Epic Solitude

by Katherine Keith

  The first night on drums is unforgettable, featuring a clear sky. Better than being in the high mountains, in the low dry desert, or over a mysterious sea. It is also the time of the Perseid meteor shower, and falling stars dominate the sky. There is a total solar eclipse, and the planets line-up, forming a rare cross. Happy birthday. My heart is pure, still, and has embodied spirit with fervor and dedication.

  After gaining approval, I sit in the circle to drum and sing prayers to the spirits. The hours fly by, one song leading into the next, one drum beat to the next. Unknown words come out of my mouth from the center of my being. My human ancestry, while not Native American, sings strong. The drum beats in time with my heart and with the heart of all creation. We sing at least three thousand songs over the course of the dance. The intercessor, chief of the Native American Church, has us praying from nine o’clock in the evening to six in the morning. A group of twenty-five of us sit around the fire, praying, never leaving—no water, just peyote powder and peyote tea. We sing in sync together. Raised on the wings of spirit. Nothing exists outside the beating of the drum.

  When offered peyote, I accept. I take it in hand, feel its vitality, and become used to its influence. I sing and pray with it. I plead for truth, clarity, and vision so I may understand the nightmares that separated me from Josh. As people, we perpetuate our perception of reality through the distortion of life experience. Our interpretive existence may seem real to us but this does not mean it represents the truth. Let me break through the clouds of illusion and come home to the hidden truth. By being free of these nightmares, I can better serve others. Empower me to lessen the suffering of others.

  I put the peyote in my mouth. It is tangy, moist, and bittersweet. Based on the stories, I expect to become sick, but grandfather peyote is gentle with me. I am freer than I have ever been. I feel light. I breathe in the universe. Spirit oozes out of my pores. My breath reaches farther than the ocean and encompasses eternity with each inhalation. I strive to be one with the maker. The irony is that the creator is ever here. I need to pray.

  Spirit takes me to a realm where matter and form are not. I feel something click. My consciousness senses what I need. Spirit scrapes the insides of my womb out with a scalpel as something toxic to eradicate. Physical discomfort and nausea wrack my torso. Blood seeps, as during my period, and persists for hours. Cutting out what is unnecessary. Powerful medicine. The world of spirit reveals unreal occurrences. I overrate sanity.

  “Infinite sentient beings I vow to save. Infinite defilements I vow to abolish. Infinite dharma I vow to practice. The supreme Buddhahood I vow to accomplish.” Different words, same prayer. Aho.

  On the last day of the sun dance, I meet a man who calls himself a healer and offers me a massage. Feeling safe after my months of good fortune, I accept. His touch becomes inappropriate—his hands wander higher than they should—and it triggers abject panic in me. Floodgates of memory open. Flashes of sexual abuse enter my vision. I drown in a sea of revelation. Demons chase me, just as they have for over ten years. But now the demon is unmasked. I never suspected him of abusing the girl I once was. I never thought it possible. How could I hide it from myself all these years? Flashbacks from forgotten years stream through my consciousness.

  In fifth grade, Mom, my stepdad Jerry, J.T., Cassie, and I travel to Disney World in an RV. We stay at the Yogi Bear Campground, and my despicable stepdad hooks up the sewer line incorrectly, creating what my brother calls “Close Encounters of the Turd Kind.” His sense of humor comes from our dad.

  My little sister Cindy is born and Cassie, being two, wants my mom to go back to the hospital for more. Don’t think Mom supports this idea.

  In sixth grade, I neglect to take the garbage out of Jerry’s office right after dinner. My stepdad scolds me at length: “You are worse than worthless. You will never amount to anything.”

  Later that summer, as a total tomboy, I ask for a basketball hoop above our garage so I can practice for school. Jerry says, “No way. This is my house and you have no right to it.” Nice guy.

  Mom is busy with Cassie and Cindy. Jerry isn’t very involved as a parent. I live for camping with my dad, soccer, and choir.

  After years of family trauma, Jerry makes my mom choose between my brother and him. There is no real choice for Mom. They get a divorce, and Jerry kicks us out of the house. We live with friends of my mom for close to a year before we can afford to rent a place. The worst of it is that he digs up the backyard pool, sells my piano, and sells Bandit, our Dalmatian. We need police protection to collect the belongings left to us that Jerry didn’t already throw away. Bad man. He demands visitation rights to see Cassie and Cindy, but they come home crying hysterically every time with their own night terrors. They would refuse to go, so we had to force them into the car. To our relief, he fled the state, not wanting to pay child support. He moved out to California where they couldn’t collect on his wages.

  Every time he came into my room, my mind went elsewhere. To a place of safety, my meadow of dreams. To a picture hanging on my wall that my dad gave me. A little girl, her straw hat, fresh flowers in a basket, and a simple dress. She stands in a barn looking out the window towards grassy meadows with wildflowers dotting the landscape. That’s where I went. I never spoke up. Why didn’t I tell anyone? I should have told my dad, my mom, my brother—anybody. They might have stopped it. Guilt. It’s all my fault.

  The actions of this disgusting so-called man started a pattern in my life that has continued to this day. Impacting everything from sports, school, work, archeology, college, Josh, and on and on. The bulimia, the depression, the searching, the struggles—all of it was to hide from those memories. I want to turn it away, to rampage in fear and disgust. My body shivers in horror, shock, disbelief, and guilt.

  Inipi

  Northeast Arizona | 1999

  Three things cannot be long hidden:

  the sun, the moon, and the truth.

  —Gautama Buddha

  The morning after that fateful and ill-conceived massage, the sun dance ends. I seek out a co-op reputed to have an Inipi—the Lakota term for a sweat lodge. But the word means far more to the Lakota than this: it means “to live again.” To live anew, we have to discard what is no longer a part of our greatest good. A vision quest seeker enters an Inipi to let a part of themselves be shed, or die, so they may be reborn and live again.

  A local co-op farm, doubling as a hippie commune, maintains an Inipi. Co-op people live there in exchange for harvesting vegetables. A co-op worker offers to give me a tour of the facility’s greenhouse, nursery beds, and vegetable gardens. The co-op delivers fresh boxes to locals with a subscription. Our tour ends at a small, round dome lodge, tall enough for one individual, at the center of a clearing. Along the tour, I express my interest in the Inipi and completing a vision quest, and the co-op staff are glad to accommodate my request.

  I enter the Inipi, this small cavity of mother earth, with no food, water, or people.

  “I will be back in thirty hours,” the guide says. “Do not leave the Inipi.”

  I am mortified. “How do I use the bathroom?” I ask.

  He shakes his head as if wondering how I could ask such thing when the vast Spirit—capital S—is all around me.

  I laugh in nervous anticipation, hoping that the great Spirit doesn’t perceive my fear or become offended by my primary needs. Just prayer—prayer for two nights and three days. I perform an essential clearing ritual with sage, sweet grass, and cedar to honor the four directions, as I learned from the sun dance. Then I sit on a blanket in complete darkness and wait to see what the Spirit will bring.

  My body is numb and my brain is distant from the recent revelations. For years, I’ve been trying to figure out my self-destructive tendencies—the recklessness, the eating disorder, the drinking, the hitchhiking—and have been unable to insulate those I love from their impacts. Such behaviors have no
place in the life I want. I am grateful for the truth yet plagued by it. In embracing my past, I might let it go. Let the winds take responsibility, guilt, and shame back to their rightful owner.

  With infinite patience, I wait in stillness for at least five full minutes. Then I go berserk. I have places to go and things I want to do. Am I supposed to squat here for thirty more hours doing nothing? Time to get up. I’m hungry and thirsty. Time to get up! I neglected to call my mom. She will worry about me. Time to get up! I am eight minutes into the thirty hours. My legs go numb. It’s cold—brrr. Is that a spider? Do I have to pee? Is that my bladder? Should I sneak out now before the thirty-hour period really begins? But then I would have to redo the previous eight minutes. Maybe I am being watched and someone will tattle on me if I slip out to use the bathroom. Will my guide shoot me with a BB gun? Am I expected to summon the glorious Spirit in the sky and ask what to do?

  After a few hours, my mind resigns itself to the fact we are doing this. I will remain here and not leave until I receive answers. My mind stops fighting me. My body, mind, and spirit work together to sort out where my life is going and what my purpose is.

  Needing clarity, I shout out as if delivering an invocation: “Please help me. Please help me get through this. Please help me understand what’s happening. Please help me have courage. Please help me know what to do with this outrage. Please let me see and recognize the truth of what transpired. Please don’t hide from me as protection, because I know lying to ourselves about the past isn’t any form of security but serves to cripple us. Please grant me wisdom on how this has influenced me. Please give me understanding on how I can assimilate this into my life moving forward and not hold back anymore.”

  My pleading goes on without answer. I stretch out on the cool, dark dirt floor and fall asleep. I feel insects crawling up my legs and hear noises of life outside the Inipi going on despite my misery. I continue to lie in the tranquility of the divine womb, feeling compassion and pure love. The walls around me mirror the hug of a great-grandmother, and wrapped in the embrace of this beautiful Inipi, my hunger for answers gives way to grace and peace. I might not have all the answers I want, and I might not understand the reasons; still, I feel gently and patiently at peace with things.

  I sit in silent prayer, meditate, and ask for help. The urgency and desperation have lessened, and I now trust in the Spirit’s compassion for me. When I most need it, help will arrive. I am not alone in this fight anymore. With dreams come resolve. This abuse occurred, and now I have a choice about how I want to react. Do I want to be full of drama about it, or do I want to use it for self-compassion and understanding, to use it as fuel for my next actions in life?

  My resolve steels itself in quiet focus: “Yes, all of those things—just no drama.”

  The horror turns down a notch. And as the hours tick by, something removes it altogether, and the disgust, so I can think about the events with detachment, as if they were scenes from a movie, without having a panic attack, without triggering further flashbacks of a living nightmare. In the Inipi, I sail through stars in a deep sky. I am free.

  Leaving the Inipi thirty hours after I entered, I walk into the warm daylight like a phoenix rising from the ashes. The warm embrace that I felt inside walks out with me, as if holding my hand, signaling that we are in this together, that is the purpose of going on a vision quest. We are not all so lucky as to walk away more empowered than when we came in, but we all gain insight. My vision quest is a success. I stay removed and insulated from the raw memories while having full access to the details of what happened. As long as I stand in my authenticity and power, my sanity won’t get ripped to shreds while integrating these truths into my life.

  I discover a tranquil peace. I have lifted the responsibility of my stepfather’s actions from my shoulders and placed it back on his. The vision quest has encouraged me to come to terms with the new information. I hope that my release can heal him, maybe relieve him of some of his karma, set him free. The more that free people roam the free world, the more tomorrow’s children will be free. Ending the cycle starts here.

  On my way back from the sun dance, I hitch a ride twenty miles off the freeway to Lake Havasu. Once there, I look to an orchestrated sky, its colors intensified by thick rays of sunlight falling on the earth. I run into the lake. One minute later, I glance across it to see a magnificent green barrier of wind and rain—no big deal. Ten seconds later, it is halfway across Lake Havasu and rushing toward me. I am a tad uneasy with the radical shift in weather. This enormous wall soon engulfs the beach, assailing me with seventy-mile-per-hour winds, hail, fury, and raw power. What is the logical thing to do at this point? Enjoy it. I attempt to stand with arms upraised screaming in defiance, letting loose my pent-up fury over events I have little memory of. My past still haunts me, but I try to forgive myself for those I have hurt and start over. I stare down the storm.

  “I am no longer a victim!” I yell out as lightning strikes all around me. “I dare you to mess with me!”

  The storm knocks trees over and produces four-foot white-capped waves in a previously calm bay. The seagulls negotiate the unpredictable gusts. The temperature variations in both the water and air are dramatic. Looking west through the shadowy green haze, the fiery red sun sets over the distant horizon. I remain untouched. The full moon sits high above the chaos, resting in the deep-blue evening sky, watching the world pass by.

  I am full of confusion, but it is time to mend open wounds, resolve family quarrels, and connect with those I love—time to go home. I have a one-way ticket to Minneapolis. The PCT will have to wait. I must keep one foot in the world of Spirit and one in physical reality—breathe, wash dishes, see my family with smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes. That matters on this planet. You can experience far-out things in far-out places, but nothing carries as much pleasure as being with the ones you love.

  Falling

  Minneapolis, Minnesota | 2000

  Life has become eternal in a second.

  Enfolding petal by petal the vast

  wonder of existence.

  Slowing down, moment by moment.

  —Journal entry, July 14, 1999

  Coming home jars my senses more than I expect. I experienced a major shift on the trail, while the world didn’t change. I pretend that all is fine, not wanting to disrupt my family. Thus, I am not authentic. I am not standing strong in my power. I try to fit in with a normal job, ordinary routines, and regular social life. But I soon realize that I am not normal. My spirit craves the wilderness, and my heart is confused over how to integrate the memories. I do this poorly. A vision quest holds little value if you don’t follow the path laid out by it.

  Flashbacks fill my vision with disorienting, horror-filled nightmares. My eating disorder returns, and I lose thirty-five pounds. Then the self-harm begins. Cutting starts at night, when I sleep. I wake up with blood oozing from my upper thighs. A razor blade lies on the floor. With extreme stress, I cut during the day. I attempt to relieve emotional pain by shifting my focus to physical pain. Cutting reduces the flashbacks and intrusive images. I bleed out the memories as if being purified from a plague. Anything to stop the mental replay. The blade manifests the suppressed inner pain and releases the internal pressure. I control my pain, but this control is illusory. I am stuck in an addictive cycle—one in which I am both the victim and the perpetrator, as well as the devoted healer taking care of my wounds. Shallow slices don’t mirror my inner agony. Damage escalates, deep red slits drip red onto white tile floors, as cuts deepen, requiring stitches.

  Dreams of enlightenment fade away. My soul is as cold as the lonely winter weather. Days are a blur of drunken writing at bars, donating plasma, exercising for hours, and being proud of every single pound I lose. I end up downtown alone at night searching for a couch on which to crash. This pattern continues through Christmas with frequent deep cuts. I fade in and out of life—a dark shadow
surviving a moonless night. Please end this pain.

  An empty studio off Grand Avenue in Saint Paul becomes available for rent. I start bartending school, hoping to find work with cash tips. This lands me a job at the Hilton Hotel’s New Year’s Eve party. The world parties like its 1999, literally. In the early hours of the new millennium, I ride home on a dimly lit bus. In a cheap, frayed line notebook, I write out my wounds and nurture my battle scars. I’m running blind with a furious pace—racing ahead, afraid of looking over my shoulder, fleeing society’s rules, desperate to escape the deadly game of life. Tomorrow is far away when my feet won’t take another step, stuck in the quicksand of the past.

  Like a ball and chain, memories bind me in a prison of my own making. Trapped by branded memories. No fairy dust can save my soul. I look at my feverish writing.

  My dreams are empty.

  All hope is gone.

  Happiness is an idle term

  For some sap who just can’t see the truth.

  The bus rolls on to another place,

  where life goes on at a different pace.

  Yet it is the same old story with a different beat

  —yearning for that which we just can’t keep.

  Thinking the worst is over

  Its return catches me off guard.

  Creating more damage than before.

  I don’t even recognize myself. In the past I could liken my mind to an idealistic, passionate tree hugger who never gives up in a fight. Deep down, this is not a world I want be a part of. Nothing matters anymore. I am lost. There’s nothing left to fight for. This world is a fucked-up place. Fucked-up people, get fucked up, and fucked over. There is no point to be here. Kill me, please. I scribble out a letter to my sisters, who don’t deserve to suffer from my actions.