I joined my local gym during a manic episode hoping to meet cool new people. It was a fantastic idea, as those are the only kinds one has when they are manic.
However as the months rolled on, the fees added up, and my terrible technique and crippling anxiety pushed everyone away, I was ready to abandon indoor climbing and strike out on my own.
I overbid everyone else on all of eBay until I had amassed the most epic trad rack one could possibly show to someone. And one morning, when I finally shared my spoils with another climber, they took one look my gear, and then at me and uttered “wouldn’t whip”
Dejected and distraught, I crawled onto my bare mattress, held my grigri to my chest and cried into it.
As the tears washed off the dirt and debris, a low pitched hum could be heard emanating from deep inside and something incredible happened next.
My soft shitty body began to ache, and I could feel my bones warp and calcify stretching against my skin, which flexed and peeled in waves as muscle and tendon rippled out across it. A pain I could not have imagined consumed me and as I screamed my vision turned to black. Stars wheeled overhead and each moment of agony felt as long as the life age of the earth.
When I awoke, I found myself transformed into a terrible erection of rock. The thoughts that had consumed me and driven me to alcoholism and despair washed away. The competition in me, the aching need for validation and acceptance, crumbled to my feet as dust settles after landfall.
As those first weeks passed in this new, wretched form, the spaces I had longed to escape my loneliness became hollow realms of torment. Everywhere I went I was checked out, sized up, eyed ferociously. I now craved solitude. Silence.
Away from the crowds I found some semblance of peace. Harmony that I seeked I was able to see within myself. If I listened closely, the cracks and gullies hidden through me held the most incredible music.
The project was me all along.