Skiing my way. Living my way.
by Nancy King
Some years ago I was skiing in Zermatt with my then-husband, a much better skier than I am. He kept complaining that I was going too slowly, calling me a slowpoke, telling me I could do better if I wanted to, that his friends were tired of having to wait for me. I decided he was right, that I could ski faster if I allowed myself to push through my fear of speed. About fifteen seconds after I made a second turn I fell. My slick ski jacket slid down the steep snowy slope as smoothly as if it had been oiled. My ski bindings didn’t open. I careened down, skis in the air, helplessly trying to stop myself. I slid down the whole of two runs, thinking I was headed for the edge when I finally ground my poles into the snow and stopped. Men rushed at me offering chocolate and hot coffee in French and Spanish and Italian and German. When my husband reached me he shooed them away, telling me to stand up. My wobbly legs barely supported me. He wiped away the blood dripping from my cut lip—my only physical injury. It never occurred to me to tell him to ski where he wanted, that I would stay on the easy slopes.
Some years later, a friend begged me to ski with her during Christmas vacation, a crowded time, which I always avoided. She pleaded. She was going to do a ski week in early January and needed to ski before it began. I agreed, very reluctantly. All went well until I was on my way down, the last run of the day. A tall heavy man skiing too fast, crashed into me, banging me into a sign that said: Slow. Merging trails. He kept going. The ski patrol asked if I was all right. I’m always all right, even when I’m not. I skied down the rest of the run on one leg and then collapsed. It took four months before I was fully healed. The fear of being hit has never left me.
I started skiing with another friend, a better skier than I am. When I refused to try going down a difficult run, she got angry. She told me I could do it. She said she didn’t want to ski alone. Her anger upset me. I don’t deal well with anger, but in this case, my fear of falling was greater than my upsetness at her anger. I said no. I told her I didn’t want to be pushed. I didn’t want her arguing with me when I didn’t want to do a difficult run with her, no matter that I’d done it before. I didn’t want her anger when I repeated a question. “I’m happy to ski with you but I’m not going to argue about where I ski. If this isn’t okay with you, I’m fine with you finding other people to ski with. She wasn’t fine with what I wanted. She joined a group and met someone else to ski with. I skied by myself—not as much fun—much—less stress.
This December, when the new ski year started, she asked if I wanted to ski with her. I told her I enjoyed skiing with her but I wasn’t going to be pushed into skiing runs I didn’t feel comfortable skiing no matter how many times I might have skied them before. I also told her I have trouble hearing when I’m not wearing my hearing aids, especially when my ears are covered with a hat and helmet so I didn’t want her anger when I asked the same question more than once. I was clear about my boundaries and I was able to state what I needed without anger or judgment. I said that if she wanted me to ski with her, we needed to ski where each of us wanted, and if we skied different runs, we could meet at the lift. Much to my surprise, she said she was okay with all of this. We’ve since skied together a few times. No anger. No pushing. No stress. Just easy companionability.
A few years ago, during a vision quest, I came face to face with at least some of my fears. Fear of people being angry at me. Fear of not being lovable. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of not being acceptable. Fear of not pleasing other people. Negotiating the way I ski with a friend might not seem like a big deal, but it’s part of my promise to myself to value who I am, to pay attention to what I feel and need, to recognize that pleasing other people at my expense comes from childhood trauma and is not a viable coping mechanism.
I’ve since learned that when I’m able to negotiate difficulties in a relationship it is in no small measure because the other person is willing to take responsibility for what she/he has done or said. It takes two people willing to talk about what they need to enjoy skiing together.
Santa Fe-based Nancy King’s new memoir, Breaking the Silence, (Terra Nova Press) is due out in the spring of 2020. Please visit www.nancykingstories.com where you can read excerpts of her five novels, learn about her nonfiction dealing with the power of stories, imagination, and creativity, as well as information about Nancy’s workshops. She can be reached at nanking1224@earthlink.net
