Category: life & death

The Colorado Trail Pt.III

by Jen Roby, posted in America, friends, hiking, life & death, Packing, scary

I got through the mountain towns in The Colorado Trail Pt. I and have come to realize that I am embarking into the remote wilderness. The Colorado Trail Pt.II challenged me mentally far more than physically, but not really due to circumstances from the actual trail.

By this point, I was ready for anything. To be honest, I was expecting it to turn to crap by this point anyway. I was envisioning a hollow shell of my former self slowly pushing her bike up the Rocky Mountains and gasping for breath and food. However, that girl was nowhere to be found, and in her place was this fierce warrior who woke up each morning by the dawn’s light, swiftly packed her little belongings, ate a quick meal bar while skipping stretching, and mindlessly strolled onto her bike, eager for the next eight hours of pedaling, knowing it was eight hours closer to her final destination. I really was getting to Durango, even if I had a busted bike, body, or brain and needed to be wheeled there. This stubborn determination was the main driver in the following days to come.

To recap, my friend Austin came to join me for some segments in the later half. We hadn’t seen good weather for a few days now, and it was beginning to wear on me. I also realized my helmet’s MIPS were busted many months ago, which explained why I was getting so many headaches. To relieve the pain, I would place the helmet on my handlebars, and at one point, I was so frustrated with it getting in the way of my brakes that I punted the helmet clear across the trail into a nearby bush. I felt childish knowing Austin was watching my personal temper tantrum. Between sniffles, I muttered, “It’s not sustainable to leave plastic out here, right?” There is a hint of a smile as he kindly states, “Yeah, you’ll probably want that on the downhill.” This man was my emotional rock, being extra patient with me, and I was grateful for his friendship in the final segments of this trail.

Day eleven and I had lost all my bike repair gear. I didn’t realize in the haste of putting on all my rain gear that I had dropped my bike pump and entire bag of parts. We gathered flowers to create a subtle message for whomever may find my lost gear. (To my surprise, someone in fact did, and I retrieved it a month later in Eagle, Colorado). Had a quick double lunch in Silverton but needed to make miles before nightfall. These next miles were said to be brutally rocky, which is exactly where I suspected my tires would bust.

We ride the rest of the day, taking little breaks, knowing we are on track to finish by tomorrow. There are only 35 miles left to go, and then we are in the final town of Durango! However close it may sound, it still feels so far away as we watch another storm approach. We take a quick dinner break and find the tarp again, despite how wet our clothing already is.

The storm doesn’t seem to break, so we decide to just call it an early night and try our best to stay dry before we head out early in the morning. The rain is pelting us as we quickly set up camp. We are under the protection of a large tree, and Austin feels like a gentleman by giving me the most protected area. I am wary of the spot because there is a large tree root sticking out from the ground. Yet there is no time to delay, so we quickly sprawl out our tents and climb into them for the cold night to engulf us.

Ot has been raining for six straight days, and unfortunately I have no way to air out my equipment inside while riding. All my dry bags even keep the moisture in ironically. I am protecting my electronics before hopping into my wet bivy when I realize I can’t find my wool pants. Great… I guess I will just sleep in the shorts I was wearing all day. My rain gear is dripping, so that is out of the question. Disappointed, I slide into my wet sleeping bag, knowing full well it is no longer useful in 15-degree weather, let alone the 30-something degrees it would get to later that night.

I struggle to find comfort in my bivy that night. Despite which direction I moved it, I was still banana’d over that root and it felt like my head was lower than my feet. It was subtle enough to not bother fixing it due to the heavy amounts of rain still consistently pouring down. I inevitably fall asleep due to the exhaustion from the ride.

BOOM. Around midnight, a loud clap of thunder wakes me. At first, I am simply uncomfortable. My sleeping bag is sticking to my bare legs, and I’m suddenly aware of how wet my socks are. I begin to shiver uncontrollably, but when I try to warm up in the fetal position, I am restricted by the narrow seam of my sleeping bag. My breathing has increased to shallow breaths, and I try to focus on counting deeper breaths. Nothing is working, and after ten minutes of rapid panting, I realize I am having a low-key panic attack. I try not to think about the lack of oxygen in my bivy and begin to focus on counting in hopes of controlling them. I can’t even sit up as I am forced to understand the bivy is much smaller than it already is.

I am slowly being asphyxiated. A quiet, helpless sob escapes me as I pretend I am in front of an open fireplace. I need space, I need warmth, I need air. The sobbing grows louder, and I am hoping Austin is sleeping through it all. His tent is far enough away that he possibly cannot hear me through the rain pelting down. I open my bivy wall enough to let some fresh air in, but I am rudely disturbed by the brisk cold that seeps in.

I am shivering more, and my breath is still shallow. The tears stream down my face, freezing on my cheek as I question if this is how I am going to die. One single cold night, just a day before the finish. Panic continues to swim across my body as I fail to get my fragile body under control. Then blackness consumes me.

BOOM. Another rain cell passes overhead and I awake to the same bad dream. It is only 1 a.m. and I don’t recall falling asleep an hour ago. My body must have been so stressed it completely shut down to reset. By the crick in my neck, I am able to deduce that I passed out suddenly from fear. My body was still freezing, and I felt the beginning of another panic attack approach. My sleeping bag gathers more water with each frustrating turn of my body. The root under my back is digging into me, forcing me to balance on a downward slope as I feel the pool of water collect against my wall. This is my life raft, and I am so close to letting go. Minutes feel like hours as I fight for warmth and oxygen. The rapid shallow breathing returns, followed by the inevitable hopeless sobbing.

Austin calls out from the other tent, “Jen… are you okay…?”

I am not okay. I attempt to speak in between the tears, “Not really… I don’t know how to make this stop.”

He tries to reassure me that it will pass, and I go back to counting my breaths in distraction. No use. I am so desperate that I plea out into the darkness. “Can I come over to your tent?” There is a silence as Austin says what is on both of our minds. You can hear the pain in his voice as he states, “No, I don’t think that is a good idea, Jen. You will just get colder walking into the pouring rain. You need to stay put and keep whatever heat you have. If it helps, I have water in my tent too.”

I wonder if I should use my GARMIN GPS to call for a rescue helicopter- however my past experience with this device failed me. They had to wait until the storm blew over to land on the mountain, and even if they could get to me, it would still take a few hours to organize. I had to accept this was my fate and that even someone as prepared with equipment, test trials, and devices for maps/location could find themselves in this situation.

I feel helpless and at a loss for words. Austin is right. But I don’t know how to ignore everything that is happening right now. I am begging for my life. I once read that hypothermia takes only a few hours to set in. At this rate, I know I wouldn’t last long. Not if my breath continued to stab my heart. I return to my uninterrupted breathing and crying saga until darkness consumes me again.

BOOM. It is now 2am when a third thunderclap wakes me. I can’t believe this is still happening and am convinced I already died. That’s what I get for always chasing type II fun. I just had to feel the rush of living on the edge, and now I am departed, yet trapped in my undertaking.

My neck is now throbbing in pain – I clearly passed out again. I hate this so much. I can’t be dead because the shortness of breath is returning, telling me I am still fighting for what little is left. I am more aware than ever that I am in a coffin being waterboarded. Each pelting drop is felt through my thin walls, and I cannot retain any heat. These final minutes pass ever so slowly as I contemplate how I will actually survive this.

I am cramped on my side to create space for air. Suddenly, there is a warm palm on the small of my back as I feel heat surge through me. My breathing stops, and I am in a fuzzy, peaceful haze. I accept the delirious state I am in as I hear a voice inside my head, soft yet clearly saying, “It’s going to be okay.” I wonder if it is Austin, but I know he is too far away to sound this close. Something, someone is here with me. This tent is so small, but someone is inside here with me. I must be hallucinating or possibly having the worst dream of my life. The peaceful dread is temporary, and my breathing is uncontrollable again. I am so scared as I feel myself slipping away from reality.

I am in limbo, and this is my personal hell.

Flashbacks of all the times I have managed to escape death in the past appear. He has visited me so many times and over so many nights. Yet this time I fear he is finally coming to take me. Everything has led to this point, and I feel the pain of nostalgia recalling that I’ve seen this coming years ago. I am convinced that death must be in the tent with me. I am not sure why he would be so kind as to reassure me, but I am pretty certain that if some light appears, I am totally walking toward its warmth.

Death is beginning to feel like a strange embrace, and in this moment, I would surrender to the whispers of anything that offered solace. My chest aches relentlessly, each breath a tumultuous battle—IN OUT IN OUT IN OUT—like a mother enduring the raw intensity of labor. I ignore the tears that freeze upon my cheeks, my desperate search for oxygen overshadowed by the weight of despair. I crave a reason to cling to life, or perhaps a reason to surrender to this inevitable fate. I am weary of the fight, yet my body resists fiercely, and I am left questioning why this relentless struggle rages on within me. The lightning is within a mile overhead yet now the idea of getting struck by electricity sounds dangerously inviting.

Then I am reassured by a name. Michael. Who is Michael? My nervous system takes over again, and blackness embraces me a final time.

I am greeted by the song a of a single bird as morning light finds it way across my thin wall.

My body is incredibly stiff, and my neck is throbbing in pain. But I am still here. I rip out of my bivvy and sit upright for a long time. I am paralyzed by the senses that flood me. I somehow survived the darkest night of my life – AND WHO WAS MICHAEL? Deep in my gut, I know who he is. He is Saint Michael. I’m not even Catholic and know it was Saint Michael who came to me. In that moment, I recall a second name – Brandon – and quickly brush it off because I know so many Brandons.
I focus on the songbirds and the gentle wind, but I am numb to the perplexing confusion. Did I really make it through last night? Austin steps out of his tent to hand me my wet shoes, and I am aware that this is reality and that I have been given the gift of another day.

I snap out of it as he says, “We are getting the hell out of here today.” I am convinced by those words because I know I would never survive another night in that alpine cold with my damaged gear.

Our spirits lift along with the fog as we start seeing signs that we are 20 miles, 10 miles away from the exit. I am soaring through fields of wildflowers as I recall every night on this trail. Twelve days later, I am able to say I made it. I’m not sure how I did it, but it is almost all over. Just a few more miles and I will be on a real road again, heading toward real food once more. I no longer feel like a machine as my body slowly passes the finish marker. DURANGO. I am finally here and blissfully aware that I have a new life ahead of me.

I took one last photo of myself, a before and after on the trail. While I did not ride in underwear, I really needed to see what the weight of this trail did to me. A lot of people don’t talk about the struggles of someone trying to gain weight, but I honestly tried months prior during training to gain at least 15 more pounds. Despite the 20lbs of protein in my backpack, I knew I would never take in the right amount of calories. The trial was complete, and with it, took a piece of me.

I remember sinking into the longest hot bath that night after finding solace in a cozy bed and breakfast. As I released the tight braids that had confined me, I felt an overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity, as though I had stepped into a different reality. That same day, many miles away, someone else was fighting for their life. It was hours later that I would receive the heartbreaking news about a dear friend who had passed away the same hour, coinciding with my own exit from the wilderness. I find myself still grappling with the questions of when and why people leave us. It feels so unjust that some of us are granted second or even seventh chances, while someone I cherish like a brother has faced a sudden accident. I can’t shake the deep connection to him, both here and beyond, especially since I heard his name, along with that of Michael, echoing in my thoughts that morning. Life can be so cruel and fleeting. Though it is not my story to tell, Brandon will forever hold a place in my heart, and I will always remember that heart-wrenching August night.

Zanzibar

by Jen Roby, posted in Africa, life & death

I thought I was leaving the difficulty of the third world behind by choosing to spend Christmas on the beach in Zanzibar.

Little did I know that Zanzibar would also be the place I revisit breath-work for the first time since Thailand 2013, and would unleash whatever emotional damage I must have been repressing for over a decade.

The unexpected unveiling of a new path in my journey was not a pursuit of my own making. However, as fate would have it, a serendipitous encounter led a newfound friend to refer me toward her healing guy in Zanzibar. Apparently the power of breath can take you on a hallucinating individual journey to your deeper issues. Firmly attuned to the subtle whispers of the universe, I heeded the recommendation and embarked on the enchanting voyage. Swiftly, I discerned its profound resonance within me. Though it was fleeting, during the abbreviated session, I transcended the confines of my physical form, drifting inwardly. Amidst my sixtieth breath, a revelation materialized before me: I was engulfed in a pool of liquid, stuck in the sticky goo of whatever it was holding me back. I cried out for help, but nobody was around to hear me. I was utterly and completely alone.

Then hours later my voice became raspy and while I didn’t feel under the weather, I noticed a difference in my sound. My voice was gone.

That was two months ago and now I’m just going through the motions. Unable to sing, unable to talk for long periods with people, and unable to trust that my body is okay. That I’m okay.

Looking back Tanzania was irrevocably the most difficult part of my trip. I don’t know what exactly cracked in me in those last weeks, however the trip to Capetown, South Africa didn’t help my healing progress.

I was tired, worn down, solitary, and definitely feeling more lost than before. I was content with going along with the flow, however something was bubbling deep down.

Realistically, I really should not have pushed myself as hard as I did in the end. I even went to a vineyard where I drank for the third and final time in Africa. The wild sulfates of South Africa bruised my chords, and whatever was blocked from the breath work, got inflamed and just lingered around for weeks after.

I don’t quite know what to make of these symptoms, and I’m certainly past the point of wanting to google it…but I guess this post is a long-winded way of saying, I give in, and I still have faith it will work out.

My voice will return in its own time, even if it takes a while to heal. I understand that this may be a quieter season for me. Although it’s difficult knowing that I won’t experience music in the same way as before, I believe there’s a purpose behind all this uncertainty. Dear Africa, I trust that you had a reason for taking my voice, but I kindly ask for its return now.

Racing around Rwanda

by Jen Roby, posted in Africa, Farming, life & death, scary, single female, tourist, travel, Uncategorized

There comes a time in every long backpacking trip that you hit your first big low. Sometimes followed by a high…and then another low. While it is not my nature to focus on the negative, I think this particular segment of my trip has burned a memory deep in my mind. One in which I will carry, both the good and the bad.

Continue reading “Racing around Rwanda” →

Healing in Seville

by Jen Roby, posted in Europe, life & death, travel

The lovely southern town of Seville was remarkably different from the previous two cities. I was accustomed to the late nightlife of Spain by week two and decided it was completely safe for me to arrive past midnight in a new city. Not the wisest approach to traveling solo, but exciting nonetheless.

I was quickly reminded of city smells again after Madrid. It was so clean there, yet the vibrant life of Seville could change scent with each corner. The streets were all very narrowed and quickly reminded me of Venice when I was lost in that city maze a decade ago. It felt good to get lost here.

Luckily I don’t sleep much out here. This precious time allowed me to see so much in such a short period; the Alcazar Palace, the many secret plazas, the flamenco dancing, the fortress of foods lining outside every Calle. I was intoxicated by it all. This was by far my most favorite place this far, but there was just one problem.

By day three of walking around the city, the pounding above my eye got worse. What started out as a small headache a week ago, slowly turned into a ball tension capturing all the stress of my past year.

I cannot quite explain how I knew it was tied to my concussion, not to mention the failed attempts at self-love were taking a toll on my stress levels, but I just sensed it deep within my tattered fibers. I needed help.

Not knowing exactly what help I needed, I figured I would start by researching facial massages. Which ironically turned into a search back towards cranial therapy. The western doctors in Colorado confirmed my skull wasn’t cracked and I didn’t have a blood clot after the blunt force of a rock to my temple. While it was uplifting news at the time, I still felt the concern and frustration bubble as to why I was no longer myself. I even sought eastern medicine afterwards, a cranial therapist in Buena Vista told me my right side was indeed blocked and another would hopefully be able to assist over many sessions.

So here I am, walking into a cranial massage with very little expectations. The reviews felt more like a quick massage parlor and I was shocked to see they offered a facial and cranial massage for under 40€. The woman greeted me with a calming presence. The room is drowning in deep blue tones, with the typical orchestral music. At first it feels like a typical massage, but then her strong, precise fingers know exactly where to move across my temple. I am surprised to see how easily she can find my pain point without communication: I couldn’t speak Spanish well, and she couldn’t English. At one point she is pressing on the exact place of my accident and I feel this release. It was clear my entire neck was also holding this tension as she pushed all the negative energy out.

I’m staring up at the blue lights in the ceiling when my eyes roll back into the pain. As much as it hurt, I leaned into it and swear I saw this white patch of light in my brain just close up. It was as if all the emotional and physical baggage of these past seven months just got swept away into her magical, healing hands.

I walked away feeling so grateful for her help. The deep headache on my eye was gone and I felt a lightness in my step. I’m hoping this lasts through the night and that in the morning when I wake up, I’ll be on another road to recovery with this crazy accident. Life is certainly not being taken for granted.

Grand Junction or bust

by Jen Roby, posted in life & death, Life Update, Road Trip

I was driving out to Grand Junction one Friday morning on I-70 – daydreaming about how much fun I was going to have this weekend with my friends cross country skiing.

In the blink of an eye I was quickly rattled out of these thoughts. Suddenly I lost control of my tires on the black ice and started Fish tailing. Each swing of the car got bigger and bigger until I knew I lost control. Of my steering wheel, of my entire existence.

It all happened so fast, but I’ll never forget the moment before impact when a voice calmed me. They said “you’re going to die, try to relax” At that moment I hit a guard rail on direct impact which sent my flipping over the right side of this bridge. Vail is known for their ice and cliffs. For some unexplainable reason, I did not flip off the bridge. The airbags that I LITERALLY HAD REPLACED 12hours prior detonated. My windows shattered and my phone managed to steadily play “A Thousand Miles from Nowhere”

I am surely dead. Is this what the afterlife looks like? I quickly want to be the furthest distance away from this machine that almost took me. The abrupt blare of a truck horn jolts me back into the safety of my car, despite all the exposed, broken glass everywhere.

I feel a soft throbbing pain on my head and reach up to discover my hand is filled with a small pool of blood. Suddenly I am filled with panic. What just happened??? How am I alive and without something rammed into my body?

I see a young man running toward my from his pulled over truck. I lift the flap of my deflated driver door airbag to talk to him. Tears are suddenly flowing down his eyes as he is immediately relieved to see me alive. It was as if he saw the entire scene from a distance and together we witnessed something unremarkable.

They asked me to quickly describe what happened. I said I fish tailed and sort of blacked out the rest. I didn’t actually find out until later that I flipped. Then followed a series of questions, the last setting the tone for how I would handle this entire aftermath. “Who is the current president” and I respond “Biden, but it depends who you ask” he laughed and walked me to the ambulance.

Unable to open the other doors, which were lodged in, escorted me around the shoulder of the highway into the ambulance. It was once a peaceful, still morning. Yet now at the early hour of 7am over ten people were chaotically walking around. A large clean up crew to pick up all the debris that left my car in the crash. I wonder if a fragment of my soul is to be found on the cold concrete. I was in a daze, walking toward the warmth of the ambulance as people asked me questions and walked the scene. In the ambulance they were stunned. Expecting to tell me I had a concoction. Certainly waiting for me to release the paperwork that we were all going to the emergency room to stitch the blood coming out of my head.

They thought I needed one to two stitches, but that was probably because they wanted me to get checked out regardless. In my brief experience with ambulances I just know you don’t want to ride them. What country do we live in that encourages people to avoid basic needs such as health care, in order to avoid the financial impact?

Continuing the jokes I responded “guys, you’ve been great, thank you for the blanket, but offense, I do not want to ride with you”. They first attempted to tell me that I was stuck on a highway and that I needed to find a way off. Knowing they were not my only option out of this mess, I just said, I can walk, honestly I probably need to. That’s when they said that is not safe and spoke with the state trooper to take me. I signed my release form and got shuffled into another warm vehicle.

The state trooper was young, dark and handsome. I tried to get ahold of my nerves as I watched him fill out his paperwork. That very moment felt like an out of body experience. It was as if I were dead and I was going through the daily routines of these strangers. Kind humans that were just doing their job.

He asked if I had anyone to call who lived around Vail. I almost said no, but then one name came to mind. The name of someone who immediately upon realizing I was alive, was my one call. I’ll never understand why I didn’t call my brothers or sister. Perhaps I didn’t want to scare them and this man felt like someone who would actually be there in a flash. And I was starting to realize I really needed someone there. As independent as I am, this was not a day I could have done alone, without the help of so many people.

The state trooper quickly picks up on my rush of adrenaline and wise-cracking jokes. I was quickly realizing my car may be completely totaled, $12,000 vanished into thin air, yet I was SO DAMN GRATEFUL TO BE BREATHING. He even wrote me a ticket and I thanked him.

He attempted to draw out the scene. He was incredibly perplexed and quiet staring at the paper. He then says “you flipped.” I shoot a look of bewilderment “really?”

“Yeah, check out your roof. You can see the damage. What I don’t get, is how you flipped and managed to land like that. I’ve seen many, many accidents working in this field for over a decade. Yet I have never seen something like this. You are incredibly lucky to be alive”.

I sit still, attempting to process those words. Then immediately stumble on my words as I reply “I know. I don’t know why, but I know.”

We eventually leave the scene two hours later and I am dropped off at a nearby gas station (because he can not legally take me to a hospital). I am recognized upon entered the doors as “the girl who had the big accident this morning”. The mountain town cashiers and people were very kind. The owner of the gas station brought me tea and offered to clean the goosebump on my head with hydrogen peroxide.

I shook my head yes and started crying as an overwhelming amount of attention and love swarmed me. I could feel it. He patched me up and was one of many hero’s that day.

My one phone call man drove two hours from another town when I thought he was currently in this town that morning. He saved the day and showed me again what it looks like to turn lemons into lemonade.

I am forever thankful for the kind souls the universe has placed into my life. It appears I just became a little more spiritual afterwards: I couldn’t understand why I was given this second chance, but certainly felt more purposeful because of it. In this life, it is understood that we really only get one, and we must live it to the fullest.

Yet now that I’ve been given this incredible gift of a second chance, what would I do differently? For starters I would immediately get out to the desert.

Marooned on an Island pt.3

by Jen Roby, posted in America, life & death

I became good at projecting what people wanted to see. It didn’t help that older men would arrogantly say “Why don’t you smile?” without realizing how sexist they sound. All the negative emotions, those are my memories to examine, mine to shove into the pit of my stomach, mine to hide. Whenever the conversation of my parents came up, it became instinctive to pretend they were both still very present in my life. Over the years I learned how to respond to this question, because when people actually find out what happened, their reaction was incredibly disappointing. It is bad enough that we do not have the answers, but to carry their pity is unnecessary weight that only makes it worse. I decided it was easier to deny his death toward others, and ultimately myself.

So I did what came naturally. Seemed fitting for the concrete jungle, seeing as everybody keeps their emotions to themselves anyways. It really was the perfect place to isolate my heart. Trapped on this island of bittersweet numbness until someone would rescue me, or perhaps, I would rescue myself.

It takes a lot for me to trust someone. I learned quickly in college that partners are selfish, uncompromising and continued to see it in every relationship I attracted. I was content with close friends, both men and women, and simply enjoyed that kind of love. No need to complicate it with passion that would inevitably fade. Despite the chip on my shoulder, there was one man who slipped through the cracks and appeared as a sudden beacon of light in a dark restaurant bathroom line. He came off so incredibly genuine and caring, that I couldn’t help but let my guard down as our friendship blossomed. It didn’t take me long to figure he was also carrying a small piece of baggage, but I didn’t care. It fit so well with mine. Together we took our luggage and adventured anywhere the wind took us.

Weeks turned into months and life suddenly became purposeful. Slipping into routine, I found myself looking forward to our weekly hangouts. I had never felt this way about someone before; the calm satisfaction of knowing who you are when they are around. With each romantic dinner, with each mundane bagel morning, there was this…je ne sais quoi.

It carried on like this for a while; I was regaining trust and confidence that maybe the universe wasn’t that savage after all. Life was good. So good, my roommate and I wanted to host a celebration. We decided to throw a rooftop, speakeasy-style (later got busted) taco party on our Chinatown apartment. I invited him, and to my disappointment, he avoided the text completely only to reply a week later that he was not in town and now wanted to hang out. Thus began the conflict of my close friends urging me to ditch this joke. I was confused: how could we continue to have these movable moments, yet feel so stagnant at the same time?

As silly as it seemed, this taco party was the tipping point for me. Familiar feelings quickly resurfaced. I shouldn’t have let him in. I wasn’t strong enough to go through another heartache. I soon realized that I was depending on this person to replace the people I have lost. I had not forgotten about my best friend or father, but he was distracting me from reality. What would happen if he left me and I had to face that sorrow again? I couldn’t bear the thought of crawling back into that dark hole. So I did what I do best: I ran.

I took a life-changing trip to clear my head. It was enough to give me hope for a better future and meaning to life. Months after, my job and housing situations were stuck in this vicious cycle and once they conveniently and simultaneously crumbled, I decided to take my exit. I put in my two weeks and gave notice to my not-so-nice landlord in Dumbo. I hammered the nail on the coffin by purchasing that ticket to Norway at the end of February. I would be damned if I had to spend what is always a depressing month in this lonely city. There was no turning back now – I was leaving NYC and everyone there behind.

Yet there was one thing I didn’t account for. I was so empowered and certain of my decision that I failed to predict how he would react. I assumed it wouldn’t effect him much and wrote it off. For someone who was so uncertain about their emotions, he certainly knew how to confess them all at once. Words were flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup – the sweetest love-struct sentences one would ever hear. Perhaps I hurt his ego and he didn’t like the idea of knowing yet another woman left him because of his incompetencies. Perhaps everything he said was true and he was really bad at expressing feelings. All I knew is he was depriving me of feeling wanted and I deserved someone who wanted me. At the time, I wasn’t proud of my actions, but his words never left me. I desperately wanted to believe the best in him. After all, love makes you do crazy things, right?

Wrong. It took me three years of sorting through the confusion. It became clear that he only wanted what he could not have. What kind of person is so bitter about the breakup that they don’t want you to move on either? It was bad enough that I wasted a year of my life trying to convince myself I finally deserved love. Yet he took it a step further and prevented me from experiencing love with anyone else. I may have been miles away, yet he was controlling my actions, well aware of everything he falsely promised, later writing it off as an unhealthy time in his life. If you are somehow reading this, I forgive you for being so cruel. I am at the very least thankful for the memories shared, and hopefully showed you how to love the next woman. You certainly taught me the value of feeling secure in a relationship.

So here I am. Marooned on this island, compiled coral by coral of all the lies I have stacked. Everything leading up to this moment has been one big fantasy. I was silly to think I could actually replace someone. I subconsciously held on because I didn’t know what else to do. He reminded me both of my father and best friend, so I built up this image of someone who is not. To acknowledge that it is over is to acknowledge that my dad is gone, and Mylena as well.

Life is great at sending storms, but it also has a way of providing a life raft. Question is, will I take it? Do I know, nor care where it is going? I am so tired of carrying this self-loathing. Tired of putting my hope in false promises. Surely anything is better than this paradise of putrid.

I can now see that I deserve love. Despite my attempts to fend it off, I have wanted it all along. Perhaps you have to be deprived of all the love in the world in order to realize there is so much to be shared.

Thank you Michael, for the endless nights of listening to me babble on your boat.

NEW AGE CALI GOLD RUSH!

by Jen Roby, posted in America, Attractions, life & death, Road Trip, Saving Money, Spare Time, tourist
It was a Cold February,1901, when Walter Dimmick walked out of the San Francisco Mint carrying a small travel suitcase with him.  He was tired looking and worried as he was ready to climb into a vehicle, when a gentleman approached him seeing him struggle  with the suitcase.