Yosemite Valley Floor - Part 2

 
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I pretended not to see him. I was so angry. I tried to remember the names of the girls in the babysitters club. I couldn't. As I slowed down, so did he. As I stopped, so did he. He hung back. Why is he hanging back? In a moment of super dramatic rage-hiking, I compared this distance he's keeping to being stalked through the streets. I debated turning around and shouting something about needing to catch up and walk with me or turnaround, but I didn't.

Instead, I stomped over dead trees, ran and jumped over streams with varying degrees of success, and kept hiking. Furious. Questioning my handling of the situation. Questioning my handling of every situation in recent memory. Why is this making me so angry? Why am I so pissed?

I farted audibly, alone in the wilderness, and giggled to myself.

"DUCKS!" I shout to nobody but myself.

Then I start crying.

When someone farts, Barry blames (usually non-existant) ducks. Barry isn't here to call for ducks. Because when he kindly asked me if I'd like to turn around, I thought he thought I couldn't do this and I snapped back at him about it.

When I heard that he doesn't want to be my babysitter, I assumed it means that I need a babysitter all the time. And it's because I'm being a silly little girl.

Shit shit shit shit shit. TRIGGER ALERT! I don't know when or how many times he said it, but I can see my father scolding me, wagging his finger, telling me I'm being a silly little girl, rage in his eyes.

Can I turnaround? Can I get a do over?

This actually has nothing to do with Barry. Or this hike. This is my shit. This is me, feeling like I can't express my needs after decades of keeping them suppressed. This is me, feeling triggered, once again falsely assuming that my husband thinks I'm a silly little girl when I act this way, that I cry to get what I want, and that my story is bullshit. Barry is not my dad. Barry has held space and created this beautiful container where I can sort through my feelings. He has been holding the vision of the woman I am becoming when I couldn't see her myself.

Can I find her, that version of me, before we reach the spring?