Last week I woke up in a Norwegian hiker’s cabin by the water. The night before I had attended a wedding on a mountain, and late in the night I had descended to the nearest campsite, hairpin after hairpin. Now the sun shone for the first time in two weeks. I ate an apple on the canoe dock, overlooking a picturesque island. A white butterfly fluttered by. Nearby hung a red and white lifebuoy with the inscription ‘Trygg’. Norwegian for safe. salvaged.
I had been looking forward to it for over two years, really traveling again. And apparently it was a holiday with only highlights. Wild camping with a new love in a snow storm. Romantic oatmeal cooking in the tent. Then on my own: kayaking on a mountain lake, bordered by golden birch forests. Eating waffles. Mountain hiking. Wild urination among the reindeer. The fairytale wedding. That was the version I shared with the home front. A Scandinavian idyll.
What I didn’t share were the moments in between. Driving six hours a day, the times I was so tired I could only cry. And above all: the compulsive worrying. More often than not my head changed due to stress or fatigue into a faltering record, which endlessly repeated negative thoughts. Now, without distraction from work or friends, the record stuck extra often. Rumination, perseveration – these are the terms that psychology gives to it. An ailment wrapped in poetry, the way industrial estates have obscure names such as ‘Dagpauwoog’ and ‘Morgenstond’.
Objectively, obsessive worrying seems like a luxury problem. Something that makes you, as an outsider, say: come on, step over it, turn that switch. Failing that, being silent about it is tempting. Because even if it is now Mental Health Week, mental health problems remain a vulnerable theme that you would rather avoid, even if that leads to isolation. It is no coincidence that it is also the Week against Loneliness. And so I kept my mouth shut, and traveled on. Going back would feel like failure.
In the sun on the jetty, I looked on Google Maps to see where I was going next – and then the name of the island across the street caught my eye. Utoya. With a knot in my stomach I looked again: the grassy slope, the moored ferry, the rocky banks, the autumn trees. Suddenly I also understood the crane at the campsite: a monument was being worked on there. I had already known that the island was nearby, but had deliberately not looked up the exact location, to avoid disaster tourism. And now I sat here, next to the useless life preserver, thinking about July 22, 2011.
In the evening I took the boat to Denmark, two days earlier than planned. It no longer felt like failure. I was especially grateful that I could just return home. To the people with whom I feel safe.
Gemma Venhuizen is a biology editor and writes a weekly column here.
A version of this article also appeared in NRC on the morning of October 6, 2021
Last week I woke up in a Norwegian hiker’s cabin by the water. The night before I had attended a wedding on a mountain, and late in the night I had descended to the nearest campsite, hairpin after hairpin. Now the sun shone for the first time in two weeks. I ate an apple on the canoe dock, overlooking a picturesque island. A white butterfly fluttered by. Nearby hung a red and white lifebuoy with the inscription ‘Trygg’. Norwegian for safe. salvaged.
I had been looking forward to it for over two years, really traveling again. And apparently it was a holiday with only highlights. Wild camping with a new love in a snow storm. Romantic oatmeal cooking in the tent. Then on my own: kayaking on a mountain lake, bordered by golden birch forests. Eating waffles. Mountain hiking. Wild urination among the reindeer. The fairytale wedding. That was the version I shared with the home front. A Scandinavian idyll.
What I didn’t share were the moments in between. Driving six hours a day, the times I was so tired I could only cry. And above all: the compulsive worrying. More often than not my head changed due to stress or fatigue into a faltering record, which endlessly repeated negative thoughts. Now, without distraction from work or friends, the record stuck extra often. Rumination, perseveration – these are the terms that psychology gives to it. An ailment wrapped in poetry, the way industrial estates have obscure names such as ‘Dagpauwoog’ and ‘Morgenstond’.
Objectively, obsessive worrying seems like a luxury problem. Something that makes you, as an outsider, say: come on, step over it, turn that switch. Failing that, being silent about it is tempting. Because even if it is now Mental Health Week, mental health problems remain a vulnerable theme that you would rather avoid, even if that leads to isolation. It is no coincidence that it is also the Week against Loneliness. And so I kept my mouth shut, and traveled on. Going back would feel like failure.
In the sun on the jetty, I looked on Google Maps to see where I was going next – and then the name of the island across the street caught my eye. Utoya. With a knot in my stomach I looked again: the grassy slope, the moored ferry, the rocky banks, the autumn trees. Suddenly I also understood the crane at the campsite: a monument was being worked on there. I had already known that the island was nearby, but had deliberately not looked up the exact location, to avoid disaster tourism. And now I sat here, next to the useless life preserver, thinking about July 22, 2011.
In the evening I took the boat to Denmark, two days earlier than planned. It no longer felt like failure. I was especially grateful that I could just return home. To the people with whom I feel safe.
Gemma Venhuizen is a biology editor and writes a weekly column here.
A version of this article also appeared in NRC on the morning of October 6, 2021
Last week I woke up in a Norwegian hiker’s cabin by the water. The night before I had attended a wedding on a mountain, and late in the night I had descended to the nearest campsite, hairpin after hairpin. Now the sun shone for the first time in two weeks. I ate an apple on the canoe dock, overlooking a picturesque island. A white butterfly fluttered by. Nearby hung a red and white lifebuoy with the inscription ‘Trygg’. Norwegian for safe. salvaged.
I had been looking forward to it for over two years, really traveling again. And apparently it was a holiday with only highlights. Wild camping with a new love in a snow storm. Romantic oatmeal cooking in the tent. Then on my own: kayaking on a mountain lake, bordered by golden birch forests. Eating waffles. Mountain hiking. Wild urination among the reindeer. The fairytale wedding. That was the version I shared with the home front. A Scandinavian idyll.
What I didn’t share were the moments in between. Driving six hours a day, the times I was so tired I could only cry. And above all: the compulsive worrying. More often than not my head changed due to stress or fatigue into a faltering record, which endlessly repeated negative thoughts. Now, without distraction from work or friends, the record stuck extra often. Rumination, perseveration – these are the terms that psychology gives to it. An ailment wrapped in poetry, the way industrial estates have obscure names such as ‘Dagpauwoog’ and ‘Morgenstond’.
Objectively, obsessive worrying seems like a luxury problem. Something that makes you, as an outsider, say: come on, step over it, turn that switch. Failing that, being silent about it is tempting. Because even if it is now Mental Health Week, mental health problems remain a vulnerable theme that you would rather avoid, even if that leads to isolation. It is no coincidence that it is also the Week against Loneliness. And so I kept my mouth shut, and traveled on. Going back would feel like failure.
In the sun on the jetty, I looked on Google Maps to see where I was going next – and then the name of the island across the street caught my eye. Utoya. With a knot in my stomach I looked again: the grassy slope, the moored ferry, the rocky banks, the autumn trees. Suddenly I also understood the crane at the campsite: a monument was being worked on there. I had already known that the island was nearby, but had deliberately not looked up the exact location, to avoid disaster tourism. And now I sat here, next to the useless life preserver, thinking about July 22, 2011.
In the evening I took the boat to Denmark, two days earlier than planned. It no longer felt like failure. I was especially grateful that I could just return home. To the people with whom I feel safe.
Gemma Venhuizen is a biology editor and writes a weekly column here.
A version of this article also appeared in NRC on the morning of October 6, 2021
Last week I woke up in a Norwegian hiker’s cabin by the water. The night before I had attended a wedding on a mountain, and late in the night I had descended to the nearest campsite, hairpin after hairpin. Now the sun shone for the first time in two weeks. I ate an apple on the canoe dock, overlooking a picturesque island. A white butterfly fluttered by. Nearby hung a red and white lifebuoy with the inscription ‘Trygg’. Norwegian for safe. salvaged.
I had been looking forward to it for over two years, really traveling again. And apparently it was a holiday with only highlights. Wild camping with a new love in a snow storm. Romantic oatmeal cooking in the tent. Then on my own: kayaking on a mountain lake, bordered by golden birch forests. Eating waffles. Mountain hiking. Wild urination among the reindeer. The fairytale wedding. That was the version I shared with the home front. A Scandinavian idyll.
What I didn’t share were the moments in between. Driving six hours a day, the times I was so tired I could only cry. And above all: the compulsive worrying. More often than not my head changed due to stress or fatigue into a faltering record, which endlessly repeated negative thoughts. Now, without distraction from work or friends, the record stuck extra often. Rumination, perseveration – these are the terms that psychology gives to it. An ailment wrapped in poetry, the way industrial estates have obscure names such as ‘Dagpauwoog’ and ‘Morgenstond’.
Objectively, obsessive worrying seems like a luxury problem. Something that makes you, as an outsider, say: come on, step over it, turn that switch. Failing that, being silent about it is tempting. Because even if it is now Mental Health Week, mental health problems remain a vulnerable theme that you would rather avoid, even if that leads to isolation. It is no coincidence that it is also the Week against Loneliness. And so I kept my mouth shut, and traveled on. Going back would feel like failure.
In the sun on the jetty, I looked on Google Maps to see where I was going next – and then the name of the island across the street caught my eye. Utoya. With a knot in my stomach I looked again: the grassy slope, the moored ferry, the rocky banks, the autumn trees. Suddenly I also understood the crane at the campsite: a monument was being worked on there. I had already known that the island was nearby, but had deliberately not looked up the exact location, to avoid disaster tourism. And now I sat here, next to the useless life preserver, thinking about July 22, 2011.
In the evening I took the boat to Denmark, two days earlier than planned. It no longer felt like failure. I was especially grateful that I could just return home. To the people with whom I feel safe.
Gemma Venhuizen is a biology editor and writes a weekly column here.
A version of this article also appeared in NRC on the morning of October 6, 2021