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An Unauthorized, |
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Here we are again. Wildacres Withdrawal, Reentry Blues, Post-Partyum Depression--the name varies but the condition is real. In this difficult time for Achers new and old, we at The Tunnel thought we'd republish a few pieces that might offer some solace. Read 'em and weep, cowboys and girls.
Here's the thing, newbies: Leaving Wildacres is hard. Not just "oh-this-sucks" hard, but more like "I-think-I'll-take-a-nap-until-July" hard. I've read several Tunnel articles about post-WA depression, filled with helpful hints for coping and dealing with life off the mountain. And while they're wonderful and appreciated by most everyone, as a matriculated WA newbie I can tell you that the crippling, agonizing phenomenon known as Newbie Withdrawal is infinitely worse and basically untreatable; it's akin to heavy detox and can last anywhere from three months (if you attend the fall retreat) to the weeks precluding your next trip up the gravel road a year from now. With that in mind, I don't anticipate that my recovery advice will help you any more than the general post-WA strategies (which you can find in past Tunnel issues), but hopefully you'll feel a little better knowing what to expect, and knowing that we've all been exactly where you are now. Depression: There's no escaping it, so you may as well just wallow in it. Dance barefoot to cheesy 80s music, play the guitar whether or not you know how, or curl up in a ball near an overstuffed recycling bin. Whatever works. Nametag: I can almost guarantee you'll have a panic attack the first few times you leave the house without it; you'll frantically scan your surroundings for Judi peeking at you from behind a bench or car, bullwhip in hand. Last year, fellow newbie Susan Woodring and I kept our nametags in our purses for months in case of hyperventilating. 
Telephone: This unfamiliar racket may scare you so badly that someone will have to scrape you off the ceiling with a garden spade. You'll get used to it, as well as to not wandering around like a discombobulated drunk to find a cell signal. Meantime, try not to answer the phone with "Piss Off!" Trust me on this one.
Gong Show: In a fit of narcissism, you may be tempted to develop an ambitious Gong show skit for next year. That's fine, but don't expect to try it out on friends and/or family without consequences for what they consider your erratic behavior. (Besides, it's not the same; neither of my dogs could ever pass for Bruce Hoch, even after hours of coaching.) Dinner bell: If, by chance, you're within earshot of a clanging bell, expect that the response will be almost Pavlovian. (The "Doors Closing" bell on Chicago's El trains almost had me gnawing at the seat upholstery.) Just deal with it by heading for the nearest restaurant or pub. Civilians: They will NOT understand, no matter how hard you try to explain the intensity and exuberance of the WA experience. They may belittle it, call it "grown-up camp" (an accurate but uncool outsider observation) or otherwise devalue the magnitude of what goes on here, and you'll probably want to hit them in the face. I say go ahead if you can get away with it. Food: Setting a family-style dinner table probably won't make you feel much better, but it may prevent you from crumpling to the floor in a snotty heap the first time you open the refrigerator to leftover pizza. If all else fails, try throwing out all your pork products for the sake of continuity. Thank yous: Send Judi something nice in appreciation for all her hard work: a card, email, flowers. It helps make her job a little more worthwhile, and she'll do her best to make sure that your upcoming roomie doesn't have hygiene issues or an aversion for sharing alcoholic beverages. Thank your instructor and any mentors, as they'll be just as supportive of you next year. And send Mike House a note of thanks so he'll remember you when you come back, keeping in mind that it won't get you shit. Countdown: Don't bother counting the days until next year; that's what the Tunnel is for. Instead, count the days until the Tunnel is due to arrive in your Inbox, then send your intrepid editor a reminder email every day until it actually shows up. Finally, enjoy a little peace in the knowledge that, to paraphrase a quote from the sage and lovely Amy Burle, you leave a little piece of your heart on the mountain; all you have to do next year is come back to claim it for another magical week. And above all, write -- write about WA, write about depression, write about turkey-sausage hockey pucks, but just write. After all, you're a writer.
--For Audrey White, an absolute joy as both newbie and roomie,
Ten Things You Can Do To Survive the Year 2. Wear your name tag around the house at least two hours a day. For extra effect, ignore this suggestion on the day the blond woman comes to your house. 3. Drink one plastic cup of cheap box wine per day. For extra effect, play dance hits from the '70's and 80's at considerable volume while doing same. For maximum effect, consume the entire box while doing same. For extra points, ask a friend to stand outside your house the next morning and ring a large bell at regular intervals. 
4. Consume a large lunch at the bottom of a moderate hill. Then start climbing.5. Visit your local kitchen and bath store and play with the automatic toilet seats until they tell you to go away. 6. Ask your friends to cram your driveway with their cars. Then randomly select several of them that have to be moved. For extra effect, hire a semi to turn around in your driveway and crush as many of the cars as possible. 7. Go outside once a week and take a picture of yourself while standing on a step or a chair. For extra effect, choose a rainy day. For maximum effect, wait for a thunderstorm and stand on an aluminum ladder. 8. Distribute all of your towels among friends. Ask one of them to come to your house every week to exchange dirty ones for clean ones. 9. Bare your soul in poem, essay or fiction form. Then invite nine total strangers to your house, read it to them, and smile politely as they tear it to shreds. 10. Invite friends to your house and perform a series of amusing sketches you have devised, the significance of which only you understand. For extra effect, invite total strangers. And the most important survival tip of all: WRITE!
After Wildacres:
That for Which There is Nothing to Do Do not eat. Do not eat until someone calls you to their table. If you do eat do not remove your plate when finished. Watch what happens. If fuzzy things grow do not sniff them as this could hurt you. You do not remember where you keep your paper towels. 
Upon awakening, do not open your eyes. Listen for the sounds of the wind moving the curtains, the distant sound of laughter. Open your eyes. Where is your roommate? Who are these people?
Remove even these sheets from your bed and throw them in the corner on the middle floor. Also throw towels in this space, but to the left. After two days realize that the linens are unmoved. Stare at your washing machine, befuddled; try to remember how it works. Know that, as far away as it seems, there will be next year, which will be as significant as this year, and now that you've been to the mountain enough times you can trust this. Know that, even for those who you do not see or write or speak to during the year, you will see them next year and it will be the same as this year or last year, and that you will love and care for them again, and you will speak with them as if a year has not passed and perhaps even carry their dirty sheets and towels to the middle floor when it is all done. It occurs to you that it seems easier to reunite with these mountain people you have not seen for fifty-some weeks than it does to reunite with these everyday people you have not seen in one or two weeks. Startle at the sound of the television; become confused when the phone rings. Sit at your computer and write.
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