My alarm goes off at 5:30 am. The sun has only begun to creepy over the hill tops. It’s always so beautiful early in the morning, but I usually only experience it from underneath the comfort of my down quilt.
Today however, I have my beloved therapy session at 6 am (due to eastern time).
I manage to situate myself, and remarkably even get a good enough signal to connect via Zoom.
I had been waiting for this the entire 2 weeks it has been booked. From Arizona to Vegas, to now, so much has been going on. She connects right on time, and I start right off into the trials and tribulations of my past 14 days.
She nods but doesn’t say much, as I unload looking forward to her advice, and more than anything, her sympathy and affirmations that I’m going to make it through this.
Instead she told me that the powers that be have informed her she can no longer be my therapist because I’m technically no longer in New York State. Just like that. A year and a half of working together, over. Add in another thing I was not expecting. Take away another tiny piece of consistency in my life. I start to cry. I glimpse up to see an emotionless face. “It’s out of my control,” she says. I don’t believe her, but let it be. It reminds me of the Ranger that stopped Indy & I from walking to see General Grant yesterday (one of the largest, sequoias in the world).
“I know he’s a service dog, but there are deer that breed here and his scent will scare them away.”
Scare them from a paved, fenced in trail, where there a thousands of tourists are milling about every day. I didn’t believe him either, but like that situation, I simply nod and move along.
To rip off the therapy bandage while I’m struggling seems counterintuitive. “I’ll send you resources,” she tells me. As if I could start over just like that. We hang up. I move to my chair next to the tailgate and sit down. The sun has fully taken to the sky with no obstructions, a light breeze cools my hot skin as it becomes more intense. The river continues with its rushing water making those sound machine worthy ‘babbling over rocks sound’, while reflecting the beautiful light shimmers on trees that surround its banks.
I cry. It’s been a continued period of being given great things and taking them away. Indy is my saving grace, I can see the contentment in his relaxed demeanor.
I think of what it would be like to have another human here with me. A hug perhaps. An ear for what I’m going through. I worked so hard to get here to be alone. It’s not that I want to isolate from humanity, but I haven’t found a place where I feel comfort being among them, more isolated really. Austin was the last place I could coexist, but if I stayed Indy & I would be cooking alive (gets pretty hot there), especially in a truck bed.
No more telling people my journey, explaining myself, having to listen to them propose ideas and suggestions, having everyone tell me I should post this or that, be an influencer, showcase the life… when you’re out here on your own and constantly figuring it out, it’s exhausting.
Living in one place surrounded my a community you’ve built, is easy. There’s something deep inside my chest telling me to keep going, no matter how hard my body struggles to keep up. But I honestly feel like I’m dying. So dramatic, right? We’re all dying everyday, it’s part of the life cycle we chose to not focus on due to macabre factors of you will, but it’s true. I FEEL it, I SEE it. The sunspots and wrinkles deepen every day. A once toned body reminds me more of sickly skin and bones. A constant mind chatter second guesses every move, wishing for some relief. Is this the hard shit to get to the ultimate other side? Every day I tell myself this is not forever. Each moment is more impermanent than the last.
But it’s like running an unknown distance, with no clue where the finish line is. It could be right around the corner, or 100 miles away. It could be flat, but then twist up a mountain range. I try so hard to study the route, but washouts, closures, and obstacles riddle the path, keeping it ever changing.
A hummingbird floats by, curiously examining the truck. Nothing to see here, just a sad girl, in a pretty place.
Great blog. My wife is a therapist and she also has had to stop seeing clients who moved out of state due to state laws. Sorry.