Author: Wild Little Hare

Whenever someone asks if I’m religious or if I believe in a God, my response includes: “the forest”, “the wilderness” something to the effect of Mother Nature being my higher power.

My whole life I’ve been a hiker. A camper. An explorer. A sit-on-a-rock-in-the-sun, swim-in-the-lake-naked, catch-me-in-the-forest kinda gal ✌ I bring my problems to the dirt. I let the Earth soak them in instead, relieving me, even if briefly, of the wretched Human Experience.

The last few weeks have been filled with grief and anger and tension headaches from constant tears. I’ve been struggling to find beauty in the sunset. I find only anger in the clouds and betrayal in the dirt. I feel nothing but rage when the skyline catches my attention, or the when the sun reflects off the pine needles on the other side of the river. I’m angry at the forest. I hate the sounds of the wildlife.

I want to kick, and scream, and kill.

I’ve never felt betrayal so deep. After all the years I’ve worshipped Her, how could She let this happen?

I’ve been trying to simmer myself in grace, but I feel guilty any time I feel relief. I feel guilty if I appreciate anything. I feel guilty when I’m not experiencing debilitating heartbreak.

Mother Nature parades on, regardless of my broken, bleeding, grieving heart. The leaves fall, and the seasons change, and the sun sets, and the dusk brings me another round of anger to process each night. The deer pick through the forage, and the turkeys scratch around in the leaves, and the quail congregate in the driveway, and I have to remind myself to not be angry that they still have their lives after yours was taken by this exact forest.

I will forever find you in the other living matters that appear when I’m thinking of you. I will forever talk to you, and think of you, and blow a kiss to your photo in the barn. I will forever talk about you, and remember you, and hug your brothers tight as I think about the sacrifice you made for them.

The herd, and my heart, will forever hold a void.

Being your mom is the proudest title I’ve ever held. Thank you for being mine.

“It’s nice to exist without a pit in your stomach, you know?” I rambled from the driver seat of my 4Runner. I’m grateful I’m able to recall the darkest places of my past casually, as if it were a happy memory. I’ve noticed recently that the only relationships I hold space for are the ones where we can constantly be casually and unreservedly honest with each other.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he agreed.

Even though the throes of change send me internally flailing and silently screaming, convinced that I’m drowning in plain sight… I absolutely thrive in it. The only thing I’m better at than ignoring red flags is blooming in turmoil.

“Only you know when you’ve had enough,” I’ve always offered to my friends during tumultuous times in their lives.

I remember asking myself the same thing for years. Lifelessly staring in the mirror at puffy red eyes and tear-stained cheeks: “When will you have had enough?”

It’s not a coincidence that I began accomplishing my goals after I left him. It’s not a coincidence that I finally feel at peace since I cut her off. It’s not a fluke that I’m not responding to their texts anymore.

It’s not because I hate you. It’s not because I wish you unwell.
It’s that I hope someday, you fall in love with someone just like you.
I hope someday, you find out you’ve had a friend just like you all along.
I hope someday you can reflect on more than just everyone else’s behavior.

The true lesson behind letting someone down is that you teach them they can do it without you around.
You teach them how to survive without you. You teach them how to live without you.

So, it’s not that I hate you, and it’s not that I wish you unwell…
It’s that I’m no longer holding space for the people I’ve needed to heal from.

Anything is possible when you feel safe. Safety affords you the agency of choice. Choice is the doorway out of trauma.

“Where are you guys from?” She asked from the other side of the hot tub.

I hated this question so much lately. I was homeless. I was couch surfing. I was living with whoever would have me, whenever they’d have me. I was staying the week at this resort, turning 31 years old and pretending like my life wasn’t a fully engulfed tire fire. I quickly looked over my shoulder to see if he was in earshot.
“Oh, up in the Sierra Nevadas.” I smiled.
“How beautiful!” She smiled back.
It wasn’t true, but it took a hell of a lot less explaining than the truth would have. Nothing else seemed to be working, so maybe a half-assed shot at manifestation would get the ball moving.

Within a few minutes, he was back at the edge of the hot tub, slipping a leg back into the water as he handed me another beer. I watched him intently. He’d been a staple in my life for almost two years, but he looked like a stranger to me now. I didn’t love him like I once did, but it made my life simpler if I pretended.
I squinted a smile at him.

The jets in the hot tub were roaring, and the outside air was freezing. I could have stayed in that hot tub for the rest of my life and not complained once.

“That’s so cool you guys can just take off and vacation whenever you want!” She told us both with a hint of bewilderment in her eyes. She must have been just a couple years younger than me. She’d told us she’d moved from halfway across the country to work at this here resort.
It was the middle of the week, in the middle of March, and we had her completely fooled. She thought we were successful. She thought we were in love. She thought we could stand each other. She thought he was rich, and she thought I’d gotten lucky to have met such a nice man. I faked a smile back to her, just like I’d been faking everything else up until this point.
“How far was the drive from the Sierra Nevada Mountains?” She asked, while her eyes bounced between the both of us. I felt his eyes on me. What web of lies was I spinning this time?
“Oh, just a few hours,” I waved it off, hoping the conversation wouldn’t lull here.
I refused to make eye contact with him.

After a stop at the resort bar, we were back in our suite.
“Sierra Nevadas, huh?” He was getting ready to get in the shower.
I was tired. I’d been tired for eternity. Tired of fighting with him. Tired of fighting to survive. I’d been sleeping on couches for months, and as of recently, sleeping in his bed again.
I made playful eye contact with him and threw my arms out, “Who knows?”

o0o

“Oh yeah, I know just where that’s at,” he told me from across the patio table, “We lived just about 10 minutes from there!”
The three of us had just exchanged pleasantries moments before in the empty house we were sitting outside of.
“So, this would be yours,” He extended his arms.
“How soon are you looking to have someone move in?” I asked apprehensively. What are the chances this was too good to be true? There was only one, very specific, answer I was hoping for.
“We wanted to swap out the light fixture in the bedroom, but, as early as possible, I guess.” He wiped the beer from his lip before he set down his glass.
I tried not to sound like my next question was a joke, “so, tomorrow morning is okay then?”
They chuckled for just a half a second before they’d both realized I wasn’t.
“Oh sure, yeah, that’s just fine!”

I drove back to the city in complete silence. I couldn’t tell what was good or bad anymore. I couldn’t process friends from foes anymore. I couldn’t process if the decision I’d just made was the right one or not. I couldn’t process anything that had happened to me lately. I’d just been living my life on autopilot, hoping not to crash and burn.

“Hey, I just found a place to live. Can you help me move in the morning?” I told him once I’d hit the freeway.
“Holy shit! Yeah, of course.”

o0o

12 hours later, I was back in front of that house with a now-empty U-Haul, dripping sweat in the July heat. We’d just thrown everything into the house and were getting ready to head back down the mountain.
“I just gotta figure out how to get this check to them,” I absentmindedly explained to Tim as I leaned against the door of his blue chevy, navigating the call log on my phone. “You know they used to live down the street from my old house?”
“Really?” He scrunched his nose.
“Yeah, they just bought this property in April.”

I am absolutely coming unhinged at the variety of lives I’ve lived this year. I know there’s still another whole month before the year is officially over, but the 2022 reflection is hitting me so hard lately.

I hung up our Christmas stockings last week and admired each of my babies’ last season photos as I hung them up one-by-one. I added an extra one at the end for my dog and her first Christmas with me.

The last three years feel like a blur. Sometimes I feel like I’m recalling someone else’s memories.

I finished dinner, slid my leftovers into Goose’s bowl, and went outside to fill the water buckets for the animals. I walked over to scratch the chin of my neighbor’s dog and scooped up the box of printer’s ink on the way back.

The year had been riddled with so many houses, so many cities, so many versions of me. I’ve been so ruthless recently in ridding my life of any remnants of my past.

Just photos from the last 4 months, I told myself.

Somewhere between sweet nostalgia and rotten curiosity, I went poking around the cloud.

It hurt me like I knew it would.

The hardest time in my life. All the while surrounded by those who were only working to make it harder on me.

I beat each level. I overcame each hurdle.
I burned the bridges. I cut the ties.
I moved away. I started over.
I brought my babies home.

I did it. I’ve done it.
It’s still me, myself, and I.

I threw your shit out last night.

I’d been meaning to for weeks, if I’m being honest.
“I’m just not ready yet,” I’d placated myself thus far.

The day I moved into my house I’d stashed your remnants in the back corner of the storage closet. Behind all my candles and batteries and camping stuff. Then for 90-days, I looked directly at it every time I walked into that room. Each time, I’d think of that childlike grin you gave me any time I did something thoughtful for you.

What is it about Change that strikes the match of nostalgia?
The week I moved in was the loneliest I’d ever felt in my life.

“You gotta keep the TV on. Or put on a podcast,” Max suggested in the darkness of my new house. It was late in California; it must have been close to 5:00am in North Carolina, “You got used to having people around you all the time… of course it’s going to be tough to fall asleep now.”

I wanted so badly to tell you that I “made it”.
I did it.
I didn’t just survive the worst time in my life, I used my anger to catapult myself into the life I’d always dreamed about.

Why did I even care what you thought?

You wouldn’t acknowledge my achievements.
You’d make it about you. You’d pick a fight. You’d track me down.
I’d circle back and begin again the same tragic cycle that I’d just barely escaped alive.

I feel pity for you and that blind eye you turn to the wreckage you’ve labeled “love”.
The blatant disregard of human life around you. The absolute refusal to self-reflect, self-evaluate, or take accountability for the way you’ve treated the people you claim to love.

If I’m being honest, I would have been more surprised if you hadn’t tried to contact me after your all expenses paid vacation was up.

“I know you were constantly thinking about killing yourself this year but look at my chip!”

“Anything else need to go out?” He asked as he pulled the trash bin from under my counter.
I was at the dining room table sketching designs for our jack-o’-lanterns.
“Actually yes,” I said without looking up.
I stepped over the pumpkins on the dining room floor and opened the door to the storage closet. I plucked your your skeleton off the shelf by two fingers and dropped it on top of the wet grounds from our coffee.
“Thanks,” I leaned in for a kiss.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he told me from the other side of the table in the garage.
The morning sun had finally reached up my toes after I’d spent the last 20 minutes watching it crawl up his driveway. I smiled.
This was quite possibly the only thing we’d ever agreed on but for the sake of our day off together, I had to argue him anyway.
“Don’t say that.” I faked an empathetic look, but he was right. He didn’t deserve it. “You threw me the best 30th birthday party, so I want to give you a good 40th.”

A month after his birthday, I was walking up his driveway. I hadn’t seen him in a few days.
“You’re taking everything, right?” He asked from the very same side of the table in the garage.
I nodded my head as I walked past him.
“Good cause I have somewhere to be after this.” He tossed a can in the trash.
I know I don’t deserve it.

“In three years, my 40th birthday was the only time she ever made me feel loved.” He slurred.
It was barely 9:00am. The Door Dash driver handed him the 30-rack of Coors Light he’d ordered for delivery.

I laughed.

“In three years, my 40th birthday week was the only time she ever made me feel loved.”
“I know I don’t deserve it.“

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” I cut him off mid-sentence.
This conversation escalated quickly from the Nice-to-Meet-You’s and handshakes we just exchanged minutes before.
“She knows,” Mom chimed in as defense as she waved casually in his direction.
“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t not say anything,” he explained.
I’d said the exact same thing to so many of my friends over the years, how could I be upset with him?
“No, I feel you.” I insisted with three seconds of eye contact before he smiled back.

I forget sometimes that family doesn’t automatically equate to judgmental.
Sometimes folks really do just care for you.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Dad called to me from the kitchen as I had been trying to slip out the side door. His eyes were so genuine. He’d done this every time, and each time I had to force myself to hold his warm eyes.
Force myself to accept the reassurance, accept the affection, accept the connection, accept the generosity.
I’ve been working so hard on not being cold and distant while I’m internally melting away like a candle forgotten in the kitchen.

It’s okay to want to feel loved.
Queen of rejecting nourishment my soul needs, simply because I’d gotten this far without it.

“They’re a hoot,” he told me moments later at home from across my patio table.
I beamed proudly, “I’m just happy they were looking to adopt a 31-year-old daughter.”

I’ve been working so diligently to break the habits I formed while enduring the treatment I did not deserve. Working to accept the love I’m given, instead of rejecting it out of discomfort. Working to believe people when they show me who they are. Working to believe people when they show me how much they care. Working to accept that not everyone has a hidden agenda. Not every interaction is a test.

“If they didn’t want to, they wouldn’t.” Stephanie told me last month.
She was right. They wouldn’t. But they want to, so they do.

I’m not angry at you for the things you didn’t do for the little girl that relied on you the most. I’m not angry at you for missing the mark on the things other people’s parents effortlessly picked up. I’m not angry at you for allowing me to fend on my own much sooner than I should have had to. I’m not angry at you at all.

I am grateful that you did not have an influence in raising the person I am today,
because that girl would not have been a phoenix.

“This house was so beautiful,” I said out loud from my spot in the corner of the living room. I was sitting on the floor, with the dog in my lap. My pants were covered in dust and dog fur. The furniture had all been removed from the house some odd days prior, and the holes in the walls from where the shelves and the photos used to hang were the only decorations available for viewing. The base boards and the hardwood were scuffed, and the windows were filthy, and all I could think about was how many Saturday mornings I’d woken up, and spent my entire day cleaning this house from top to bottom. For some reason the tiles in the bathrooms were the hardest to get the cat fur off of. A spotless house was the only thing I had control over during that time in my life and I clung to it like a safety vest in the ocean.
“I remember you not really loving it when we moved in,” He gave me a slight wince from across the living room.
“I didn’t,” I replied immediately. “I hated everything, then.”

I can’t remember exactly what he said next, but I remember it feeling like accountability.

I woke up the next morning, and I could immediately tell that he was awake on the other side of me. “Can you spoon me?” I asked, as I threw a hand behind me, patting around for his.
“What did you used to tell me all the time?” He asked rhetorically as he threw an arm and a leg over the top of me, “Give me the booty.”

We used to write and leave love notes all over the house for each other.
And even when we were struggling- we’d go days without speaking to each other, only writing to each other in a notebook, and leaving it out for the other.
Shit at communicating but, still trying.

I remember waking up one morning, in our first apartment together, to a piece of scrap paper on the coffee table scribbled with, “you are exactly what I’ve never had.”
I remember feeling so fucking proud to be his girlfriend. Below it I wrote back, “you are exactly what I’ve always wanted. ♥” and it lived on the side of our fridge until we moved out.

I remember writing on a piece of painters tape in our new house, that I wanted to be our dog in my next life- so I could do this life with him all over again, and I stuck it inside the hall closet.
He didn’t see it for awhile after I’d put it there.
“Cheesy!” He said one day with a smile, as he walked into the art room to kiss me.

I thought I’d torn them all off the walls the day I’d moved out, but here was one of them 3-years later, taped to the back of the bathroom door. Typed out on the typewriter he had bought me for my birthday one year. Or maybe it was one of our anniversaries. I thought for sure the house would have been wiped clean of Micaela by now.

“You know I put that up there, right?” I asked him in the backyard just a moment later, wiping my wet hands on my pants.

He nodded casually, “I know.”

I lived in the same house from My First Memory, until I was 12. By the time my parents were divorcing, we’d all been so far removed from ourselves in their violent chaos, that it didn’t feel like a home at all.

For me, changes come in threes. The first time I noticed this pattern, I was 21. I’d just bought a new car, moved to a new city, and started a new job. I was thriving on a high of change. When anyone would ask me, ‘How have you been?’ I’d feel myself slip into my complete element as I gave them a coy smile: “How much time ya got?”

I’ve had favorite homes. I’ve had least favorite homes. I’ve had homes I’ve slammed the front door leaving, and places I’ve reluctantly returned keys to. I’ve lived in some apartment complexes more than once. I’ve had neighbors that came with me when I moved somewhere new. I’ve had long commutes to work, I’ve had short commutes to work, I’ve walked to work, and taken the bus to work. I’ve shared bedrooms, I’ve slept on couches, and I’ve been the single name on a lease.
I’ve moved nineteen times since I got my worker’s permit fifteen years ago.

“You’re just a gypsy,” all my exes have drunkenly sneered at me, at least once.

o0o

Eight months ago I’d turned my house keys in to my landlord, and traded them in for a storage unit key. The past eight months I spent as a wallflower (and the rotting food in the disposal) in other peoples homes. The past eight months I spent living on other people’s schedules, existing in other people’s spaces, living other people’s lives with no trace of myself in sight. After the initial shock and depression faded, I began to feel at home- no matter where I was. I developed a confidence in any space that I occupied.

o0o

I’d barely spent a full week in my new home before I left the state for a week. I’d made it a point to at least unpack the last box before I boarded my plane; I absolutely had to gift myself the joy of coming home to a HOME.

o0o

“Welcome Home,” The pilot announced, as the seatbelt lights switched off. I was thirsty, I was tired, I was hungry. Everything I’d brought with me was in the cabinet above my head, and as I exited the plane, I felt an overwhelming sense of comfort as I effortlessly navigated my fourth airport in five days. Home.

“What a week,” I thought to myself as I absent-mindedly re-traced the steps through the airport. I’d made the same ones in reverse, just six days before.

I was grateful I’d left my car there.
I unlocked the doors and slung my backpack and camera bag into the backseat. I placed the houseplant I’d traveled with, in the cupholder.
“Hi Baby,” I sweet talked my car as I turned the key into the ignition.

I’d rescheduled my flight home twice since I’d left, and ended up on the I5/Hwy 50 exhange at 5:30pm exactly. From my spot in rush hour traffic, I had another hour and a half before I even made it to my town.
I didn’t care. I sank into my chair, and turned up the radio, and smiled anyway. I smiled at the fact I had a house key on my key ring. I smiled at the fact I finally had pets at home waiting for me. I smiled at the fact I was no longer guessing where I was going to sleep, or if the person I was sleeping next to was still texting their ex, or if tomorrow would be the day I had to move out. I smiled at the fact I didn’t have to worry about being locked out of my house, or being drunkenly berated Just ‘Cause, or had to walk on eggshells to keep the peace.

When I pulled into my driveway that night, there were deer already loafed up beneath the pine trees in my front yard. They lifted their heads to squint at my headlights, and immediately went back to snoozing.
“Hi honeys,” I sleepily smiled at them from the car, as my eyes welled up with tears.

I grabbed my backpack from the backseat and let myself in through my sliding glass door as I argued the tears trying to fall from my eyes. It was dark, but it smelled like me. I didn’t bother wiping at my tears, and I didn’t close the sliding glass door behind me. I hadn’t turned on any of the lights by the time I turned the shower on. I grabbed some pajamas from the hamper under my bed and by the time I returned to the shower, I was full-on crying.

I’d never been so Home.