Bear Attack: Part 2

aftermath

What felt like an eternity passed as my ex and I stood there, naked and screaming into the night. Thankfully, I never actually had to use the galloon of water as a weapon. There was no sign of the bear. From behind me, my ex began campaigning for us to leave the tent and head to our car. He had a strong argument: the tent’s flimsy structure and opaque nature left us totally vulnerable. If the bear returned, it could crumble our shelter like tissue paper, and we’d have no way to see it coming. The car was maybe 10 feet away. If we put our clothes back on, unzipped the tent’s door, and made a real dash for it, we could be at the car in seconds.

The only issue was, I didn’t give a fuck. There was no way in hell I was moving.

I could absolutely see the logic in his proposal, but I also felt that if I left the tent, I would surely die. In my defense, my ex had the privilege of not having felt the bear’s weight on his back, of not having heard the sniffing. The fear of those moments became like cement, fixing my feet in place.

But after a few minutes of our cortisol levels lowering enough for me to breathe, he eventually won me over. We redressed, and as he unzipped the semicircle door, following the parabola’s arc up from right to left, I braced for when he reached the vertex. I was sure that when the weight of the freed door flap became enough for gravity’s pull, it would swing down to reveal the visage of a killer.

But there was no such face. The bear was gone. As soon as enough time passed for my brain to register a path to safety, maybe two seconds, I sprinted out. The rain dappled our skin with a lightness that betrayed the severity of the night. When we finally got to the car, all we could say was, “oh my god. We were attacked by a bear. Oh my god.”

***

We stayed in the car until sunrise, when daylight promised safety. We resolved to get back on the road as soon as possible. Before doing so, however, I had to report what happened to the grounds manager, the man who so generously welcomed us to Hell.

As I approached his campsite, complete with trailer and portable grill, he had a look on his bearded face that seemed to ask, “up so early?” Based on the way he received me (comfortably in a lawn chair and without surprise), he seemed to know something had happened. He’d been waiting. At first, I thought him to have an almost prophetic quality. Then, I remembered that we’d been screaming at the top of our lungs.

I stopped a few feet before him. “We were attacked by a bear.” His eyebrows raised. “So that was you screaming? Good work. Probably scared away everything in a mile radius.” Then he went stone faced. “Did it actually come into your camp? Did it touch you?” “Yes.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, sir, it was on top of me.” He sighed and shook his head, his gaze falling to the ground. He was sad. “Damn. I’ll have to call it in. They’ll bring dogs.”

It was then that I understood the true ramifications of what had happened. While the bear had been previously spotted, it hadn’t actually made contact with anyone yet. But now, according to law, the bear had to be euthanized. We shared a brief, sad silence.

“So, you heading out?” “Yes. Thank you… Sorry...”

I turned and left, making my way to the restroom. I’d somehow managed to not piss myself throughout the whole ordeal, and now my body demanded release. After completing my business, I saw a couple in their mid-30’s hurriedly cleaning themselves at one of the sinks. I thought, I should warn them.

“Hey, I don’t know if you guys just got here, but we were actually attacked by a bear last night. I just thought you should know in case you have other options.” I’ll never forget the woman’s face as her busy hands froze, her head jolting to face me. “YOU TOO?!”

As fate would have it, she was the source of the scream that heralded the bear’s approach. Apparently, before launching onto my back, he had lumbered into their campsite—but quickly retreated upon her banshee-like siren. In a way, this frazzled woman was an inspiration. She’d successfully warded off what I’d fallen victim to. Words tumbled out of her: “We just got in from Pennsylvania to do this camping trip and this is so crazy does this happen often???” Poor things, it was their first time in California.

I wonder if it was their last.

And so my ex and I packed up and headed off, leaving behind the source of what would go on to haunt me the rest of our summer.

***

If you’ll recall, this little “incident” occurred half way through a three month road trip. We were in Northern California, and still had to make our way down the coast and then back across to Florida. We still had to camp. A lot.

My brain did not love this. Presumably no one’s brain would, but mine was especially sensitive. Since childhood, I’d suffered from a nightmare disorder. Likely a product of specific traumas that will surely be expounded upon in other essays, I’d always dealt with recurring nightmares. Mostly classic stuff: clowns, wolves, darkness, dolls, disembodied voices threatening me. In college, I developed sleep paralysis, and on one occasion, experienced something so twisted that I vomited upon waking.

You can imagine that with my predisposition, the BPTSD (Bear-PTSD) wouldn’t help. Sure enough, after we’d repaired the tent and continued our journey, sleeping through the night became difficult.

I began regularly screaming in my sleep until my ex would wake me up.

I was having night terrors of being attacked by a bear, of the tent being dragged away, of creatures circling us. Even in the desert, with zero percent chance of bear, I found myself screaming. The only way I made it through the rest of the trip was by smoking so much weed before bed that I’d completely suppress my REM cycle.

I spent the rest of that summer perpetually high, desperate to escape myself. The bear was likely dead; tracked by blood hounds and euthanized the next morning. But it lived on in my mind, and I carried it there far beyond our little road trip.

***

You can take the boy of the woods, but you can’t take the PTSD out of the boy. Over the following year, I suffered from recurring nightmares of being attacked by a bear. In the most common one, I was seated with friends in the grass of a park. I’d look out across the open field, and in the distance, see it: a bear, quickly gaining on us. We’d all start to rise, but in the way things go in dreams, the simple action of standing and running was impossibly slow. Even when it felt like I was making progress, I was still in the same spot, bear drawing near. Right before it was upon me, I’d lurch awake.

I’d have some variation of that dream just about every other week. Each morning, my ex and I would ask how the other slept, in the way lovers do. On too many nights to count, my answer was the same. “Not great. I had a nightmare.” “Bear?” “Yeah...” He’d provide a hug and usually something along the lines of, “man, that sucks. I’m sorry…” What more could a guy do?

The nightmares were wearing me down, and my sleep quality became so poor that it affected my physical health. By the winter of 2023, over a year and a half later, I began looking to social media for help. I asked if anyone knew of any treatments for nightmares. People offered condolences and not much else.

Then, a few days later, a friend sent me a screenshot of an instagram ad. A sleep lab at a prominent research university was seeking patients for an experimental study. It was focused on improving sleep quality in those suffering from mental health conditions—including PTSD.

I don’t think I’ve ever screenshotted something faster.

…TO BE CONTINUED