I calm myself by taking one breath and then another. If I don’t find Jim’s spot, I console myself; it’s not that big of a deal. I’ll sleep in my car, which is what it is. Reassuring myself lessens the threatening thoughts, and it’s a moment more before I shift my car into gear and give myself one more try. Following the shoreline and without the excess pressure on myself, I feel more engaged with my surroundings. This time, I wait until the bend straightens and then turn. I get the feeling I’m on the right path.
Although challenging, graduate school coursework is fulfilling. An education in psychology takes the shattered glass of life and turns it into a mosaic worth viewing.
Large boulders form the rim of a cove, and a guardrail appears. Its sight is a lighthouse of hope to my weary and weathered soul. Pulling off onto a graveled overlook, I see where Jim was referring. It’s partially visible, and after hopping out and up onto the guardrail, I see its bank. Although it’s a distance away, it will be a perfect place to set up my tent for the night.
Outside of graduate school, a thread unravels. I’m in denial that a self-proclaimed “soul mate” relationship is ending, that I’ve worn out my welcome at my aunt and uncle’s house, and that drunken blackouts are an issue.
One night, after an exceptionally hard-hitting shot-for-shot race at The Spot tavern, I am pulled over, fail to walk the line for a sobriety test and blow a .23 blood alcohol content level. At three times the legal limit, I am handcuffed and taken to jail.
Surprised and encouraged by the vulnerability of my classmates, I feel safe to do so as well. After sharing about the painful experiences of childhood and the death of my Mom, my classmate Reid commented, “Sounds like you have PTSD.” This is now obvious, but at the time, I’d considered myself a badass for living through what I had. Instead of feeling relief at the diagnosis, I felt fear that I was irreparably broken.
I carry a bulky tent, sleeping bag, pad, and water jug on the first trip. Without trees or bushes along the narrow dirt path, the overhead sun hammers me. I walk until my muscles quiver and sweat beads travel over my temples, then release my load onto the dirt floor. Bent at the waist, my head beneath me, I strain for air, then unspin the water jug’s cap, gulping a large mouthful.
Post-traumatic stress is my specialty. Hours ago, I educated a client on skills to reduce the intensity of their reactions. First, I told them it’s all about calming your physiology. You can relax your pelvic area, as when this area is tense, it blocks calming messages from reaching the brain. Another is widening your scope of vision. During fight or flight, we often hyper-focus on one thing, spanning out and taking in more visual information disrupts the threat response.
Going On 40 
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