When I went to school in Norway I was in the “out-door life” class. I don’t know what possessed me to enroll in that class, other than that none of the other classes appealed to me and that my brother had done it, so I figured I could. I couldn’t be in the music class considering I didn’t know how to play an instrument, the sports class was certainly not for me, skiing class… forget that. I should have enrolled in the arts class, but I didn’t know how to paint, sculpt, sew or otherwise. I didn’t know how to climb mountains either, but I guess I thought this wouldn’t take much skill.
Every single time we went on our weeklong trips I would cry. Every day they would come, wet hot tears of exhaustion. I was certain I would not make it, and would die somewhere in the vast Norwegian expanse. My backpack weighed half of me, I was cold, tired, and each stretch of mountain, each length of fjord, and each extent of road was impossibly high, ridiculously long, and was furiously covered in trolls. I would never make it I told myself with each step, this terrible journey would never be over. Or in fact that it would very soon be over, very very soon. As at any moment I would stop breathing, my lungs would work no more, the earth would swallow me and I suppose while stuck in the soil I’d be devoured by the troll kings of Norway.
Some how, I narrowly escaped my inevitable death, to be quite sure I know not how I did it. All I know is my lungs did not explode into a million particles, my legs remained legs (though sore), and the sunlight I suppose warded off the trolls, who from their caves smelled my delicious bones. Oh they wanted me, no doubt, breathed in my delectable Christian flesh and dreamed of a hot meaty stew… but they did not get me. Though I’ve not read of it in any book I think it was my tears that warded them off. A secret forgotten, not passed down through the Norwegian folklore of old.
I survived, and Scandinavia was behind me. But it was never really behind. My frightful Everest, beautiful and majestic, filled with legends, tales, and yarns. I cannot let it go. I don’t want to. I suffered, triumphed, and hobbled too long and too far to put it behind me. It was beautiful and terrible all in one. I am a god, who accomplished more than anyone before me.
I cannot let it go, because the mountain always stays. Demanding to be climbed. If not a mountain then a forest, forests filled with dense trees that must be hacked, and the hacking… well the hacking is painful for all involved. As we climb there are jars of chocolate, hilarious swear words, and warm chests that draw you in. As you hack there are songs played in the darkness, blazing fires that warm, and the hope of an unseen meal. We somehow continue to live.
Our stories lie to us. We are supposed to reach the top, find a path through the forest, and no longer fear the trolls as they have been beaten. There is an end, the suffering brings reward, and good shall always triumph over evil. I haven’t found this to be true, at least not for any considerable length of time. The earth brings to me another challenge.
I am not the same 19 year old trembling in the forests of King Olaf, I am different. “Evil Tron” that ridiculous mountain did not slay me, but became a part of me. I had to climb it, and let it become a part of my soul. A piece of my being that does not fade, and cannot be destroyed. There is no worse pain than making room for the sharp jagged rocks of nature, but it needs to happen all the same. A raven is not like a writing desk, or perhaps it is. We keep on marching, we want to know.
At 19 I thought perhaps there were few of us who had to climb mountains and find our way through forests. I now know better, we are many. Our battles have different meaning, length, and frequency, yet they attach to our souls all the same, no matter how we get there.
There is something about saying the word out loud that is both frightening and freeing. Depression. We aren’t suppose to talk about that, people aren’t suppose to know…. says the Cheshire cat, grinning devilishly. We forget he doesn’t have our best interest at heart, because his fur looks so cuddly, that smile some how inviting.
Silence is what kills us, kills me. I fight so hard for a voice, it keeps me breathing. With sword drawn I slay whatever tells me I should not utter such words.
The seemingly never-ending fields of zeniths are so disheartening. There is no easy answer, as those answers are undoubtedly false.
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On and off in my life I’ve had to fight with depression. I deal well with ideas, words, pictures, and colors. One of the pictures I have is indeed that of climbing a ridiculous mountain or fighting my way through a thick forest. I’ve done both, which is why I think these images work so well for me. I’ve gotten good at this battle, I know what to do, and where to turn for help.
One of the hard parts for me though is when I feel like I’ve really rocked something, and there it is again… time for another climb. I don’t want to do it again, but I have to. I don’t want to talk about it again, but my heart knows the trolls will win if I refuse for too long.
I don’t have a pretty answer for “the great effort”, I wish I did, but I don’t.
So I strap on my funny earrings, blast the Beatles loudly, write out my heart, and I go off on my adventures. I’m not Alice, I’m Heidi, and so I won’t be waking up. I’ve got to do it in this world, in this life.
Oh and in case this made you think I must be utterly and horribly depressed, don't worry I'm fine. At least fine enough.
Oh and in case this made you think I must be utterly and horribly depressed, don't worry I'm fine. At least fine enough.
