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Little Things

 


I cried yesterday.  It had been a while.  Sadness is still ever-present, but I had not cried in weeks.  And then, I sold the X1.  It was the pop-up tent camper on top of Scott's truck.  A guy came down from Great Falls and bought it.  I was happy to sell it.  It's such a specific item designed for a specific truck.  I have no attachment to the X1.  Scott only bought it last year.  He used it several times when he was bird hunting, but I only slept in it once, and that was this past June.  I held no sentimental value toward it.  And yet.  When I saw it being lifted off his truck and placed onto a different truck, it got me.  I stood there in the middle of a hayfield, watching the two men work the tractors to move the X1 from one truck to the other, and I cried.  I hoped they would not notice.  Perhaps they would think it was the fierce wind rocketing out of the western canyons that drew tears to my eyes.  They said nothing, and I was grateful for that.

The thing about grieving is that life goes on.  Despite being sad, despite being angry or frustrated or manic or overwhelmed or absolutely tired of it all, life keeps happening.  Groceries need to be purchased, the mail needs to be collected, pets need to be fed and walked and loved, work needs attention, family needs tending, and the list goes on and on and on.  Some days, I don't want to do any of it.  Some days, I just want to be left alone with my bike and the mountains.  No thoughts.  No processing.  No feelings to sort through.  Just me and my bike and the mountains.  A breath of fresh air.  

I started going to therapy about a month after Scott died.  I feel so grown up now.  I have a therapist.  I didn't know what we would talk about, or if it would help, but it has been amazing.  A few weeks ago, during a therapy session, I was in a pretty dark place.  She asked me if I was still getting out on my bike or going hiking.  I told her yes, absolutely, that those things are non-negotiable.  For me, exercising in nature is an absolute must.  It's how I decompress, how I cope, how I sort through everything.

The morning after Scott died, I told my brother and my best friend that we were going for a hike.  They both looked surprised, but we all got dressed and headed to the trail.  I was a mess.  I cried the entire time, had to sit down often, but I needed to be outside.  Four days later, I dragged my best friend up to the summit of a 10,000-foot peak in a rainstorm.  It was awful.  I hadn't been able to eat or sleep much, so I felt incredibly weak.  I cried for most of the hike.  The descent was cold and wet.  And the awful felt deliciously good.  I know physical pain.  It is a world I am comfortable and familiar with, and it is a welcome reprieve to the mental and emotional pain that seems to be ever-present.  

"Depression can't catch a moving target."  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Either way, I have to move.  It's never the big things that get me.  It's all the little things.  Selling the X1.  Finding a Minski Built baseball cap stuffed way back in the hall closet.  The list goes on and on.  Movement helps me process all those little things.  And some days, like this past weekend, I don't want to process at all.  I just want to go ride my bike and forget about all of it, if only for a brief moment.  So I guess I just keep moving, because it seems like the only thing to do.

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