What Forest and Poseidon Taught Me

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What Forest and Poseidon Taught Me

Stop Running and Don’t Sacrifice Your Life 

(If you are new here, you may start reading and think "holy hell this is depressing." But fear not. My stories end with a positive, healing note. This one is no different.)

I know y’all remember the segment of Forest Gump where he started running, for no particular reason, and he just kept going.

Until he was done.

After 3 years, 2 months, 14 days, and 16 hours, his running came to an end with him quoting his ever-wise mother “You got to put the past behind you before you can move on.” With that came his realization that this was why he had been running, followed by his own “I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll go home now.”

I started running three years and three days ago on November 22, 2022. I packed up my newly purchased van and rented out my condo, spent the holiday with some friends, and then drove away so that I could run as far and as fast away from the disease that is Washington D.C., the toxicity of the VA Center for Women Veterans, the death of my sister and mother, the trauma I had carried for decades, and my rapidly devolving mental health. My intention was to spend a year on the road and then return to Oregon, (more) healed.

Honestly, I had not formulated at the time that I was running, even though I told people I had escaped from D.C., but in the very pure vision that is 20/20 hindsight, I now realize that is precisely what I was doing.

I ran, and then I just kept running.

The day after my granddaughter’s graduation in June 2023, after my daughter spent the previous days cursing me, my sisters, her brother, and her cousins and making it clear that she was done with me, I ran again. That’s okay I told myself, because it wasn’t the first time. I knew it would happen after we had reconnected in 2021, following my sister’s death. We were like magnets, she and I; this was our pattern. According to Google, magnets repulse each other when they are brought together with the same poles facing each other. Every few years our poles are reversed and we come back together, but, inevitably, one is flipped and the repulsion happens again.

That aside, my one-year trip was only half finished. I had places to go and friends to visit, so it was back on the road for me. No harm, no foul.

During the time in my van, I had begun writing a book, which kept me keenly occupied. The words flowed alongside the tears l as I endlessly rehashed onto page after page the pain of the Army, past relationships, the trauma I had held for thousands of women over a nearly 30-year period, and the dawning realization of the twistedness that was the VA Central Office. Nevertheless, I persisted, even though I was not 100% certain I would publish it. Was it a journal, a book, a journey into trauma and fuckedupedness with an end-goal of healing? All of the above? I didn’t know, but I knew I had to write and get it all out of my system.

On August 29, 2023, my life took a tragic turn when my precious Shih Tzu, Beyonce, died suddenly, just days before her fifth birthday. The vet assured me it was not my fault, that it was likely a heart attack or aneurysm and there was nothing I could do, even if I had been with her, but I blamed myself, convincing my mind and heart that I was a terrible person who did not deserve a dog. Then, because the universe is the gift that keeps on giving, on that very same day, my best friend from high school, whom we had just visited a month earlier, also died suddenly. I was distraught.

As soon as I was able to get out of bed and collect myself, I ran again.

Weeks later, in September, I realized my road trip was over. I could not find a path to continuing without my precious girl. Peering through the ever-darkening haze of grief and depression tightening around me like plastic wrap on a glass bowl, all I could see was the need to sell the van and make my way home to Oregon. So, I pointed my newly purchased Jeep west, subconsciously repeated my mantra: just keep moving and you’ll be okay.

Looking back, I know that “moving” is synonymous with “running,” at least for me.

In October, with the grief of loss still hanging thick from my skin like the sap that clings to you from laying under a tree in Spring, all hell broke loose.

Without going into details, because they don’t matter as much as the outcome, I will tell you this: for a person already in flight from pain and the past, this addition that comes as betrayal of love and trust from those who have said they love you — who have uttered the words love and friendship for a literal lifetime — will damn near kill you. It wraps itself around your heart and squeezes until your eyes are glazed over and the panic from not breathing rises up in your throat like bile in the early stages of the flu. When the people you believed in your soul would always be there beside you show you it’s all a fucking lie, the betrayal stabs into your soul, and the knife stays there.

The jury is still out on whether it makes you stronger.

When the betrayal is fueled by the poison arrow of someone who keeps her quiver full of such arrows, used repeatedly to sling at every single member of the family over the decades, it rocks your world. Not her slinging — because you know that’s what she does — but the fact that all her prior victims lined up behind her, armed and ready to attack, their sharp weapons pointed in your direction.

The assault went on for a week in the way of texts and emails, rendering my soul shredded, my brain unable to fully process what was happening. After numerous attempts at trying to have some semblance of a calm adult conversation, I responded in anger and frustration with an equal amount of vitriol and, eventually, an order to cease and desist.

I will add this: am I perfect? Absolutely not. Could my actions that brought this about have been different? Yes. Also, could those around me have taken a different approach and called me four months earlier with a simple, “this is what she said, how much is true, and wtf is going on?” Absolutely. Instead, they held their anger — delivered to them in a package tied with writhing lies and mistruths — close to their chest, petting it, feeding it, and encouraging it to grow, refusing to let me in on the secret. I never had a chance from the beginning. Poison arrows are very effective that way.

I have forgiven, but I will never forget how they and their poisoned arrows made me feel. Betrayal is an impossible chasm.

So, I ran again.

Back to Oregon, to my loyal sister who stepped away from the betrayal, and to my beloved Portland where I hid out in an apartment high above the city, trying to reconnect my life pieces. Just as I was beginning to breath again, the Universe showed me she wasn’t done.

In March, my world went silent when someone who literally promised me he would never turn his back on me did. No words, no conversations, no replies. Silence. I tried to understand, to devise fixes in my love language (texting hellos, buying little gifts, leaving voice mails) but it was all screaming into the void. Sadly, I do not know his love language, because we’ve never established an adult relationship. Soon enough, I was told that I was only making things worse, so I stopped.

How did I handle this?

In August I ran again.

This time back to our home town to throw money at the problem, buying a home in a town I did not want to live in, all with the hope that if I was there, we could work on the relationship. But that door had been shut and sealed.

Being there made it worse. My heart broke in slow motion every single day. The dark haze returned, and I began to question my life. Was I just a shitty person? Had I truly been a shitty daughter, sister, mom? Was everything I believed about myself a lie? Did I even deserve to be on this planet? Would it matter if I were not?

Following each obligatory text (there were no calls), the depression worsened, and it took weeks to come back, emotionally. At Christmas I was given a spark of hope when an invitation came for Christmas Eve. The invitation felt like the door had been unsealed. I went there with the intent of “behaving myself” (who even does that?) so that I would not fail whatever unspoken test might be in place. But I will tell you this: when you are sitting in someone’s house and they choose not to tell you to your face that they are taking the most important step of their lives, the message that you don’t matter cannot get any louder. When you receive a six-word text two days later, and no response to any congratulatory messages, understanding dawns. Instead, you are treated to all the social media photos of them celebrating with others. If he had held up a piece of paper with a large red F, the message could not have been louder. Test failed.

It got to where seeing him or hearing from him caused literal pain. My daily chants became routine for weeks after each text: “It means nothing. Don’t get it twisted. That was only obligation. You don’t matter. Don’t get your hopes up.”

So my running took on a different look.

I began to travel. If I traveled, especially around holidays or my birthday, I could pretend that I didn’t hear from him because I was out of country, that I mattered, but my being out of country made things difficult to communicate. So I kept running and kept pretending.

Which brings me to Greece. 

I ran to Europe so I would be here for my birthday, his, and Thanksgiving. That way I could say “it’s the 10-hour time difference. Of course, there won’t be a call or text. It’s not because he doesn’t want to, but because it’s too hard with the time difference, international calling, blah blah blah.”

But then he called on my birthday and left a message. For the third time in two years, he called. My heart soared as I responded with an effusive “thank you” text. On his birthday, I called. Nothing. No answer, no “thanks for the call” text. The ever-present void.

Ohhh. We are back to silence. The call was, in fact, obligatory then.

I began repeating the words. “It didn’t matter. It wasn’t love, but obligation. Don’t get it twisted. He doesn’t want to see you or have anything to do with you. You are unimportant. Stop getting your hopes up.”

Except.

This time it didn’t work. This time I crumbled like never before. Here I was, surrounded by the history and beauty of this amazing country that I had always wanted to see, and the blackness of a thousand nights seeped into my soul. Days later, as I stood on the hill of the Poseidon Temple, clarity came. For the first time in years, I could see clearly

I realized that I had handed control of our relationship and my happiness over to someone to whom I did not matter. He decided when to text, if there was to be a call, or if I deserved to see him. He got to ignore me and everything about me while I spent almost two years hoping and begging for him to see me.

I had spent my lifetime giving to everyone, making sure that others were safe and had what they needed, fighting every system known to mankind just to make sure there was justice and appropriate services for family and strangers alike. I had tucked away my own needs and wants, dedicated a career, delayed my education, and sacrificed my life so that I could give and give and give. Mine was a lifetime of smiling and saying “I’m fine” to make other people comfortable. And for what? So I could find myself a the age of 67 standing on a precipice next to an an ancient site enveloped in the soft breeze and ocean air, so beautifully sandwiched between blue sky and sea, wondering how I got here?

And in those moments, standing on that site of ancient sacrifices, I realized that people who have shown you over and over again you don’t matter are not worth you sacrificing your life.

No one is worth you feeling like shit about yourself on a daily basis.

It’s time for me to love me and respect me, because I’m worth it.

The time has come for me to put the past — all of it — behind me so I can move on and take joy in this life I worked so hard to build. It is past time for me to focus my future on those who show me the unconditional love I have come to believe does not exist.

In the infamous word of SNL’s Stuart Smalley, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and dog gone it people like me.”

It’s time to stop running, and I’m here for that.

If you are having a mental health crisis, please reach out for help. In the US, you can call or text 988 to reach the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, which is available 24/7. For veterans, the Veterans Crisis Line can be accessed by dialing 988 and pressing 1, or by texting 838255.

If this crisis line does not fit your needs or life, you can find a comprehensive list of specific hotlines on my website.

Peace y’all. Remember: you are worthy of love. #youmatter