So all my columns will not be rainbows and unicorns.
This one, for instance, involves a recent incident and me trying to understand the different layers of my makeup, and why I felt and reacted like I did.
I was threatened by a younger, larger and angrier male.
Now in the jungle this would probably be a challenge for, like say, oh, I don’t know territory, food or a mate.
But it wasn’t a challenge. It was conveyed in body language, eye contact and gestures as a threat and intimidation.
I have a history of not panicking in confrontation or life-threatening situations.
Not that I don’t care about what happens to me, but I care about those who happen to be with me.
Incidents such as helping crew members into survival suits in the Gulf of Alaska, becoming large in the path of a charging brown bear, entering a smoke-filled house, pulling a driver from a fiery car after a crash, helping a bouncer stop a multi-weapon bar fight, slipping into a glacial crevasse, being un-kayaked by a humpback, falling off a bridge with a full pack onto an icy river, stopping one hook shy of being part of a black cod long line set, wielding a bat to chase off a Los Angeles car-jacking attempt, being struck by a falling rock on a summit attempt…hmmm, there are more, some probably not as fun or exciting for you readers.
But in every situation it was the reaction that baffles me.
Cool and calm and a thousand thoughts each seemingly with enough time to be contemplated and evaluated.
Then when the threat has passed, I plunge into anxiety, anger, sadness, a longing for ice cream (OK, that was just to invoke a smile from you to read on).
I found various uneducated coping mechanisms through my evolutionary stages…unfortunately that involved youthful ignorances, welcoming feeling alone and the inability to nurture friendships, illegal drug and alcohol use, meaningless sex, revengeful actions and thoughts of, well, not self-harm, but of, “Would anyone care if I lived in an attic for the rest of my life and stole food from a fridge downstairs, would I be missed?”
Over the years I have helped some college graduates with expensive degrees pay off their professional pastimes to get in touch with myself.
I have found little work-a-rounds in my day-to-day to become more in tune with who I am.
I have welcomed healthy habits and healthy relationships.
I have a safe word.
I have learned to laugh, especially at myself.
And I learned, not to pass the buck on my genetics, but to embrace them.
So…I was sexually abused at age 10.
It happened twice. Inappropriate touching. It didn’t involve a family member. And it isn’t the sole cause of how I am me. It is just something that haunted me until it did not.
It may have been the reason I felt repulsed when my parents put a hand on my shoulder, or why I was homesick if I spent the night away from them, or why I feared being noticed.
My genetics go back far and the struggles others had to endure make me feel ashamed to bother you with this column.
My mother, the pillar of our family, struggled her whole life with depression.
Yet I never understood that.
She was the life of every path we trod.
Her mother died by suicide.
My mother gave up college to raise her sisters and marry a first husband who left her with children and sadness.
As a youth I distinctly remember finding her crying alone in her bedroom or doing laundry while sobbing or letting tears fall into the soapy dish water and when I asked what was wrong she said, “I am just tired. I am OK.”
She was powerless in that generation of cures and fixes. Yet she was powerful in not leaving behind those who needed and loved and cared for her until we were ready.
My father was the rock on which the pillar stood.
A silent man whose generous actions and physical strength still resonate in our hometown these so many years after his passing.
His father died in the great flu epidemic. At an age when he should have finished sixth grade he brought his mother and sister and assorteds to Alaska where he farmed foxes, worked lumber, built houses and boats, and was ready at a moment’s notice to give help to all.
Yes, he was powerful. But his kindness was abused and he was powerless to say no.
I took and took, yet on his death bed he squeezed my hand to answer my, “I love you.”
Don’t get me wrong. My sibling and my half-siblings wanted not and felt loved in our little house on Hungry Point.
And I am proud to embrace the anxiety and depression that genetics, environmental factors and life circumstances I have grasped like an old hoarder tying together stacks of mildewing comic books.
Yet I still am learning. We all are, I believe.
So there it was…an apex-predator towering over his prey.
I had only asked if music could be turned down as framed photos had fallen, books on shelves had disheveled and mice that usually stay hidden had looked on in disbelief.
“Do something about it,” my attacker yelled. His chest touched mine, his arms spread wide into the universal act of welcoming violence, his eyes emblazoned with hate. “Go ahead, do something.”
My mind was clear.
Checklist.
He needs a mint. Check.
I have bear spray near the door. Check.
I have firearms under the bed, no ammo. Check, Klas??!!
I have kitchen utensils!!
I have a significant other on the couch. Check, check, check.
There was no backing down here. On either side.
Am I ready to feel this powerless? Or this powerful?
“I respect your feelings,” I said. “I will do something. I am going to make a phone call.”
There were professionals better equipped than myself to deal with the two traumas we had brought together.
In the days following I wrestled with mine.
Why am I me?
It is something I learn about every day, with friends and family and nurtured by the teachings of very smart people, and sometimes thought about all by myself.
Sometimes it is powerful to be powerless.
NOTE: The Suicide and Crisis Lifeline is a hotline for individuals in crisis or for those looking to help someone else. To speak with a trained listener, call 988. Visit 988lifeline.org for crisis chat services or form more information.
• Contact Klas Stolpe at klas.stolpe@juneauempire.com.
