Rabbit Holes

 

“There isn’t a thing to eat down there in the rabbit hole of your bitterness except your own desperate heart.”

Cheryl Strayed

            I seem to think and talk about rabbit holes a lot, probably because I fear them so much. In the first draft of my book, I write about my mother’s rabbit holes, and how my impression from reading her journals is that she came to love them. It seemed that she liked laying down at the mossy bottom of her thoughts, all curled up in a furry ball. The dank walls acted as a protective barrier, shielding her from the world up above that was beautiful, yes, but heartlessly painful, too. In at least one of her journal entries (she left at least a dozen such journals when she died, and I read all of them), she wrote about how her immense sadness and overwhelming depression eventually became home to her. She felt better down there at the murky bottom because she felt so acutely alive. Up there, I guess, in the flesh and blood world, she felt numb. Dead.

            For me, it is the opposite. Rabbit-holes are to be avoided at all costs. They are terrifying because I spin out in all kinds of self-deprecating thoughts that do not serve. Down there in the mossy bottom, the granite rock bed is hard and unforgiving. The dank walls fill me with panic. The impenetrable dark is a bottomless void where all light and sound is swallowed whole, and life is stripped of purpose. A hell, really, in which I tremble alone – lost and terrorized.

            I like to go for morning hikes, and when I opt to leave the ear buds in the car – actively choosing against shutting out my thoughts with music, a podcast or Morning Edition – I often discover that I have tripped down not one, but several, rabbit holes. I see myself falling, arms flailing. But the day time rabbit holes are much easier to navigate. I can still see the light up at the top, and - miraculously - I am always equipped with a pick and crampons. I can catch myself on the ledges as I fall, and climb back out again. Once I have surfaced, I am very tidy about blotting out that rabbit hole. I fill it with dirt, and then I stick a flag in it. The flag reads, “Warning! Rabbit-hole. Do not step here.” And so, in the day time, I am quite successful at sidestepping the rabbit holes. I hop about as if running an obstacle course, swerving and dodging all the thoughts that seek to trip me up.

            But at night…well, that’s a different story. At night, I somehow am never equipped with the pick and crampons and, no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop my fall by catching a ledge. My fingers slip, the walls are too slick. Or there are no ledges and footholds. Just a sheer, smooth face that plummets down, down, down. And because it is nighttime, there is no daylight to perceive back at the top. Just inky black. Not even starlight. Oh, how I shudder. Oh, how I drown.

            So, what’s a girl to do? What’s any person to do? From the books I have read and the discussions I have had, you learn to soften. You learn to observe. You do not resist with so much struggle because “what you resist, persists.” You become objective.

Is this darkness really going to swallow me whole? No.

Are any of these thoughts inherently true and utterly indisputable? No.

Will I still be here in the morning? Yes.

So, then can I learn to acknowledge the rabbit hole as just another guest in the room? One that I can converse with for a little while, but then politely leave so that I can chat up the next dinner guest? For example, that pretty lady standing over there by the hors d’oeuvres who has a slightly sunnier disposition. Yes. I can do that.

Maybe then, in this manner, I will slowly discover that I do, in fact, still have my pick and crampons. Even in the night time. I had just zippered them up in the wrong pocket. Oops. Honest mistake. Easily remedied. And so, as my fingers continue to slip on the greasy walls of nighttime thoughts, I will simply let myself free fall and trust in the process. Know as truth that whilst I turn around, slip the strap of my backpack off one shoulder and then unzipper my various pockets one at a time, that eventually I will find my tools. It may be the very last pocket (Murphy’s Law, right?), but those tools will surface eventually. So take a deep breath. I am not going to be swallowed whole. It’s okay to fall a little. Soon enough, I will have my pick in hand, my crampons strapped to the bottom of my feet. And I’ll catch that ledge. I always do.

 

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Sailing Alone Around the Room