a year in the wilderness, pt III: the good stuff

Now we get to “the good part.” The juice. The part where the conflicts happened. The part where it caused some pain and hurt and decisions were made.

I liked my job. I loved the people I worked with. One guy I worked with had a crush on me. He was super weird about it. He finally asked me on a date. I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea. We had talked a lot at work, texted outside of work. I felt I knew enough, that it wasn’t a good idea for me personally.

But he asked.

Several times.

And again.

And by the time I finally agreed, he almost acted like he didn’t want to any more. Which, in a way, made me want to go even more. He knew where I stood, and how I felt about dating, relationships, etc. Like I said–we’d talked a lot. He asked why he was all of a sudden worthy of taking me out on a date. I said it was more about letting go about the idolization I’d felt I’d put on a first date. Because, fun fact, I’d never been on a date. Ever. This was all new to me. This whole situation was confusing the heck out of me, because I’d never been in this situation before. I didn’t know how to act or react to any of it.

It all felt unsettling to me. There was anxiety and it felt weird. He said he understood and maybe we should hang out at his house and feel it out to see if a date would be okay. I agreed.

The first night we hung out, nothing happened. We just sat around and talked mostly. I think we maybe watched a movie. He offered me alcohol. I said I didn’t know him well enough to drink there. I’d only known him a few weeks, and he liked me, and it just didn’t seem like a good idea. I said maybe next time.

We never went on the date.

But we did hang out again. And again. And again. And there was a lot of whiskey. On occasion there was a lot of wine. There were good conversations, but there was also a lot of being uncomfortable. There were times of physicality that I wasn’t okay with. There were times of physicality that I was okay with. It was a really hard and confusing time. A lot of trying to numb a lot pain. A lot of grieving the community of the squad.

At some point around the ten week mark, after a few conversations with squadmates about it, I realized one thing: I was using a guy and whiskey, trying to cover up a lot of pain. The root of that pain was deeply grieving loss of community. I was allowing some things to happen because I felt a void. I was longing for intimacy. I wasn’t caring how I got it any more. I needed the void filled.

One night, after I’d let things to a little too far, I talked to the guy. I told him we were mutually using one another. That I wasn’t okay with it, that it wasn’t who I was. I told him I wasn’t drinking over at his house any more, but that we could still hang out. That I just wouldn’t drink. He didn’t like it. I didn’t stay long that night, left when the conversation was over. We never hung out again after that.

If I’m being honest, while I had people I could talk to after getting home, I didn’t feel like I could truly be honest with my community back in Manhattan. People didn’t know who I was any more. No one comes off the mission field after a year of being on the World Race the same. I was drastically different. And it took time for people to get to know me again. My story of re-entry wasn’t my community’s fault back home. I want to be clear. While I felt a huge lack of community, there simply wasn’t a step-by-step for what I was going through. No one knew the answers. I didn’t know what I needed. I didn’t ask for help. People didn’t know how to help, but it wouldn’t have mattered if they did, because like I said, I didn’t ask for help.

The thing about the race is: you build community, deep and intimate community, centered around faith and friendship for a year. You then leave. You go home. The squad splits in a great number of directions. It’s a community. You love one another deeply. Care for each other deeply. On the flip side of that as an individual: you’re known deeply. Cared for deeply. Even on my worst days on the race, people were by my side. Sitting with me while I cried. Hugging me through the tears. Telling me it was okay. That I was going to make it through. They prayed and fought for me, at times with tears in their own eyes because they could feel and see the pain I was going through. That’s real love.

It’s taken me a year of processing and having conversations about the first 12 weeks of being home to actually write this post. I’ve wanted to for a long time, but I had to have some time. I had to have some time between. Some distance and space to see it from further away. I needed to know why I went through what I did. While I still don’t fully know, I know enough.

I want to give a shoutout to my friends I talked to through this whole process, which include a few friends in Manhattan, a few squadmates, a few other race alumni, and my squadmentor. I was a mess. You guys could see it, and you didn’t tell me to stop. You let me go the way I needed to go. You knew you couldn’t control me or what I was doing. But I believe with everything in me that you prayed bold and probably tearful prayers, fighting for me the best way you knew how. I will be forever grateful for every prayer each of you said. I came out of this part of a year in the wildness with a few scrapes and bruises, but it could have been so much worse. Thank you for caring for me. Thank you for loving me through an extremely difficult season. I’m a better person, friend, and fighter because of those prayers.