I met her in one of the toughest but most fulfilling experiences of my life, the Camino de Santiago. This is an 800km hike in the north of Spain, with the most common starting point the Pyrinees on the French borders, and final destination the city of Santiago, near Portugal. You can find the full post regarding Camino de Santiago here.
She was actually the first person I talked to. She was alone, looking beautiful (you can’t miss this chance) and she asked me for some info regarding the pilgrims’ accommodation. These were just 10 seconds of interaction. I could never imagine though how much this girl would affect my way of thinking.
Few days after our first contact, I reached the village of Navarrete. I hadn’t booked my accommodation from the day before (as a responsible person would do) and I painfully realized that all rooms in the village were full. Now you can imagine, after 30km of walking with a 12kg backpack, this is not the best news. The next village was about 10km far away but I could only spot 2 guesthouses on the map. I had to call and check for the availability, but I didn’t have a phone number (I told you I am not that responsible). I went towards a group of people and asked for some help. A girl with a huge smile welcomed me, took the phone out of her pocket and in 2 minutes had my accommodation and all the details figured out. She was the first girl I met on this trip…
Since then we formed a little group of friends that were inseparable. Walking along endless vineyards, climbing imposive mountains, and getting across picturesque villages of the Spanish countryside. We talked about life, our dreams and hopes, our fears. We talked about things that people would consider crazy to talk about. And every time we talked, or every time I saw her interacting with other people I was puzzled by the immense amount of love that she had in her heart for every person. Never complaining, never focusing on the bad side, never polluting my mind with negativity.
So I asked her, have you always been like that? Are you just lucky that you are born with extra dopamine in your brain than the average person? Is it possible that a someone normal with flaws, like me, can achieve this almost out of the world kindness? I saw a shadow in her face “I wasn’t always like that”, she told me. And a story I will never forget came out of her mouth. An ungly and beautiful story. A story that more people than I could imagine are dealing with. A sad story with a fairytale ending. This is her story.
Being stalked does terrible things to the mind. The looking over your shoulder whenever somebody steps a little too close behind you. The full-body freeze when you see somebody of his stature and hair colour. The cowering under the covers when you hear a noise that doesn’t sound like it’s the heating going on. The impossibility of falling asleep, and then staying asleep even if you do. The grabbing of your personal safety alarm that you keep in your pocket at all times though you know it won’t really help in a moment of crisis. The police having your number logged if you call emergency services so they can send help even faster. The danger is real and constant. It’s a nightmare that dominates every single second of every single day.
I was plagued, always, with the same question. When will he show up again? We live in an existence of unknowns, but the only true certainty for me, at that time, was that he would show up again. The question was when. And what he had planned.
I was a shell of my former self. A hollow body that was feigning living. In an attempt to prove that I had some say over the direction of my life, I radically reduced food. The added benefit was that I became smaller, less visible, on the street. I only dressed in grey and black: I didn’t want to stand out. I kept my friends close and was wary of anyone I didn’t know. I shivered with fear. Or was buzzing on empty from the adrenaline of fight, flight or freeze. Life was devoid of joy. There wasn’t even a glimmer of it in sight. Everything was misery, gloom, darkness. And the knowledge that at some point in the near future I was going to have to defend myself, yet again.
One day, I had had enough. Empowered by a women’s helpline, I called the police. No part of me wanted to report him – I had loved him, for goodness sake – but I knew, deep down I knew, I had no other choice. It was this or the end of my personhood.
Shortly after I moved to Spain. I had to get away and it seemed as good a place as any. At least the sun was shining. I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t know the language. I had quit my job. A fresh start, I told myself. Or at least somewhere to be while all the legal stuff was going on.
The primal danger I was in had now subsided and I realised just how exhausted I was. I would sleep for hours, sometimes days. I tried to regain some of my physical strength by eating a nourishing, colourful diet. On the surface, I looked better. But inside I was dark. I had the strongest feeling that the world was a bad place. That humans were intrinsically bad. And that this bad, horrible and mean world was out to get me. Contradictorily, I also wholly blamed myself for what had happened. If only I had done this or if I had only said that then this whole mess would never have happened.
At this time I did a lot of reading. My mum had given me The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho and in it I had found a source of inspiration – to walk the Camino de Santiago. I had always enjoyed walking but I had never been on long hikes in the mountains or done anything too taxing. Though I didn’t have a particular idea about what I was seeking to achieve from this walk, it became a goal. I bought a backpack, sleeping bag and boots that I would regularly wear in on weekend trips up into the local hills.
A year or so after I moved to Spain I got the night train to Sarria. The town is about 110km away from Santiago and I planned to walk it in five days. I was worried I’d never be able to do it. It just seemed so far. I stepped off the train into the misty darkness of the early morning and looked for a bar. Fortunately there was one and it was open. Café con leche in hand I saw the phrase that I would see multiple times: el camino se hace al andar (which roughly translates as ‘you forge the way by walking’).
Then I took my first steps of what would be a life-changing experience. Though it was just a few days long, my first Camino showed me that I was in no way to blame for what had happened to me. It taught me that people are good, kind, helpful. It demonstrated to me that I could do what I set out to do. When I stood in front of the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela I wept and wept and vowed that I would walk the whole thing.
A couple of months later, I was at Irún bus station as the rain bucketed down around me. I had decided to walk the Camino del Norte, which flanks the northern coast of Spain for about 670km before turning inland to Santiago de Compostela. On this five-week journey I felt joy in a way that I never had before.
The walking instilled me with a deep sense of peace and tranquillity. Being by myself with everything I needed (which turns out to be surprisingly little) on my back. The only sound I heard was my feet treading in the mud, on the gravel, through damp grass, on golden sand. And in the background almost always the sound of the waves crashing the cliffs or gently lapping the shore. The pure beauty of our Earth. The greatness of the sea. The magic of the woods. I felt at one with the world, at peace, knowing my insignificance in it all but also the fundamental role I played.
I loved the simplicity of the days. The return to what our lives should be like, what we’re designed to do. To get up as the sun rises, to do something physical, to eat when we’re really, really hungry and to rest at the end of the day. I felt physically great, my body felt more powerful every day. I realised that I was much stronger, physically and mentally, than I had ever thought.
I met people of all walks of life who inspired me. We had conversations that have stayed with me until this day. Talking about everything under the sun: about the everyday, our woes, our hopes, our dreams. They were friends, from the off. I told people about being stalked, I normalised it. It was something that happened to me, but it wasn’t me. I was not going to be defined by what had happened. I was determined about that.
About 800km from Irún, I woke up in the middle of the night with the overwhelming realisation that I had forgiven the man who had stalked me. I had found peace with what had happened. I immediately felt lighter, a burden had disappeared. Some say that by forgiving him I have somehow minimised the impact of his actions. This is not true. I know what he did. I know the impact it had on me. But by forgiving him I have let it go. I have freed myself from him, from the manipulations and from the fear. I have declared my identity to be distinct from what happened. I can now move on to a new and lighter chapter of life.
Two days later I stood, once again, in front of the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela and, once again, I wept. I knew I had found what I was looking for. I had forged my way by walking.
