve just been maced. My body calms for a few seconds before my insides rebel. I lean over the bucket, begin heaving, and… Still nothing. The shaman is surprised. She talks to me for a while before coaxing me into letting her blow rapéh into my other nostril. I’m reluctant but I allow it. The process repeats. I still can’t vomit.

For a moment the shaman looks perplexed and amused. She looks at me knowingly, “You know, Kristina, for some people it’s very hard to let go.” I’d laugh but I don’t have the energy. I look back at her and say, “Oh yeah, I’m terrible at letting go.” There’s a long pause. I begin retching—successfully this time. When I finish, she convinces me to come back inside and lay down. Shortly thereafter, the ceremony starts to close. It’s a Sunday night and people want to leave early. I’m the only one left who is still high. The shaman knows I can’t drive and asks me where I’m staying. My trailer is parked at Playa Tecolote in La Paz. I had just driven in for the ceremony. I tell her I’m staying in my truck. She doesn’t like this and offers to have me stay with her. She doesn’t want me to be alone. I manage to convince her that I’ll be alright.

After everyone else leaves, she and her husband walk me to my truck. At some point she says to me, “Did you notice that after we talked about letting go, you were finally able to purge? There was only about 20 seconds between the two.” When she says this, it’s like a magic trick. I start throwing up again. I finish. I thank the shaman and her husband and we say our goodbyes.

I crawl into my truck and go to sleep.

Romantic Blunders in Baja

Sunrise in Baja California Sur

Every time I try to write about Baja I get stuck, so I’m mostly going to skip it. Maybe someday I’ll write about it because it’s an interesting story, but the truth is that I still don’t really understand what happened.

I went to Baja for a guy… A guy I really liked, find inspiring, and who it was easy for me to see myself with. We had dated while I was still living in the Bay Area. When I arrived in the town he lives in, he wouldn’t see me. He wouldn’t pick up when I called. He responded only to texts.

His situation was complicated. My timing was unfortunate. He is a kind person. I can only assume that when I showed up he was overwhelmed and juggling too many things.

Still, I wish he had talked to me, even if it was just to tell me that he wasn’t available for what I wanted. When people won’t see or speak to me I interpret that to mean that I am not important to them and that they do not feel that I am worth the time or effort it would take to communicate or spend time with me. It hurts me.

The situation was very confusing. Was it all just a dream? Maybe I imagined it. Perhaps it was never real to begin with; simply a pretty story I concocted due to intense romantic boredom. Honestly, it’s probably the most I’ve ever had to question my own sanity.

 I had hoped that by going to Baja one of two things would happen: either I would end up with a partner and a beautiful conclusion to a very romantic story, or this person and I would both get the closure I felt we needed.

Neither of these things happened. It’s okay. I’ve cried my tears and I’ll continue to cry them because I am secretly a hopeless romantic and I just can’t fucking help myself. It’s fine. I still feel sad about it, but I regret nothing.

I’ll tell you what I did get out of all this... I managed to impress myself, which is rare. My last few years in Oakland I was very closed off romantically, but almost completely oblivious to how shut down I’d become. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the people I dated to unveil themselves as assholes (sometimes they were, sometimes they weren’t). I couldn’t remember how to feel emotionally safe in a romantic context, and I didn’t know how to make anyone else feel safe either. I subverted all of my innately romantic impulses and hid any adoration I felt because some part of me believed that if anyone knew how much I cared, they would stop valuing me and bail emotionally. It’s taken a lot of healing, therapy, attachment work, and working with plants to get myself to a point where I felt like I could romantically engage without damaging myself.

Going to Baja was a large emotional risk. It’s been a long time since I made such a bold, romantic gesture. Obviously, my efforts failed. While I was still living in Oakland such a failure such would have crushed me, leaving me scarred and embittered. Yet I feel no embitterment, nor any lingering sense of anger. I had moments of anger while I was still in Baja (I get angry when I feel ignored), but these faded quickly because I was able to stick with and process my pain. I was able to do a lot of deep work with plant spirits and fall into the loving arms of Rose, Lavender, and Hawthorne who helped me heal while I was hurting.

This experience allowed me to see how far I’ve come in the past year or so… Sure, I failed. Sure, from the looks of it I may have pursued a man who was not emotionally available to me, but I also allowed myself to be vulnerable and go after someone I really wanted. I opened myself up to rejection. I did something that 20 year old Kristina (an unabashed romantic and kickass girlfriend) would have approved of. So in this way I’m proud of myself. It’s like I’ve managed to restore my factory settings back to what they used to be (romantically speaking). My heart is more open and more resilient than it’s been in a very long time; I’ve stopped hiding behind my previously typical veil of aloofness and faux stoicism.

Many other great things came out of my time in Baja, but I don’t want to talk about that now. There are a thousand things I want to say about all this, but the more I try to write about it, the more overwhelmed I become, so I’m going to close.

To that guy in Baja if you’re reading this: Whatever efforts you made in my direction, I want you to know that I appreciate them. I wanted things between us to work out, but I respect that you made a different choice. I wish you well. I wish you healing.

The Aftermath

I wish I could tell you that my starting this blog and then promptly forgetting about it for several months is out of character for me, but it’s not. Lacking consistency in my personal projects is fairly standard. Whoops? At any rate, let’s pick up where we left off…

After the accident I stuck around La Grande for about 10 days while my insurance came to a determination about my trailer (they declared it a total loss) and I cleaned it out. Cleaning it out took several days. Some things had broken and a lot of stuff ended up covered in flour and borax that had escaped containment. After clearing everything out, I loaded everything into my truck and left.

I spent a few fruitless days looking at trailers before heading to Sacramento to stay with my best friend. He had very generously offered to let me stay in his spare bedroom. My first week there I did very little. Even though I lacked PTSD of any kind from the accident, I was still in shock at how things had turned out, so I spent my first few days in Sacramento staring off into space, watching Netflix, and aimlessly looking at trailers online.

Still, I was determined to get back on the road as quickly as possible. Every few days I’d email with my insurance company to argue with them over the settlement for my trailer. They tried to lowball me, but hell hath no fury like a lady nomad with ample wifi who just destroyed her house on wheels.

Ultimately it took providing market research about trailer appreciation due to material and manufacturing shortages, but I won. They gave me what I paid for my trailer which was about $10K.

My truck spent two weeks in a body shop getting his bed replaced. During this time I spent most of my energy looking at trailers online and trying not to completely lose my mind. I felt stuck, homeless, and mostly kind of pathetic.

My best friend is one of Earth’s kindest people. We’ve known each other for over 17 years and are very comfortable with each other. We have a lot of inside jokes. We know where all the bodies are buried (so to speak). I knew he didn’t mind having me around, but I constantly worry about being a burden to other people, so it was hard for me to relax.

It was nice to feel like I was around family again though. When you’re used to spending most of your time alone, having someone to chat about nothing with over breakfast feels very special. Sometimes it was even breakfast with my bestie and his partner, which was even more special.

My bestie and his gal had been dating a couple months and were falling deeply in love with one another. As someone who hasn’t had that in a long time, it was beautiful to see. Watching them together and witnessing the warmth of their mutual adoration, stirred something in my heart… Like the memory of what it feels like to find home in another person. It made me feel a little achey, but also very inspired.

Once my truck came back from the shop, I was finally able to start looking at trailers in person again. I looked at a few locally, but nothing I stepped into gave me that warm, excited feeling I get when I find a new place to live. Trailers had appreciated so much by this time due to a backlog in the production of new trailers that used trailers were going for far more than what they were usually worth (this was true when I bought my first trailer too, but prices had continued to escalate), so I increased my budget significantly in order have a greater variety to choose from.

Finally, I settled on a few contenders. They were all hundreds of miles away, in other states and cost nearly twice what I’d paid for my previous trailer. They were all much nicer than the trailer I had, but the expense still made me want to vomit.

Ultimately, I traveled to Arizona to purchase a 23-foot (from hitch to bumper) travel trailer with numerous bells, whistles, and superior construction (no slides though; I’m convinced they’re not worth it) and paid $19000 for it, which is the most I’ve ever paid for anything in cash. Trailers aren’t much of an investment (they generally just depreciate), so this still nauseates me a little if I think about it. Still, despite having to deal with a certain amount of imposter complex--my new trailer is nicer than some of the apartments I’ve lived in, and I do love it.

I towed the trailer from Arizona back to my friend’s place in Sacramento to load it with my belongings. Loading the trailer was infinitely less productive than I expected. I thought it would take a day, or maybe two, but every time I started moving things out of my friend’s duplex and into my trailer I’d break down crying.

My tears puzzled me. During the four weeks between when I arrived in Sacramento and when I bought my new trailer, all I wanted was to get off the grid again. My tolerance for city life has become extremely tenuous – cities make me feel colder, harder, overwhelmed, less present, and less open. I like who I am less when I’m in them. Nature is part of how I regulate myself now; when I’m not close to her (nature) I don’t feel as good and I start to fall back into old patterns.

So why the tears? The conclusion I came to was that some part of me was dreading the transition back to spending most of my time alone. Longing for human company is the hardest aspect of how I’ve chosen to live, and I wasn’t looking forward to re-engaging with it. I’d gotten used to having people -- my people around, and no matter how badly I wanted to go gallivanting off into the wilderness, it was still hard to give up. I think anytime we give up a sense of emotional safety, security, or tribe, we’re a little prone to feelings of abandonment, even if we instigate parting and do so willingly. Periodically freezing up and crying was my inner child’s way of acting out in protest; here I was uprooting her again and taking her away from her people.

It took a lot of self-talk and self-soothing, but eventually I got through it. After about five days I was done loading my trailer. A week later I had 400 watts of solar installed on my roof. The day the solar installation finished I bought six months of Mexican car and trailer insurance.

I had been debating for weeks whether or not it was a good idea to go to Baja. Every time my mind tried to shut down the idea (these thoughts you have are unrealistic… It’s all in your head... What you want is unavailable…), my heart insisted. It was like there was a magnet trying to pull me south. I decided to trust my heart. I left for Baja the next day.

How to Destroy a Travel Trailer: Part 2

Once my rig stopped moving, I realized my headphones were still in my ears. I said my sister’s name. She’d been on the phone the entire time, though if she’d said anything as all this was happening, I didn’t hear it. “I’m okay,” I said. “I’m not injured. I have to go, people are here. I love you. I’ll call you later.”

Katie told me later that after my earlier exclamation she assumed she was listening to me die. She had screamed and thrown everything off her desk. She said it felt like hours, not minutes, on the phone until she heard me say that I was okay. The event was traumatizing for her. I sincerely wish she hadn’t been on the phone with me when it happened.

The first car arrived and pulled off to the side of the road. Based on the time of its arrival, it must have been at least a couple miles behind me during the incident. A woman got out of the driver side and came over to me. A man emerged from the passenger seat and ran full speed up the highway waving his arms to warn any oncoming traffic. “Are you okay?” the woman asked.

10am and she was already wearing fake purple eyelashes--I loved her immediately. On any other day I would’ve said as much, but at that point I was in shock and too full of adrenaline to be very verbal. I muttered something reassuring. She called the cops for me.

Since there was no way for traffic to bypass my trailer, a throng of cars amassed. I was surprised to see some people leave their vehicles to get a closer look. Almost everyone who wandered over came to check on me. They also seemed relieved. Given the scene, I think they were expecting someone in critical condition. Yet there I was, shaken, but without a scratch on me.

The woman with the purple eyelashes came by again to ask me if I needed anything. Another ten minutes went by and a group of men gathered next to my truck, assessing the situation. They asked what I thought about getting my trailer back on all four wheels again and moving my rig off to the side so traffic could pass. They were careful to include me in the planning, but didn’t pressure me. They were gentle and pragmatic.

A shiny black truck drove up and parked within a few feet of my rig. The men attached tie down straps from the truck to the axles of my trailer. Still attached, the black truck inched backward and stopped. I started my truck and an older guy guided me slowly forward while the black truck held tension on the left side of my trailer axles to draw them down.

It only took a few feet of forward motion for the left wheels of the trailer to crash their way down to the pavement. The sound was unsettling. The amount of damage I had to look forward to started to sink in. I continued to move the truck forward until we were situated safely off to the side of the freeway, albeit still facing in the wrong direction. Even in my semi-shock-addled state, it was an impressive feat. Traffic was free to begin moving again via the right lane (my rig now occupied the left).

Each of the men came to say their goodbyes. One of them who was handsome, around my age, and had a fabulous beard lingered for a moment, concern in his eyes. It occurred to me that a better damsel would find a way to get his number, ask him to stay, something… After all, wouldn’t it be nice if something good came out of this?

All that came out of my mouth was “bye.”

Oh, well... Damselry and intentional helplessness have never been my thing anyway. At least I’d managed to confirm that my libido and all my girly hormones remained undamaged (because gods forbid that happen).

The angel with the purple eyelashes came to check on me one last time and asked if I’d be okay until the cops arrived. I told her I was fine and thanked her for being so kind. She looked at me. Apparently, she wasn’t entirely convinced of the brave, if somewhat intellectually absent, face I’d put on. “I know this is terrible and you’re sad, but just remember, this is all just stuff,” she said, motioning to my trailer. “It’s replaceable; you’re not.”

I nodded, fighting back tears. Even now, when I reflect on this interaction, it makes me cry. I had just destroyed my home, potentially endangered the lives of other people, and delayed them. There was no reason for this woman to be so kind to me, or to insinuate that my life would warrant replacement if lost. I expressed my gratitude as well I could and she left.

A little while later the cops showed up. They were also very kind. They clearly felt sorry for me. They pointed out the detritus on either side of the freeway, and told me how it got there. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had wiped out while towing a trailer across that particular bridge.

I finally got out of my truck to survey the damage while the cops called a tow truck for my trailer. The bed of my truck was badly dented along the left side and the tail light was broken. My trailer’s front end had been torn open above the diamond plate, the fiberglass batting within exposed. There was other damage too, and I feared what the inside would look like. The cab of my truck, however, was pristine; completely untouched.

As I waited for the tow, I started to struggle internally. I have spent the past year working on self-compassion and acceptance, but I had just destroyed something I deeply loved. I fought not to shame myself, to not point out all the ways I had failed. Making myself feel shitty wasn’t going to fix Lancelot (my truck) or Guinevere (trailer). So I held the impulse back along with all the tears I felt like crying.

The tow arrived and dropped my rig and I off at a local tire shop. The wheels on the right side of my trailer were bent, so I needed them to figure out if it was drivable. I called my insurance company while I waited, not knowing what I was supposed to do or what my next steps were. They weren’t terribly helpful, but were able to remind me what my policy covered.

The tire shop let me know that the axles on my trailer were too damaged to travel very far. I was at a loss. I asked them if they knew of anywhere I could keep it overnight. They allowed me to park it in their employee parking lot. I offered to pay them, but they waved me off saying it was fine. They declined payment for the inspection too. I thanked them profusely—such things might be common in a small town, but where I’d come from in the Bay Area, they are most certainly not.

I drove a couple miles to a motel. The woman at the front desk had heard of my accident on the police scanner. “So you’re the one they shut down the freeway for,” she said.

“Yep, that would be me.” I smiled at her and we chatted a bit before I grabbed my backpack and went to my room.

I had a couple minutes to myself before I remembered to call my mom. My sister had offered to call for me, but I knew my mom would panic if she heard about the day’s events without hearing my voice assuring her I was safe.

I was able to get out the words, “I’m okay but I was in an accident” before I started sobbing. I told my mom how lucky I was that I hadn’t killed anyone, and that I was miraculously unscathed. I told her I felt like an idiot. As though I’d finally managed to prove the depth of my own incompetence. That I felt like I’d ruined everything. But that I also knew deep down that it would be alright. My insurance would replace everything. I told her about the incredible kindness I’d experienced that day, and the profoundly strange juxtaposition of feeling so intensely grateful and so very, very sad all at once.

I waited for her to judge me. To tell me that I had been irresponsible. That this was what came of thinking I could take this on by myself. She didn’t. She reminded me to be gentle with myself. She listened. She sympathized and told me not to dwell. Some part of me had been bracing myself, waiting for someone to punish me, criticize me… To tell me how utterly at fault and stupid I was. But they never did.

Every person I had interacted with that day was kind. The only person who seemed conflicted about how I should be treated in response to this situation was me. I kept having to shut out the voice inside my head that felt obligated to impose guilt and shame, as though I couldn’t learn from what I experienced without it. That part of me believes guilt and shame keep me accountable; they don’t. They just make it harder for me to trust and connect with myself and others.

The greatest takeaway I have about my accident isn’t about traveling with a trailer at all, but about humanity. It’s easy to think that humans are terrible when you watch the news or think about climate change. Watching people on opposite sides of the political spectrum debate each other could convince you that in this country we are too divided to care for one another. None of that matters when we are face to face with suffering.

It’s unlikely that most of the people I interacted with that day share my political beliefs. Rural Oregon is not known for being progressive, whereas I am radically and unapologetically so. I’m a white, cis-gendered woman, so it’s possible my conclusions are naïve and a product of my privilege, but I want to think they are more universal.

The people on the road could have yelled at me, they could have been angry for how I had delayed them. Instead, they showed concern. They were relieved that someone they’d never met and would likely never see again was unharmed.

The men who helped right my trailer, though strangers to one another, acted cooperatively and in the best interest of all who were present. The people at the tire shop let my trailer stay there for two weeks until my insurance company removed it without ever charging me or acting in any way inconvenienced. The woman who ran the motel I stayed at checked on me every couple days to see how I was doing.

None of these people had much to gain from being kind to me, but they still were. They saw someone who was alone and out of her depth, and they wanted to help. They didn’t owe me anything. They did what they did because they could. Because somewhere deep within themselves they probably thought, ‘What if this was my sister, daughter, wife, or friend? And she was alone when this happened, far from all her people? I’d want someone to help her.’ So they did.

Evidence of humanity’s inherent goodness, its kindness, its compassion, can be hard to see at times. Its presence is subtle; it lacks the flashiness and drama of conflict. But when you sweep aside the assumptions and really look for it, it’s every bit as common as the air we breathe.

How to Destroy a Travel Trailer: Part I

A few weeks ago, I was in an accident.

I meant to start writing this blog much sooner (in July), but life on the road gets hectic (I procrastinated), so forgive me for beginning under such dismal circumstances. It seems worth mentioning though, that I did have three pretty pleasant months of traveling around before all this happened.

The accident occurred on Friday, October 6th. I woke up early that morning, awakened by the sound of loudly speaking anglers moving their boats around the campground. I rarely stay anywhere so populated, but I was finally heading south after spending six weeks on the Olympic peninsula in Washington and it was a convenient place to overnight.

I dressed, raised the stabilizer jacks on my trailer, and set out. My breakfast was a protein bar and a bottle of 5 hour energy (culinary sophistication at its finest).

After 30 minutes of driving, I was already bored. I’d driven several hours the day before, and was not looking forward to the next 11+ hours of painfully slow towing it would take to get to Moab. I put in my headphones and called my sister.

We chatted for about 40 minutes or so before it started to rain. The precipitation was fairly brief. Everything was fine. I was heading east on I-84, driving over a stretch of road that I didn’t realize was actually a bridge (it blended in with the rest of the roadway).

Suddenly, my trailer started to fishtail. I tapped my breaks in an attempt to regain control. The fishtailing worsened. My rig began swerving over both lanes of highway between the rock face at one side and the concrete barrier at the other. The stilted way it snaked back and forth reminded me of the ball inside a pinball machine after its been hit by a side lever. I was no longer steering, knowing if I overcorrected, I'd only further exacerbate things.

“Katie—,” I had started speaking to tell my sister what was happening.

I stopped, interrupted by the thought that if anyone was driving near my rig, my trailer would very likely knock them into the concrete barrier on my left. “Oh god,” I felt my jaw clench.

I panicked. I had been relatively calm until that point—threats to my mortality have never phased me (I'll perish when it's my time), but the idea of causing someone else's death is horrific. I can’t imagine doling out that kind of pain to another person, let alone their loved ones.

‘The trailer has to stop. I have to make it stop,’ was the extent of my thought process.

In an absence of logic, I did that thing you’re never supposed to do while towing; I slammed on my brakes. My truck spun. The trailer jackknifed. For a moment after the two locked together, it almost felt like we were being lifted. A warm sense of acceptance flowed through me. I'd done the only thing I could think of. It was out of my hands now.

The entire rig pulled backward, following gravity down the hill. I don't know how long it slid down the freeway, but it couldn’t have been more than 15 seconds based on where it ended up.

I wasn’t expecting to perceive much after that, so I was shocked when we stopped moving. Everything was silent. As far as I could tell, I was alive (yes, this did require actual deduction on my part).

I looked around. My truck had parked itself almost neatly, parallel to the concrete barrier facing up the highway in the wrong direction. My trailer lay nearly on its side, somehow still perched atop the wheels of its right axles, its left axles hovering several feet above the ground. It was still attached to the hitch and lay the width of the highway, thoroughly preventing any through-traffic that might approach.

There were no others cars in sight. No carnage. I was relieved. I was surprisingly uninjured.

Continued in the next post...