Unattached: A Year of Heartache, Hiking, and Learning How to Love

By Reannon Muth

Everyone thinks 33-year-old travel writer Reannon Muth is brave for backpacking through dozens of countries on her own. But what Reannon's friends, travel blog readers, and boyfriend don't know is Reannon has an anxiety disorder that makes it difficult for her to get close to people. She's afraid to ask for help, she's afraid to be vulnerable, but most of all, she's afraid to be herself.

 

When Reannon suffers a surprising loss, her fearless façade begins to crumble, and she decides to hike Mount Whitney—the tallest mountain in the contiguous US. But as she embarks on her biggest adventure yet, Reannon realizes if she has any hope of healing, she must face her fears or risk losing everything, including her one chance at real love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skylark Media
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201504373

Reannon Muth

Reannon Muth is a writer, social media marketer, and graphic designer who lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. Originally from Hawaii, Reannon lived in five countries and four US states before settling down in southern Nevada. Her work has appeared in numerous print and online publications.  To learn more, follow Reannon on Instagram at ReannonM.

Book preview

Unattached

Copyright © 2021 Reannon Muth

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

To request permissions, contact the publisher at [e-mail].

Although the publisher and the author have made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at press time, the publisher and the author do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

This book is memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated.

ISBN: 979-8-20108-3519 (paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-20150-4373 (ebook)

First paperback edition December 1, 2021.

Edited by Margay Dean, Edie Jarolim, and Beth Bazar

Cover art by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

Layout by FormattedBooks.com

Cover photograph by Galyna Andrushko

Skylark Media Consultants

Las Vegas, Nevada, 89123

SkylarkMediaConsultants.com

To Eric: Thank you for helping me break down my barriers.

You are my soul mate and my best friend.

I love you with my whole heart.

CONTENTS

Preface

Part 1 — Heartache

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part 2 — Hiking

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part 3 — Healing

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Preface

Research professor and shame expert Brené Brown once said that courage comes from the Latin root cor , which means to speak one’s mind by telling all one ’s h eart.

The pages in this book are my attempt to do that.

All of the events described in this book came from my memory and, when appropriate, were fact-checked using interviews with the people who were present. I also kept detailed journal entries, occasionally writing nearly word-for-word summaries of conversations directly after they happened.

In three instances, minor changes to settings were made. In addition, the timeline in the beginning of the story was condensed in order to maintain pacing and flow.

All names were changed, and in some instances, identifying details were altered in order to protect the identity and privacy of the people involved.

— PART 1 —

Heartache

chapter 1

For as long as I can remember, my anxiety has been trying to kill me. Her usual weapon is an upset stomach or shoulder pain, but sometimes she uses a panic attack. That day in June, as I stood in the kitchen making coffee, she went for all t hree.

She also spoke to me.

Run.

I rubbed my face. That was my anxiety’s go-to response to everything. Run, run, run, she’d chant in my head, from the moment I opened my eyes in the morning and throughout the day—as I walked my dog, Frankie, talked on the phone with a client, drove to yoga class. She even visited me in my dreams, disguised as masked intruders or snapping wild horses. Run! she’d bellow until I woke up, shadows flitting at the edge of my vision and a heaviness on my chest. I could never pinpoint exactly what I was supposed to be running from, though the feeling came on strongest in situations that required interacting with other people. Especially anyone I cared about.

Sometimes I imagined my anxiety as a witch permanently perched on my back like a conjoined twin. Whenever my thoughts grew restless, her bony fingers would burrow into my shoulders and her breath would blow hot on my cheeks, reminding me she was still there, always there.

Today my anxiety was fretting over a text from my boyfriend, Matt.

I think we should talk.

I pulled my wavy brown hair out of its ponytail and patted it down. Okay, sure, I typed back. What about? I hoped my text read as nonchalant because the last thing I wanted was for him to think that I was freaking out. I wasn’t the type of girlfriend who freaked out—at least not in ways that anyone could recognize.

As I waited for Matt’s response, my mind ran over the events of the past weeks. Things had been good, hadn’t they? Sure, he hadn’t wanted me to come over lately, but that had just been because he’d been at the university lab all week, preoccupied with a project for work. Matt was getting his PhD in geology at the University of Nevada and between his studies and his teaching, he was often busy. Maybe he just wanted to talk about taking the next step. We’d been dating for eight months and while neither of us had said I love you yet, I’d been planning on asking him to move in with me when his lease expired the following month. I needed help with paying my mortgage and I knew he wasn’t happy in student housing. I figured living together could be a win-win for both of us. This would be a big step for me, as I’d never lived with anyone before.

But then came his response: Our relationship. My hope that I was overreacting fizzled.

I leaned against the counter. Even with my limited boyfriend experience—I’d only been in a handful of relationships in my 33 years and most of them had been short lived—I knew no good conversation ever started with We need to talk about our relationship.

Run! My anxiety was more forceful this time. I needed to get out of the house, to stay busy. Matt texted he would stop by after work, which meant I had three hours to harness my jitters. I wanted to handle whatever he had to say in a calm and rational manner. I wouldn’t let him see me cry. I wouldn’t let him see me fall apart.

So I went to the Enterprise Library on Las Vegas Boulevard and ran my hands over the hardcover spines and breathed in the familiar musty book scent. Since childhood, whenever I felt lonely or anxious, getting lost in the mesmeric pages of a thriller or romance novel would soothe me. Maybe it wasn’t such a surprise I’d grown up to become a writer. Words were my anchor. But today, I couldn’t focus. I abandoned the library to drive around the old horse farms; there were a surprising number of them in the suburbs of Las Vegas, wedged between the Taco Bells, strip malls, and cream-colored condo complexes. The air conditioner was on full blast, but it did little to cool the car down. Sweat slicked my hair to my forehead and the hot steering wheel nipped my fingertips. It was one of those searing June days in Las Vegas, when the sunshine chokes the entire valley into a breathless stillness. I listened to my self-help CD as I drove, practicing deep breathing like my therapist in college had taught me to do. But none of my usual coping techniques were working. My anxiety continued to screech in the background, zapping me in the chest with a jolt of adrenaline every few minutes.

I thought about calling someone. One of my friends from college maybe. They would know what to say. But then I quickly dismissed that idea. I didn’t want to bother them. I could handle this on my own. And besides, maybe this wasn’t a breakup at all. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe he’d come over and he’d tell me he loved me and then he’d make me a green chile burrito and I’d scribble in my journal later about how crazy I’d been to think it was anything different. I bit my thumbnail. Or maybe I was underreacting. Maybe he wanted to come over to yell at me. Was there something I’d said or done wrong? Round and round my thoughts went, tangling into each other like wet bedsheets in a dryer until you couldn’t tell where one muddled thought ended and another began.

After an hour, I gave up and headed home to shower and change. What did a girl wear to a potential breakup? I didn’t know. I’d been dumped before, but it had always been less formal, a You’re a great person but . . . text after an awkward second date, or a gradual ghosting where both of us just stopped contacting one another. I put on a flowered blouse and a pair of jean shorts that I thought showed off my butt nicely and then studied my reflection in the mirror. My hazel eyes gazed back, steady and unblinking, but I knew if I dwelled too much on what might be about to happen, I’d start sobbing and not be able to stop. I went downstairs and made another pot of coffee. My hands shook as I poured a cup.

My phone dinged. Here. It was time.

chapter 2

The cliff was taller than I remembered. I peered over the edge at the Colorado River below, a shimmer of turquoise palmed by walls of chalky desert. A man was kayaking, his paddle clattering into the rocks as he swept through the shallow water. My pulse thumped in my neck. Maybe going cliff jumping hadn’t been such a good idea. I wasn’t much of an athlete. What if I slipped? Twenty feet was a long way to fall. I blew out a breath and took a step back. Frankie—a dachshund and Chihuahua mix—sniffed at the edge and then wisely waddled away, his long tail arching above him like a ques tion mark.

It was mid-April, two months earlier, and it was one of the first warm days of spring in the desert. It wasn’t quite hot enough for the body spray I kept in my car to evaporate, but it was hot enough your feet could blister if you wandered outside without flip-flops on.

My Meetup group was nearby, perched on boulders and screening their eyes from the bright sunlight. I nodded at everyone as I edged over to them and then hovered, biting the inside of my cheek. The smell of beer and sunscreen hung in the air. I pretended to examine the string on my pink bikini, feeling awkward. As the founder and official organizer of the Weekend Adventures in Vegas Meetup group, I was the de facto Person in Charge, but it wasn’t a position that came naturally to me. Still, having a defined role to play made it easier to socialize with strangers—another thing that had never come naturally to me. Our group, all 20- and 30-somethings who lived in Las Vegas, had met that morning when we’d arrived at the patch of sand along the Colorado River in Arizona, about an hour outside of Nevada.

Several teenage boys were skirting the edge of the cliff above us, leaning over to look at the water and nudging one another. That particular cliff was the tallest one at Nelson’s Landing; it looked to be more than 30 feet high. Forget to keep your body straight when you jumped and you could end up with a bruised tailbone. Lose your footing and you could wind up mangled on the garden of slippery rocks that peeked out of the water like rows of stone roses. I’d been cliff jumping before, but not anything that high. I tended to stick to the 10-foot-or-under range, though I would never admit that to anyone. I was supposed to be brave.

Be careful, I called to Kelsey. She was walking near the 30-foot cliff. At 23, she was 10 years younger than me, and the youngest member of our group. Though we’d only met a couple of times before, I felt protective of her. I knew she’d never been cliff jumping before and I didn’t want to see her get hurt.

I got this, Kelsey muttered. The wind whipped her voice toward us, magnifying it. Then she took three quick steps and jumped, pointing her toes and pinching her nose as she dropped into the water below.

She popped up to the surface a few seconds later, pushing back the blonde hair that had curtained her face.

Jeez. Are you okay?! I inched closer to the edge in case she was hurt.

Yeah, but it stung when I hit the water. She hoisted herself up onto a flat rock.

I can’t believe she did that, I said to the group. She just jumped. No hesitation. She didn’t even look over the edge first—just jumped. I shook my head. I’d often been told I was brave—usually by acquaintances who learned about some of my solo backpacking trips abroad or by readers of my travel blog. But the truth was that I’d always been scared of almost everything. I’d just become good at hiding it. Only my parents and a few therapists knew how scared I’d been throughout all those solo adventures—how I’d almost had a panic attack at the JFK ticket counter before my flight to India and how I’d hidden, shaking, in a bathroom in a bus terminal in Guatemala.

Kelsey, it would seem, wasn’t afraid of anything. I felt a twinge of envy. I’d give anything to be more like that.

A few of the teenagers took turns jumping off the taller cliff. One of them did a backflip. I held my breath until I saw him hit the water with a clean splash. The combination of alcohol and youthful bravado meant that every summer at least one person was seriously injured while cliff jumping at Nelson’s Landing. Some even died.

Come this way if you want to jump off a smaller cliff first, I said to our group. I pointed to where the cliffs sloped downward to a more reasonable 20 feet high. I said it as though I planned to use the smaller cliff as a warm-up, but I wasn’t sure I’d even be able to jump the 20-foot cliff. I’d chickened out both times I had tried in the past. A few people stood, dusted themselves off, and followed.

Frankie trotted in front of me, happy to lead the way.

I’d adopted Frankie from the local shelter a few years back in hopes I’d have a companion to take on hikes and camping trips. But Frankie had proven to be far from the ideal adventure dog. The list of things that frightened him was longer than mine; it included everything from windshield wipers and car turn signals to garage doors, vacuum cleaners, and the neighbor’s cat. But, like me, he loved exploring even if it frightened him.

When we reached the smaller cliff, I squinted at the water below. My heart sped up.

The key is to jump over the rocks. You have to jump out, I told the group bunched behind me. I pantomimed running and jumping with my hands. Out and over. I’d watched others do it enough times to know the strategy. A few elementary-school-age boys pushed past us and sailed off the edge backward, flashing triumphant grins at us as they did.

Well, if they can do it . . ., someone said.

Yeah, they make it look easy.

One of the guys in our group went first. He stepped toward the edge and then just stood there for a moment, staring down at the water.

You don’t have to . . ., I started to say, but then he stepped off the edge. His arms flailed in the air, but only for a second, before he plunged into the water with a slap. One by one, the others in the group followed, taking turns jumping until Frankie and I were the only ones left on the cliff. The rocks below glistened from the water as though they were winking, taunting me. What if I miscalculated my jump and hit them? My legs were short—not exactly made for feats of acrobatics. I was shaped like a stalk of celery, all torso and a mess of frizzy curls on top.

I felt the familiar tightening in my chest. My breath quickened. I tried to push my anxiety away, but she came anyway, wrapping her arms around my chest and squeezing. You can’t do this. You’ll die if you try.

I can. Everyone else did.

You’re bad at judging distances. My anxiety had a point. I couldn’t even judge distance well enough to parallel park. Heck, forget parallel. I could barely park, period.

Don’t do it. I looked from the rocks to the water and back again. Don’t do it! I felt woozy and stepped away from the edge.

Come on! Someone hollered from below. The group was watching from the beach. I hesitated. Was I really going to chicken out?

You can do it! Kelsey called. She’d made the jump only minutes before but was already almost to shore, floating on her back and watching me. Just count to three and jump!

One . . . two . . . I leaned forward as my heart pounded like a boxer bouncing in the ring. I was buzzing. I stepped