I'm finally aware of when I engage in self-destructive behavior. After years of therapy, I can feel it coming on in times of stress. This tingly anticipation of the oncoming adrenaline spike. One I'll inevitably chase until my muscles cry "No more!"
My breathing shallows. I can feel my heartbeat become more pronounced in my fingers and ears. And the sounds of the world around me become muted. There becomes nothing around me. There's only whatever machine I've chosen to satiate the behavior. I don't not want to let loose. I don't not want to risk everything.
And while I've done a lot of good work in therapy, working to overcome the need of this feeling to cope with life's stresses, I also know that sometimes, every so often, there's no denying the breathless primal desire that's been ingrained in me for decades. There's no denying the need to take the sort of risks that quell the rampant stressful thoughts I can't—in that moment—overcome with positive reinforcement.
Risk assessment goes out the window; there's only the moment I'm living in. Thus was the case as I set off into the woods with Ski-Doo, where prior to embarking on our ride, the safety of my world shattered. And while I attempted to cope with the mantras and mechanisms I've learned in therapy, things designed to forsake my need for self-destruction, all my brain could think was "Send it."
It was exactly what I needed.
Ostensibly, I'd been invited up to Beaver Creek Lodge in Northern Utah by Can-Am to test out the brand's new Apache tracks designed for its Defender UTV models so as they could conquer the snow. But as they were limited to 27-ish mph, the morning's ride in the mountains did little to tamp down the rampant dark thoughts swirling in my brain. It actually felt as if it amplified them, the slow hum-drum of speed limited adventure.
I wanted throttle. I wanted wheelies. I wanted powder.
And, luckily—or maybe not—the latter half of the day was one scheduled for snowmobiling. But while the rest of our little group chose trail sleds with engines of the 600cc variety, I went to a sled I'm familiar with. A sled that induced manic giggles last season. A sled with a turbocharger, a 154-inch track, and Fox shocks. I chose the riotous Ski-Doo Summit X. And with the push of the sled's starter, all self-preservation thinking went out the window.
It was immediate poor-ish decision making, too, as the trail had enough undulations and whoops that jumping the big snowmobile was instantaneous. They weren't big hucks by any stretch of the imagination, but starters, precursors to the woods and fields and mountains that lay further back where I could stretch the Summit X's legs and lose control. Just a taste of the unhinged.
While the snow hasn't been as plentiful as other years, this part of Utah had fairly fresh powder. Crystalline, beautiful, and dry, the top layer felt perfect beneath the sled's skis as I scythed back and forth, carving my way through the snowpack. The turbocharger hissing and sputtering with its wastegate. I slid effortlessly between the trees, up the sides of hills and faces, and did my best wheelies in a handful of spots. I'm not good at them, for what it's worth, as our guides were far better spending 100 days a year on the back of a sled. But with them also on Summits, they did little to quell any sense of reigning my behavior in as they showed off their skills.
I mean, if they're going to go into that powder, I'm going to follow.
Through the latter half of the day, each time our guides said, "Go play," I did. There was no thinking involved. I jumped the Summit X more. I sped through an open field as fast as the sled would allow, kicking up a massive plume behind me as our photographer snapped pics. I threw myself into the snow, jumping from the sled as if it were a diving board, and generally just sent it as best I could. And I fell. A lot. I got stuck a lot, too.
I went as hard as I could, leaving myself breathless, tired, and generally not thinking of anything but the second I was in. There was no thoughts on the intricacies of life. No thoughts of work, of home, of my family. There was only the sled and I and that moment. That fleeting second of shredding powder. Of the hillclimb. Of the bowl with a large hole in the middle of its face I didn't see until it sent me skyward. There was only the moment I was living in.
But I did away with the darkness clouding my mind. I wasn't concerned with the "What if?" of it all. I just sent it.
While I don't necessarily believe that was good or right, in the moment, even after everything I've learned in therapy, it's what helped me center myself. I legit could've injured myself, I know that. But there's something about being out of control so as you can return to be in control that's still alluring to my broken brain. I went off and railed on the Ski-Doo, lost most function of my thought processes, only to get back to the land of the living with ideas on how to overcome the stresses I'm facing.
It may have not been right. It was absolutely self-destructive. But that snowmobile and those mountains helped me calm everything down by spiking my heartrate to the tune of 180 beats per minute. Sometimes, for me, self destruction can be a good thing.
At least when I don't get hurt.
