Fucking Pickles

Last weekend I gained over 11k feet of elevation, with a large heavy backpack, and was able to lead a technical ice climbing route up the south side of Mount Rainier, the most prominent mountain in the United States. Aside from the elevation, this route might be technically longer, higher, and more challenging than the standard route on Mount Everest from base camp.

I did it with a broken hand.

The same hand I broke climbing the same mountain a month and a half prior.

I did it against the will of some of my closest love ones.

Why did I do it? Because I had to. It’s hard to explain.

Sometimes I just look at something, and I know I have to do it.

It might not make sense.

It might be completely insane.

It might be dangerous.

It might be confusing.

It might be completely fucking irrational.

But sometimes…

…I just know.

I have to do it.

have to do it.

must do it.

 

Recently I lost someone I love.

 

It has been pretty hard, and I definitely questioned myself along the way. I questioned my ethics, my morals, my overall sense of dignity. I questioned my ability to even love in the first place. I questioned everything.

I try to remember that there sometimes isn’t a right or wrong answer, just a different answer.

 

 

Let’s talk about pickles!

 

 

Sometimes you just don’t want pickles on your sandwich, and that’s okay.

Sometimes you think you might be okay with pickles.

Sometimes you think you can tolerate pickles.

Hell, even sometimes you might even think you like pickles. That you actually want pickles on your sandwich!

 

 

 

After a few bites, the pickles might even taste good! You might even enjoy a sandwich with pickles on it!

But sometimes, you don’t know what the future holds.

Sometimes, you don’t know that after a few sandwiches with pickles you might start hating them.

That you might munch, and munch on pickles and slowly begin to find the taste revolting.

I feel like I really fucked up my ability to measure my ability to tolerate pickles,  or crave pickles.

I feel like I really fucked up my understanding of myself, and my desire to have pickles.

I feel like I really fucked up how I presented myself, and my feelings of pickles.

I also feel like, there is no way that I would know that I wouldn’t be okay with pickles, if I didn’t try eating pickles for a while.

I feel like the person I lost, really wanted me to want to eat pickles with them.

In fact, I also wanted to eat pickles with them. It sounded wonderful. I really wanted to bask in a giant pile of pickles with them. It sounded so incredible. All the pickles, and just the two of us.

I feel like I had to believe that I wanted pickles, that I had to try eating pickles, for me to realize that wasn’t what I wanted.

One night, I was staring at a sandwich that inevitably had pickles on it.

All of the sudden…

..I knew I didn’t want pickles.

I knew I couldn’t do it.

I knew that even though I said I would be okay eating pickles, that I couldn’t bare to have even one more taste of pickles.

It just wasn’t for me.

I found out that I’m just not a pickle person.

In the same way I knew I had to go up rainier this weekend, I knew that I had to get away from the pickles.

I just looked at it.

and I knew.

I knew.

I just knew.

Fuck pickles.

I fucking hate pickles.

So what do you do?

 

When you have a fridge full of pickles, and a person who want’s nothing more than to eat pickles with you. When you slowly start to realize you don’t like pickles.

You love the person.

You can’t stand the pickles.

Do the pickles go?

Does the person go?

Do you go?

Something HAS to go.

Something MUST go.

 

I tried to get rid of the pickles – but that’s not fair.

Why should they stop eating pickles on their sandwich, just because that’s what I want.

I tried to get rid of my self.

That’s not fair, because I always said I was down to eat pickles.

I tried to get rid of them.

That’t the most not fair, because they did nothing wrong. They just want to eat pickles.

What is the right thing to do here? What do you do? I just didn’t want pickles! I knew I couldn’t eat another pickle!

 

 

 

 

 

I knew I had to go.

I knew the pickles were here to stay.

I knew I couldn’t eat another pickle.

I shut down.

I closed up.

I left.

I ran.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I learned about my loathing for pickles, at the expense of a pickle lover.

It’s fucked.

It’s horrible.

It’s rotten.

It’s foul.

 

 

 

 

But that doesn’t make ME fucked, horrible, rotten, and foul.

It just makes me a human, who had to learn the hard way, that she hated pickles.

If you ask me, pickles… are fucked… horrible… rotten… and foul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fuck pickles.

I’m never eating pickles again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…but there isn’t anything wrong with not liking pickles…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s just..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…different.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know of some really beautiful people, who also don’t fuck with pickles. I think I am going to go hang out with them. But I try to remember how much I still love everyone regardless of their relationship with pickles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t like pickles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s who I am.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m just…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…different.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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