I’ve had so much to write about since getting back that I haven’t been able to do a write up of my fond memories from my week of being a counselor at Camp Quest Ohio. There is something I want to write about first though.
I was nervous about attending camp for a lot of reasons; being at the pool with my shirt off, insecurity about whether or not I’d be able to relate to kids, etc. But most of all, I knew I’d pass by the cabin where I tried to kill myself one year ago.
For the last ten months I’ve been on top of my condition, and I really worried that passing by that cabin would trigger memories that might jeopardize the streak of stability I’m on. One of the things you learn with this condition is to know what environments put you at risk and to avoid them. This was kind of trampling all over that.
I didn’t want to spend all week with those thoughts in the back of my mind, so before any of the campers arrived I went to the cabin. It was kind of personal for a bit. There was nobody else around, just me, the cabin, and the past surrounded by forest. I stood there expecting at any moment to be overwhelmed by psychological agony.
It was just a building. If anything, I felt happy; happy to be past it, and happy about all the good that came out of it for the movement I care so much about. It was a metaphorical mirror, one in which there was none of the distortion to which I’m accustomed. It was strangely peaceful.
Later in the week I had a sick camper. I was in the infirmary with him and Dr. Clare, who accompanied me to the ER last year. At one point Clare made a comment about this being like last year when a whole lot of people got sick at once. I took the opportunity to apologize to her again for last year. She shrugged as though I’d said Jerry Springer was on and said, as casually as noting the sun was up, that it wasn’t my fault. And she went right back to treating my camper.
And I believed her. I didn’t just know she was right. I believed her.
And that was the end of it.