A poem on adolescent trauma and personal growth.
Nordhouse Dunes/High Desert
Hammocks swaying in the pine-scented forest. Smoke and midge guts swirl around in my eyes as heavy droplets drum the rain fly above us. Longing and fondness and fury are bursting from my chest.
At seventeen I was sent away to live among the junipers and pinyon pines. They called it therapy, and I suppose it was.
Emerging from the brisk Lake Michigan water, pockets full of amusing algae, I frolic gleefully to my sand dune dressing room.
At first, my body overflowed with rage, sorrow, and abandonment, but eventually I learned to appreciate my surroundings; I had the radiant beauty of nature, and the company of myself.
Constructing a tarp shower shelter, I take a break to let twigs prod at my bottom while my pee puddles at my feet.
I had always loved deserts, after all. However, this was different; I had been given no choice. A vacation is a pleasant escape from reality; here, I was forced to confront it.
I learned how to survive; in the wilds of the west and the wilds of my mind.
I think of how I am the only one on this trip who knows how to build a tarp shelter the right way. Not even the naval officer realizes his mistakes.
It is true you cannot outrun your problems. At least this was an opportunity to learn this lesson early. Two thousand miles away from my life and I still had my misery.
Singalong around the fire. Citronella-scented skin glistens in the sheet metal mirror.
The smoke billowing up around me carries mixed memories of my youth. I wistfully reminisce.
In the beginning I felt profoundly alone, yet by the end I had grown fond of my mentors. I felt a pang of grief as I thought of never seeing them again. I had spent ninety-six days loving them while I learned to love myself even just a little bit.
Mother Nature is cradling me gently in her sandy palms, white pines whispering in the wind, and I drift off to sleep.
Many moons came and went, and finally I had returned home, but for a long while, “home” felt elsewhere. I lay awake in my midwestern bedroom longing for another version of me. I’d hardly got to know her before she had to go.
As I wake into the brisk spring morning I think how nice it is to have had a choice. They call this wilderness and I suppose it is, but that word conjures to me something else.
That pleasant girl I’d known on those sunny days, the aroma of the trees perfuming the breeze, she was long gone, and to where I’ll never know.
Now, years later, I accept the truth: that I shall never truly know her again, but parts of her remain with me, always.
Some parts, even, I’d have rather left in that valley.
[The girl in this photo is an amalgamation of every version of myself I have ever been, of every trauma I have withstood, of every person I have loved or admired. This photo was captured nearly a year ago, at Nordhouse Dunes Wilderness, and I am an ever different person now. In many ways, though, I am still that teenage girl in that Utah valley.]
This piece has also been published on my Substack.