I didn’t belong with them. I didn’t belong anywhere.
They were all in the distance, beyond the Joshua trees, dinosaurs, and succulents. I thought about calling out but didn’t want to stir the silence. I didn’t know it was the Universe, per se, that I was hesitant to disturb; it just didn’t feel right to yell. I waved, but they simply carried on. Completely oblivious to the magic and the spirit that surrounded all of us.
I wasn’t. Even if I didn’t understand it. I felt insignificant, and I liked it. My young energy felt meaningless among the ancient desert spirits. Peaceful. At that moment, I didn’t care what anybody thought of me. I didn’t have to try to fit in. You guys go do whatever you want to do. I couldn’t possibly be happier right now.
I wish I had learned to pay more attention to that feeling. I was too young to interpret its significance and power. I might have unconsciously ignored it because acknowledging it made me feel different. And being different scared me. I was taught to fit in at all costs. Being myself and thinking for myself were not really on the table. Instead, I learned to lie to make others feel better. I learned to suppress my happiness if I thought it might make others feel bad. I lied to protect others. I lied to protect myself. And even though the lies made me feel worse, the more I lied, the more I was accepted.
That boulder, like most rock formations in Joshua Tree, was part of a bigger structure. Emboldened by the elixir of accomplishment and inner peace, I started up a more difficult, but still completely manageable, climb. I needed to use my hands and take my time with the ascent. Loose rocks slipped away under my feet as I nearly lost my footing more than once.
Did I just alter history?
How long have those small rocks been there?
Did the rocks know they were there?
Did they know each other?
Were they friends?
Did I just break up a family?
I felt bad for the rocks. I really did. That’s how my brain worked. That’s how my heart worked. I had always felt things that others didn’t. I felt everything. Even the pain a rock might feel. I closed my eyes and apologized to Mother Nature. Another prayer. I wasn’t paying attention as I kept moving and climbing.
Without any warning, I found myself higher than I had ever been. Higher than I had intended to go. As I attempted to take another step, I realized I was stuck. High above the desert floor, I couldn’t move. I was pinned flat against the sheer rock wall. I had no idea what to do. My throat was dry. My cries for help were silent.
Who would come to my funeral?
I tried not to look down. But I had to. What other choice did I have? Of course, I was going to look down. Wait! I noticed a boy about my age looking up at me. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. A red baseball cap was turned backward on his head. I tried to figure out what kind of hat it was to distract myself.
That must be an Angels hat.
Their spring training facility isn’t too far from here.
I wonder who the Angels are playing today.
I sure hope Don Baylor has a great season.
Rod Carew is awesome, but Bobby Grich is my favorite player.
That went on for what felt like hours. It was probably closer to thirty seconds. I needed to ask for help, but I was afraid that yelling would cause me to lose my grip. The boy was looking up at me. At least, I thought he was. I hoped he would notice I was in trouble based on my spread-eagle pose on the side of the wall.
Please, I prayed. Go get help.
The boy ran off with urgency. I was certain I was about to be saved. I had a moment when I thought of him asking my fellow scouts to rescue me and felt like I’d rather just die. At least I’d still have my dignity. Then I considered that I might be high enough off the ground to earn their respect.
When he didn’t come back, and with the sun setting, I again began to wonder who would come to my funeral. I wondered if anyone would cry. I wondered if my fellow scouts would make fun of me. Oh, stop. They weren’t going to be there and certainly weren’t coming to rescue me.
I wasn’t ready to die. I didn’t want to give the others that satisfaction. I promised myself I’d get off the rock alive.
Which was exactly what I did.
As much as I’d like to describe the brave and treacherous descent, as much as I’d like to remember how I got down, I think I blacked out and was rescued by my fear. One second, I was on the rock, and the next, I was on the ground—with no recollection of climbing down.
Confused, I found my way back to my troop on wobbly legs. I kept looking back at the rock, hoping I’d recognize some path down. A line. There wasn’t one.
How did I get off the rock?
Did I actually climb down?
Did I float down?
Was I carried?
Am I going crazy?
I had zero understanding of how I got from there to here. I asked the rock what happened. It didn’t answer. I thanked it for saving me anyway.
For years, I would tell this story to blank stares and obvious thought bubbles filled with comments like, “Wow, Erik, you smoked crack when you were eleven?” I finally stopped telling the story when one of my therapists suggested it meant I belonged on meds. I told him to fuck off. I may very well have belonged on meds, but not for that.
While it’s most logical to think I blacked out to overcome the fear, I’ve come to grips with a different truth. I didn’t climb down. I was lifted by some other force. Some other energy. I was so connected to the frequency of the Universe that I became one with that energy. I was that energy. I left my body, floated down, and reunited with the physical shell of myself. I’d always wanted it to happen again. It was a life event that defined the kind of spiritual partnership I wanted with the Universe. I wish I could have run with that moment and let that experience become the guiding light of my life. I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I never felt confident or comfortable enough to deal with being on the outside looking in. I needed to fit in. Even when it came at the expense of my personal truth—or any truth for that matter. So I lied. Over and over and over and over. And I was rewarded for those lies. With acceptance. Laughter. Sex. That’s how I was programmed. My truth felt unacceptable. When I would try it on and wade into the shallow end of spirituality with my friends, they’d just laugh. Fear preyed on my fight-or-flight response. It knew I would never fight. So, flight it was.
I didn’t know what authenticity meant when I was eleven. Nobody talked like that all those years ago. It wasn’t a thing. But it was what I most wanted. To be understood and seen and accepted for being nothing but myself. It took nearly five decades to discover that what I truly wanted was the ability to love and accept myself. I was looking for others to do that for me. If I could have loved myself, it wouldn’t have mattered who did or didn’t love me. Or who did or didn’t accept me. Instead, I just pushed everyone away. Including the person in the mirror.
Especially the person in the mirror.
Loving myself seemed so simple yet always felt impossible. It may very well be at the top of the “Things I Know Yet Cannot Find Any Way to Do Anything About” list. It’s a long list.
