Recently I was looking through old photographs, trying to find something worth posting that I had not already put on gab. When I got all the way back to the photographs that I took with my first digital camera, a Canon S95 point-and-shoot, I immediately saw the difference in the quality of the photographs. Much of the loss of quality came from my inexperience with photography. But a great deal of it came from the fact that my camera had a tiny sensor with a somewhat inferior lens attached. Today’s photograph is one of those old photos. I spent a lot of time trying to get it to look halfway decent, not because I would ever be able to make it into a great photograph, but because of what this particular scene means to me.
I took the photo in 2011, over nine years ago. But this exact scene represents, in my mind, a time around four years before that. It represents just a few minutes out of my life, but those minutes are so indicative of my struggle with the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder. On the day I took the photograph I could not avoid thinking about that day from four years before. But I managed to get the photograph anyway.
It’s about time I explained what happened on that day in 2007.
I have had a number of very enjoyable excursions to Table Rock. Although there was the day when I thought a lake monster was throwing body parts around in the lake; I’ve already talked about that. And there was the time that I thought I was going to hike to the top of Table Rock Mountain, only to decide to turn around and head back down about 30 minutes up the mountain. That was a little embarrassing, as I explained to folks on their way up that I did not make it all the way to the top. People older than me walked right past me, seemingly unfazed by the task ahead.
Back in 2007, my life was quite different than it is now, and not in a good way. I had not worked in six years. My life fluctuated between bouts with depression and bouts with anxiety. I had not yet been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. I had tried Paxil, Zoloft, and one other drug I cannot recall the name of, hoping for some relief, relief that did not come. Taking those medications daily made me feel so strange that I’d rather have the depression and the anxiety. None of the medical doctors who prescribed for me ever talked to me about PTSD. And they never suggested that I try Valium for the anxiety, a generic version of which I use now whenever necessary.
Back then I was still living in a state of denial about my mental issues. I had told no one of the problems I was having. I could not even admit it to myself. I was so deep into denial that, when symptoms arose, I avoided people and stressful situations until the symptoms went away. Then, I pushed it all out of my mind, as though it had never happened.
When I occasionally had a small victory over my symptoms, it was worthless. Just like when I was working, there were times when the thing that disturbed me was unavoidable. I did whatever it took to get past the hard thing. But after it was over, I just made myself believe nothing had happened; I was normal. Nothing was wrong with me. The next episode always surprised me. You can’t get better if you can’t accept that you have a problem.
In 2007, I had been walking for a number of years on the trails at Paris Mountain, and I was getting itchy to find a new place to hike. I knew about Table Rock. I visited the old lodge there with my extended family as a child, back when it was a restaurant. I knew there were some trails there and a couple of lakes. So I set out early one morning to go to Table Rock State Park.
I was looking forward to a few hours on trails I had not hiked before, looking at scenery I had not seen.
It didn’t happen.
I turned off Pumpkintown Highway on to Cherokee Foothills Scenic Highway with excitement in my heart. In a few minutes I’d be there. It was a beautiful day, sunny and cool, a great day for hiking.
But as I got closer to the park, after a glimpse of the mountain in the distance, I knew something was wrong. I didn’t feel right. The closer I got to the mountain, the stronger the feeling got. Some sort of ambiguous fear was causing me to feel anxious. I didn’t know why, but I felt certain that something awful was going to happen. Thoughts in my mind were all jumbled up, fighting with one another. It was hard to think clearly.
The trees that lined the road suddenly dropped away, and a great valley opened up off to my right. The mountain stood there, magnificent and beautiful; I’m sure it must’ve been … but that isn’t what I saw. I can’t really tell you what I saw. I don’t know. I’m sure I saw the mountain, but I did not see the beauty. My mind saw confusing roads leading into the park, trails that were up too high, potential disaster, some unnamed thing that filled me with fear.
I was having trouble concentrating on driving. I felt trapped in there.
I pulled off the road and stopped the car.
I got out and began to walk down the highway, trying to clear my head. There must surely be something in the air or some sort of magnetic force on that mountain that’s causing me to feel this way. That may sound odd now but that’s exactly what I thought. Something was causing this. Something out there, outside me. It couldn’t be me; there’s nothing wrong with me.
I walked for a while, quite briskly … not paying attention to where I was, or where I was headed. I just walked down that highway, trying to get away from my feelings. After a while, I stopped and looked back at my car. It was tiny, almost out of sight. I headed back. My anxiety had eased up a little, but it returned quickly.
Wild thoughts began running through my head. I’m an hour away from home, miles from stores or houses. I had no cell phone back then. What if I got back to my car and it wouldn’t start? What if some strange vehicle pulled up and someone got out and just took my car, drove off in it? What if some 18 wheeler came barreling down the highway out of control and crashed into my car, smashing it to bits?
I began to run.
It was as though I needed to reach my car before something could go wrong and leave me stranded at the foot of this mountain, this strange mountain that filled me with dread. I ran as fast as I could, with no thoughts of my old legs or my old heart. I just ran.
By the time I got to the car, my chest was pounding. I leaned against the door and reached into my pocket for the keys.
They weren’t there.
Oh, God!! What am I going to do now? The anxiety was almost unbearable. I’ve got to get out of here. This can’t be happening to me. This can’t be happening to me!
My hand shook as I reached for the door handle. I timidly pulled. The door opened. It wasn’t locked. I always lock my car, always. How in the hell could I forget to do that? I got in and sat down. I put my head down on the steering wheel and began to sob uncontrollably.
Don’t know how long I sat there, but I finally stopped crying. I pulled off my glasses, wiped my face, wiped tear sprinkles from inside the lenses with my shirttail, and slipped the glasses back on. And then I saw them.
The keys … were still … in the ignition.
The old Toyota cranked right up. Without looking in either direction, I made a quick U-turn, and I was on my way home. It was a long hour drive. I had to stop a couple of times to clean more tear sprinkles from my glasses. But before I got home, I had already begun to convince myself that nothing strange happened on that day. Pretty soon the incident left me.
I only remembered it again when I decided to go back there, after two years of therapy for my PTSD. By then I had some tools to deal with those things that triggered memories of my trauma in Vietnam. And I think I understand what caused all that anxiety back then.
At some point in my tour of duty, my company had to climb down a 3000-foot mountain, in search of Vietcong who were harassing an outpost of ours on top of the mountain. That took three days and two nights. A significant part of that mountain had a rock face, somewhat similar to Table Rock Mountain. I guess just seeing Table Rock pulled me back there, in the short time when my company was almost defenseless, unable to set up a proper perimeter, and caught behind the Vietcong who had ignored us and attacked the outpost again, causing dozens of rounds from our own guys to sprinkle the trees over our heads.
I am pleased to say that I can now drive past that great view of the mountain from Cherokee Foothills Scenic Highway and feel no anxiety at all. I can enjoy that view, and hope someday to see it again. Because, now what I remember are those beautiful days sitting on a bench near the water looking up at the mountain as pillowy clouds float by. Below all of that, and assisted by a light breeze, I remember the morning fog dancing across the lake, first like a wispy blanket floating along just above the water, and then like dozens of willowy ballerinas on tiptoe, that dance with delight and then disappear before my eyes as the sun begins to warm the air.
It is amazing how the state of a mind can change. I still have my baggage but it’s much lighter now, no longer so heavy that I cannot enjoy a beautiful day looking out on the mountain.