It doesn't have to be night time for me to have a dark night of the soul. I can just as easily have one in the daytime, as was evidenced by climbing Helvellyn on Saturday.
Being up that mountain exposed every physical frailty, every mental vulnerability, every emotional weakness I've got.
Up on the top of that ledge with a drop on either side, and people trying to squeeze past me there was no hiding place. From the physical demands of the situation, but also from myself.
I felt weak and scared and vulnerable, and I just wanted to run away. But I couldn't run, so when I got to the top I had to limp away and that took me another 4 hours. 4 hours of limping. Even a scary fairground ride that you get on by mistake usually only lasts about 5 minutes. 5 minutes of terror maybe, but still only 5 minutes. Oblivion at Alton Towers is over in seconds.
Being up on the top of that mountain I had the same feeling as I had sitting in a rickshaw in Old Delhi In January, and it was the same one I had sitting in a Youth Hostel in Arnside with wet socks on in June.
It's that feeling that comes after you've stripped away every pretence and illusion about how great and powerful and important you are, it's that feeling that comes from knowing that whatever ego you've got is sitting there in the corner examining its bruises after getting a thorough pasting.
First I was afraid on Saturday, then I was thoroughly frustrated at my limitations, and then after that I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed because I was not only having a devastating loss of form, but I was having it in front of Ruth and Helen and in front of lots of other people too.
I think I'd have found the whole experience easier if I thought any of the people up there had been half as scared as I was, but they all looked confident and like they were taking it in their stride, while I was clinging on for dear life, and wanting to get down.
Ruth and Helen seemed so elated. And so did most of the people up there (and their dogs). Everyone was having a mountain top experience, but in their case they were on top of a mountain, whereas in my case the mountain was on top of me.
And since I got back I've been regaled with tales from everyone and their dog about how they've climbed it with a child on their back, or with a dog in a rucksack, or how their child did it as a rite of passage when they were 7, and how great it all is.
And it may well be great, but for me aged 44 and with who I am and with what I've got, it wasn't great at the time. At the time I was falling apart.
But now I'm coming back together again. The fear and the frustration and the embarrassment is wearing off. And before long I might realise that I've achieved something. Just like in Delhi, and in Arnside. Like that famous bloke said who then went on to kill himself. The world breaks everyone, but some are strong in the broken places.
And even with every frailty, and every weakness, and every limitation I've got, there's still no-one I'd rather be than me. Because without the broken places, and the places where the breaks have knitted back together again, I wouldn't be me at all.
Being up that mountain exposed every physical frailty, every mental vulnerability, every emotional weakness I've got.
Up on the top of that ledge with a drop on either side, and people trying to squeeze past me there was no hiding place. From the physical demands of the situation, but also from myself.
I felt weak and scared and vulnerable, and I just wanted to run away. But I couldn't run, so when I got to the top I had to limp away and that took me another 4 hours. 4 hours of limping. Even a scary fairground ride that you get on by mistake usually only lasts about 5 minutes. 5 minutes of terror maybe, but still only 5 minutes. Oblivion at Alton Towers is over in seconds.
Being up on the top of that mountain I had the same feeling as I had sitting in a rickshaw in Old Delhi In January, and it was the same one I had sitting in a Youth Hostel in Arnside with wet socks on in June.
It's that feeling that comes after you've stripped away every pretence and illusion about how great and powerful and important you are, it's that feeling that comes from knowing that whatever ego you've got is sitting there in the corner examining its bruises after getting a thorough pasting.
First I was afraid on Saturday, then I was thoroughly frustrated at my limitations, and then after that I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed because I was not only having a devastating loss of form, but I was having it in front of Ruth and Helen and in front of lots of other people too.
I think I'd have found the whole experience easier if I thought any of the people up there had been half as scared as I was, but they all looked confident and like they were taking it in their stride, while I was clinging on for dear life, and wanting to get down.
Ruth and Helen seemed so elated. And so did most of the people up there (and their dogs). Everyone was having a mountain top experience, but in their case they were on top of a mountain, whereas in my case the mountain was on top of me.
And since I got back I've been regaled with tales from everyone and their dog about how they've climbed it with a child on their back, or with a dog in a rucksack, or how their child did it as a rite of passage when they were 7, and how great it all is.
And it may well be great, but for me aged 44 and with who I am and with what I've got, it wasn't great at the time. At the time I was falling apart.
But now I'm coming back together again. The fear and the frustration and the embarrassment is wearing off. And before long I might realise that I've achieved something. Just like in Delhi, and in Arnside. Like that famous bloke said who then went on to kill himself. The world breaks everyone, but some are strong in the broken places.
And even with every frailty, and every weakness, and every limitation I've got, there's still no-one I'd rather be than me. Because without the broken places, and the places where the breaks have knitted back together again, I wouldn't be me at all.
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