“Life is like a roller coaster. It has its ups and downs but it is your choice to scream or enjoy the ride.”
I am a screamer. When it comes to roller coasters I scream. I swear. I hit. I stop breathing, and I hate them. The picture above is me with my daughter, Maiah, last week at Cedar Point. It was the last ride of the day for me. My daughter made me promise that I would ride at least one big roller coaster with her. She picked The Gatekeeper. She told me it had a great view of the water and that it was pretty low key and that she thought I would like it. This is what it looks like:
https://youtu.be/pkOqi7Du3Og
Nice view of the water, huh? I was too busy pleading for my life and hyperventilating to notice it. I could not breathe properly again for another thirty minutes or more after the ride ended. I was so proud of myself for doing it and for living to tell the tale, but I learned something about myself.
When I was in the eighth grade I went to Cedar Point for the first time and rode a real roller coaster. I hated it. Never wanted to do it again. I tried again in my early twenties. Hated it. Tried again in my forties and I really hated it. There is no convincing my body and my nervous system that we are not going to die on the ride. On smaller coasters I can put my hands up and laugh when I’m not dropping to my death, but as soon as that stomach drop happens my breathing stops and I take a death grip to the rail.
I have always hated this about myself. I wanted to seek out thrills. I wanted to do coasters, jump out of planes, rush down a ski hill, or even watch a horror movie without feeling like I was going to die. I felt like a wimp, a lightweight, or a wuss. I felt like there was something wrong with me, like I didn’t like to have fun. Everyone else seemed to be having fun. I was in a nervous system shutdown with an adrenaline hangover. My adrenal glands actually ache and feel tender to the touch.
This year I learned that I can appreciate my body for trying to protect me. That it works so well that I cannot even override it with promises of fun and excitement. I’m grateful that my body so badly wants me to live. And it doesn’t mean that I cannot ride roller coasters, go skydiving, watch a horror movie, or do anything that scares the crap out of me. I can do it anyway. I can accept that in the process my body will fight like hell to protect me and love it for doing so. And afterward, I may need to relearn how to breath and be back in the safe world, and that is okay too. I am able to do that.
I always look for the lesson in seemingly random events. Turns out my life has been taking me up a track and I’m now at the top. My life is headed for some real ups, downs, turns, and even some upside down moments. Things are changing. When the coaster takes off from the track there will be no stopping it. I don’t know how long it will go and what the course looks like. I’m dropping my baby off at college on Sunday, a new school year is starting, I’m thinking about the future in my career and all sports and school craziness starts soon. I know that my body will react. It will try to shut down and protect and I’ll do some eye closing, I’ll stop breathing, I’ll scream and hit, maybe even try to get off the ride, but I’ll have no choice but to ride it out. When it stops, I’ll have to remember how to breathe again. I’ll have to remember to be grateful to my body and my nervous system for always trying to protect me instead of shaming it for being too over reactive or over protective. I’ll have to remember to be proud of myself for being scared and doing it anyway. I’ll have to remember to savor the moments when I’m not falling and holding on for dear life and that those are the times to throw my hands up and give a laugh and enjoy the view. I have to remember that my adrenaline hangover is real and that I need to rest, be kind to myself, and to release that from my body as much as I can when I am able.
I’ll take your encouraging words, your hand holding, your hugs, your good vibes, your understanding, and your refusal to let me unbuckle and jump mid-ride as I proceed through this year of change for my family. It helps to ride the roller coaster with a friend, especially a friend who doesn’t mind my screaming, swearing, and inability to open my eyes at times. A friend who understands that I want to have fun, I really do, but that my body is a fine tuned self-preservation machine that lets me know when there is danger also and doesn’t hesitate to let me know.
If you are on your own roller coaster and you aren’t feeling like throwing your head back and laughing just know that I’m right there with you, death grip on the rail, barely breathing but brave, and so are you.