I can I know

The car ride from Chiang Mai to Pai was a long and dizzying three-hour ordeal during which, at any given point, I was certain I was either about to die or to vomit. The road twisted and turned, went up and down, and was often extremely close to the edges of cliffs. It was also breathtakingly beautiful.

Back then, I struggled hard to take in the beauty around me. I saw it, but I didn’t see it. I think my body was still learning how to regulate enough to experience, and at times even notice, anything that wasn’t directly and immediately in my face or physically touching me.

I arrived in Pai and instantly felt at peace. Everything was so pretty and the view out my bungalow windows was of mountains and trees and sky, so much green and blue. I remember texting a friend telling her I could stay here forever.

A few hours later, I felt deeply depressed. Lonely, scared, sad, I wanted to go home. My moods would turn on a dime. Quickly, intensely, up, down, and, usually, back again.

I spent a week at the first guesthouse, and then moved on to a hotel close to the Pai walking street and night market. It was a struggle to leave my room each day, but I would, and once out, I would enjoy myself to the extent I was able to back then. I’d walk through the market, past all the different stands and vendors, trying my best to take it all in.

It was in Pai that I learned to walk into a restaurant, choose something off the menu, order, sit inside and eat a meal alone. Something I’d done but a handful of times in New York. Never wanted to. Never enjoyed it. Was too scared, too anxious. I’d need a friend to come along, or I wasn’t going.

Now, I had no choice. I was alone, and ready or not, I was going to learn how to be.

The third place I moved to in Pai was out in the jungle in the middle of nowhere, too far, I thought, to walk to the night market and other newly familiar areas.

The very old wooden bungalow was situated at the top of a very green hill, with a flight of steep, wooden, and slightly broken stairs spiraling up and around to the front door. The view from the top was absolutely gorgeous. Mountains in the distance, a large stretch of jungle dense with trees, a sharp drop off what looked like a cliff to one side, and the bluest sky I’d ever seen.

The inside of the bungalow though, was absolutely terrible. I did my best at first to ignore the dirt, the smells, the dampness, the droppings, the bugs, the door that didn’t fully close, the awful moldy bathroom, and the stained and ripped curtains that did not fully cover the windows. I didn’t want to have a problem. Maybe I could like this.

There were two beds in the room and I chose the one that grossed me out least, and immediately sunk into a deep depression. Something about this room scared me, and I became unable to leave. Frightened and stuck. Locked inside. Terrified of the world, of people, of myself.

One question ran through my mind on repeat: could I jump? Was it high enough? What would happen? Would anyone notice? Could I jump?

For two nights, I slept in this place, never leaving and with only some instant coffee, a bag of chips, and a cup of instant noodles for food. I had a therapy session. I told her I was alright. She knew I was not. I could not bring myself to tell her just how bad it was. She asked me to think about extending my trip. I got upset. I couldn’t hear it.

I knew I had to get out.

On a Thursday afternoon, I made the extremely difficult decision to book a new place and get the hell out of this one. I would lose my next three nights of this non-refundable booking, but I wasn’t concerned about that. The hardest part for me was the thought of physically leaving the room to find the nice lady at the front desk and let her know I had a change of plans.

I’ve always struggled hugely with confrontation, of any sort, real or imagined, and I have done many things in my life that I did not want to do just in order to avoid hurting someone’s feelings, being temporarily uncomfortable, or having to advocate for myself.

This was HARD. My heart pounding out of my chest, my anxiety at an all-time high, I left my room, went down the splintering, weirdly soft, damp wooden steps for the first time since climbing up them two days ago, and found my way through the jungle path, down the hill, and back to the reception. I rang the bell, and doing my best not to cry, I explained that I was going to be checking out early, leaving today, and could I please get a ride back to the center of town?

The minute I got out of there, I could breathe again. I had done it. I was ecstatically proud of myself and so enormously relieved. This was BIG.

The next day, two days before leaving Pai and a week before my visa was due to expire and I was due to fly back to the US, I took myself to the immigration office to apply for a 30-day extension. The office was a short eight-minute walk from my hotel, a factor which, along with much encouragement from my therapist, reminders of why I was there in the first place, and several in-depth pros and cons lists, convinced me to actually go and do it.

I was terrified. This fell directly into the category of things I’d go to all efforts not only to avoid doing, but to convince myself I was actually better off not doing. That I did not want to do it. Not because I thought it was best for me, not because I actually didn’t want it, but because I genuinely felt it was too hard and I was too scared.

I didn’t want to talk to people. New situations frightened me. I didn’t want to have to deal with changing my airline ticket because it involved a necessary phone call and could not be done online. I didn’t like speaking on the phone. Going home as planned would be so much easier.

Today, these all sound like terrible reasons to not do something that turned out to be one of the top ten best decisions I’ve ever made in my life.

I had flown over 10,000 miles and now was my chance. Had I turned back then, none of the next seven months of my trip would have happened.

If I had stayed in the place that had me feeling suicidal, if I hadn’t been brave enough to leave early and move back to the center of town where I could easily get to the immigration office, if I had waited one more day (the office is closed Saturdays and Sundays, I went on a Friday just hours before closing and left Pai the following sunday…) if I had gone back to Chiang Mai before getting the extension done in Pai, so many ifs…

But I left. And I went. And I got it.

Every tiny little step, every choice I made, every chance I was willing to take, everything that went right and everything that went wrong, every single bit of it was a necessary piece in the puzzle that has gotten me exactly to where I am today.

I was staying in Thailand. For at least an additional 30 days. I booked a flight to Koh Samui. One step at a time.