Northwoods Healing

My cousin invited me up to her family's cabin in Minnesota for a long weekend to take a pause. I thought a few days in nature with calm respite would be medicinal. We arrived at a picturesque cabin deep in the Northwoods on a lake. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I felt like l stepped back into a dream.  This warm, inviting space reminded me of a dollhouse I had as a child. 

The decor was done by her mother-in-law, who had a fine eye for detail and quality. Everything was "just so." It was elegant yet rustic.  There was a wood-burning fireplace at the center of the room. There were fleece-lined, country-patterned blankets that hung neatly in a row on wrought-iron hooks. A Nespresso machine with a milk frother was in the kitchen. I had never seen or had a Nespresso before. I had no idea how to use it.  It wasn’t the luxury of the details that I was mesmerized by. It was the energy and attention that was put into curating. Love built this home. I could feel it. I felt safe. 

Far from the static noise, the silence was deafening. I could hear the wind rustle through the trees. I saw swans flying in the air.  We stood on the frozen (shallow) lake and watched the sun as it set. She created a memory for us by taking a mental Polaroid. She closed her eyes and said,“Click. Click. Click”. Inside of me, an eruption was brewing. If I could just hold it together for a few days - I would be fine.

During the day, we went antique shopping in the small town nearby.  As we walked, memories of my childhood started to come forward like a drizzle.

My grandparents’ house was filled with antiques.

Repressed memories were knocking at a barely audible volume. A level so quiet that if you heard it, you’d question if it was just the wind. It was my past rapping at the door of “now or never.” A lifetime of abuse that had been muffled for decades cracked through the surface of remembering. 

Over the weekend, we worked on a puzzle. Memories started to rush forward like a waterfall.

My grandfather was always one to do puzzles after dinner. One was often on the table where he would sit mindfully.  

My cousin cooked me a trending pasta recipe she found.  She moved around the kitchen effortlessly.  As thoughtful of a gesture as this was, I was out of body and not fully present. I thought, “When was the last time someone cooked a meal for me?” I couldn’t remember.  My cousin fluttered about, relaxed, content, and comfortable.   I had an overwhelming sense of pride for the woman she grew up to be. I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the noticeable differences.  

She was in her late 20’s… I was in my early 40’s.
She knew how to cook…I couldn’t figure out the coffee machine.
She had a budding career and had a stable job… I just lost mine and didn’t understand why.
She was in a loving relationship; I hadn’t been in a relationship since 2016.
She had a life; I had trauma.
She had a home; I was uprooted every other year.
She was loved; I was in so much pain.

We sat on the porch and looked out at the lake. I was shaking. It didn’t matter how many layers I had on or how breathtaking the scenery was. I felt like I was being electrocuted. I tried to mask it to be strong for my cousin. She curled up close to me and said, “It’s ok to cry.” I knew if I cried, the floodgates would open, and I wouldn’t be able to stop. On the inside, an emotional earthquake of lost memories had just broken the shell of years of saying, “I’m fine.” Memories from the past were now gushing forward like a river. There was a shift happening. 

At night, we stood outside and looked up at the stars. My eyes were dazzled by the stars. These were unlike anything I had ever seen. The air was crisp, chilling, clean, and medicinal. I took in deep breaths, cherishing each one.

The day before we left, I was flipping through old family photographs. I was filled to the brim with flashbacks, and the tears overtook me. The river of memories now had me in the eye of a storm. I reached the tipping point. I was long past the point of no return.  The next day, I called my doctor and told him I needed more care. I flew back home and self-admitted into a PHP/IOP program for PTSD/Trauma. There was no looking back now.