What the crap was I thinking?

I don't know how many terrible stories start with the line, "Well, I met these people on the internet and they seemed real nice...", but every single possible one was running through my mind as I turned off of the backcountry highway and into the driveway. A Ford pick-up was parked by the barn, filled with "sacks of grain" which were obviously dismembered bodies in disguise. A small shed was directly ahead, no doubt filled with buckets of hair and toe-nails. And in the basement? A massive collage of stalker-taken photographs of me, next to a sign: "Days Until Next Kill." The bloody, freshly-drawn "ZERO" would be the last thing I saw in this life...

But really -- I met these people on the internet and they seemed real nice.

In order to head off the panic attack that was slowly creeping in and would surely cause me to turn back, I forced my legs to carry me out of the safety of my car and up to the front door before my mind could catch up. I don't even remember knocking, but apparently I did because 10 seconds later I was shaking the hand of ASTL, one of the owners of the farm. ("ASTL" stands for both of what I think are her most noticeable physical attributes: "A Super Tall Lady" and "Aviator-Style Transition Lenses".) Her friendly smile, and lack of bloody ax or sawn-off shotgun, made me feel much better as she welcomed me inside.

The rest of the day went by in a blur of house tour, pen tour, pasture tour and lots of introductory conversation in between. I had exchanged no more than a brief greeting with ASTL's husband before he suddenly appeared in front of me around dinnertime and placed a plate of steaming chicken fajitas literally on my lap, then walked away without a word. I shall name him "Quiet Guy".

Stomach full and mind racing, I found myself trying to calm down in the guest bedroom around 9 PM. My environment was now 100% unfamiliar and out of my control (save for the lock on the bedroom door). I wanted to fall asleep, to let my mind process the events of the day while I slept. But every time my mind let down an inch of guard, I could feel my head get top-heavy and and take off from my neck while my heart jumped to my throat and my stomach sank to my feet -- if you've ever had a panic attack, you know the sensation. Reluctantly, I took a really deep breath (read: 12.5 mg of Xanax), and finally dropped off.

By 8 AM the next morning, I had bottle-fed 5 goat kids and milked a Nubian (a type of goat) doe (female goat). I was feeling okay, but still on mental high alert -- I knew that everything hadn't quite sunk in yet, and I was impatiently waiting for that other shoe to drop. It did, at 2:34 that afternoon.

I was done with my work for the day, had showered and put on clean clothes, and was now parked by the rocky beach of the town's lake, a few silent tears streaming, trying to convince myself not to cut-and-run. The unfamiliarity and lack of society hit me all at once, and suddenly I was sure I had made a stupid decision. I couldn't live feeling this cut off for 8-10 weeks! I'd be beyond miserable! Who cares about building character when the farmhouse doesn't even have wi-fi? What the crap was I thinking?

But slowly...slowly...ssslllloooowwwwlllyyyy...I became reasonable again. I thought back to my first days of college and recalled how I had had this same feeling, and how it had faded much more quickly than I'd ever imagined such an overwhelming emotion even could. So deep down, I knew it was temporary. ASTL, QG, and I would be BFFs ASAP, and I'd be able to navigate this one-stoplight town with my eyes closed. I'd establish a routine and maybe even make a few friends. And I'd find wi-fi, even if I had to stand atop the farmhouse wearing a tin foil cap and a lightning rod.

I knew that if I could stay for one day, I could stay for two. And if I could stay for two days, then I could stay for a week. And if I could do that, then 10 weeks would be a walk in the pasture.

So I focused on staying for one day. One day. Just one.

μηδὲν ἄγαν,

Dorkas