Stuck in a beartrap, Days 4-6

DAY 4:
Spent some time reading over the old entries and I notice a lot of discussion of that one latch, and how I should never ever touch it under any circumstances. So I am putting that here at the top of this entry, so I am not tempted again like I was before. What a silly creature I was, poking at that thing day after day, expecting it to make things better for no real reason. It was like an old, lazy joke. I was a punch line. How degrading. But then my therapist has often warned me against making too much of my mistakes, imagining they mean anything to anyone else, trying to create some grand embarrassing narrative into which they fit. It only serves to make me paranoid for no good reason and makes it difficult to let my "inner self" to "forge connections" based on "real actualities." Yes, that has been my problem all along.

I will describe my surroundings. I am lying (laying?) on a bed of dirty brown leaves underneath a big oak tree. And there are other trees and leaves and some moss and dirt here too. Rocks, I see rocks. This description strikes me as inadequate in some way, and yet it is the best I can do. Perhaps it is a sad sign of how Man has been "civilized." If I were trapped in a beartrap outside of a minimall, I could go on for pages--describing the stores, the cars, the different people, the debris on the parking lot. But out here in nature, we are blind, and hopeless.

There I go, narrativizing (?) again. The worst part is that what I have just said is in no way true. I wouldn't notice a goddamn thing if I were trapped outside of a minimall, no more than I am noticing here in the woods anyway. The truth of it is I am quite oblivious. That's why I anger people--they see me on the street and I pass right by them as if I don't want to see them, or they call me over and over again and I don't even hear the phone ringing. And that's probably why I'm here in this beartrap.

There I go, narrativizing (sure, why not) again. But my therapist has always encouraged me when I've narrativized correctly, and that feels correct. Is it? No way to know for certain. My analysis is no doubt stained by my unobjectivality. If my therapist were here, he'd be able to tell me. But alas, I have no one but the leaves and the moss and this sturdy oak, which wouldn't be able to hear me all the way up there no matter how loudly I screamed.

I am uncomfortable. I have been almost completely still for four days and I'm starting to develop sores (leaf-sores, perhaps; the equivalent of bedsores, were I on a bed). I would move but I am afraid of disturbing the latch.

DAY 5:
Because I did not get to it yesterday, here I will note that my previous entry ended somewhat prematurely because I tried to move and I disturbed the latch and this disturbation was accompanied by some not-insignificant pain. The same old punch line.

Although, I am not sure that it is right to say that my entry ended prematurely, as I really had nothing more to say. That's why I was talking about my discomfort. I am generally reluctant to complain about such things--I find they only make the discomfort worse--but I had little else to write about and little else to do but write. I regret it, now, because had I not written about my discomfort, I might not have noticed it and I might not have moved, and if I hadn't moved, my leg wouldn't have hurt so really badly as it did and does.

I had an idea this morning. If I could find enough strength in my good leg, I could hop back to town and get medical attention there. It would take a while, for sure, but I thought it might be possible. But then I remembered that I had no idea where I was anymore. Normally, I have an outstanding sense of direction, but I was somewhat disoriented by the whole leg-in-a-beartrap thing and besides, that was five days ago. I could walk in any direction and presumably I could stumble upon civilization anyway, but it is too risky. I might be hobbling for days, with no idea where I was going. I might even hobble in circles and end up right back here and pass out on the same bed of leaves.

Still, I thought it was worth a shot, but then I remembered that the beartrap is chained to a tree, so that was that.

And then I had a silly little thought: what if I got back to town or civilization someplace and there was no one left. No need to make up a reason why, but what if they were all just gone. And it was only me, dragging my bloody, mangled leg around in a beartrap. What would I do?

Silly, of course, like I said. And typical of me: imagining myself at the center of things and then erasing those at the margins. My therapist says I do that all the time.

DAY 6:
The bear was back this morning. Smiling again, I swear it. And don't tell me I'm imagining it because I know what a bear is supposed to look like, and they're not supposed to have this smug little smile on their faces, especially when you're sitting there, suffering.

I tried to play dead, so as not to enrage the beast, even though part of me wanted to jump up and push a tree on him. Stupid fucking animal. This bear put this trap here for me; I am more sure of it than ever. I want to ask him, why? What motivated you to do such a cruel thing? Pragmatic concerns? Or are you just an evil soulless beast? For the life of me, I cannot figure it out. I want to grab this bear by the collar (as it were) and just shake him and demand answers. Make this bear responsible for what he has done.

Anyway, like I said, I tried playing dead, which was easy, because I look and feel quite dead, and I have this huge beartrap locked on to my bloody leg. He came right up to me and peered right into my eyes, which I hadn't bothered shutting. I wanted to spit in his big bear face. See how he likes being degraded! Treated as if he were subhuman! I prudently held back, though, and decided that I would save my revenge for later, when I could plan something more complicated and less dangerous.

But the bear just grinned in my face and then started walking around, as if I weren't there. The nerve! I wanted to shout, "hey bear! Acknowledge me! I know what you've done and it's one thing to be injured and insulted, but it's another thing to be ignored!" Again, though, prudence won the day.

After the bear had walked around a bit--still plotting, I'm sure, and still grinning--he stood above me again. He smiled back at me and this time I almost saw benevolence. Was this bear being kind? Did he pity me? Did he want to help me, only he had no idea how? Maybe there was something more to this bear than I had seen before, maybe he was more human than I had given him credit for (or less human depending on your opinion of the species). Maybe he was kind.

The bear reached up to the lowest branch and swatted at a beehive, which had apparently been dangling above my head the whole time. It landed right on the trap. I howled, the bear ran off (smiling?) and the bees became agitated. I am still picking the stingers out of my leg. The other leg, which is now all swollen, making escape impossible for now, even though it was probably already impossible anyway.

But to finally get around to the point, I am perplexed. Why did the bear knock the hive out of the tree? Was he trying to give me honey, and with it, food and comfort and companionship? Or was he trying to make me hurt more? And maybe he was trying to make me hurt more and he was trying to confuse me too, in which case, this was nothing less than an unmitigated success for the treacherous bear. I only wish I had been able to see his face as he was running away, so I could tell if it was the kind of horror of a person who hurts someone he or she loves, or the glee of a child stomping on a caterpillar in the driveway.