The first pitch was a challenge to protect, but beautiful climbing. As I cleaned gear as second, though, I could feel it coming on. The fear. The insecurity. The lack of self-confidence. The fear of failure.
By the time I reached the belay ledge, and went to clip in to the anchors (on top if I was taking the lead; underneath if I was staying as second) I just couldn't clip the top of the anchor. I was ... terrified. I looked up at the next pitch, a beautiful, consistent crack that was right up my alley, but there was no way I could make myself lead it.
Shawn stepped up and stayed on lead, with nary a complaint and not even a snarky comment or reprimand. As I watched him work his way up the moderate crack, placing gear casually and confidently, this thought flashed through my head:
"I'm never going to be that confident. I'm never going to have that kind of skill."
I shook my head in disbelief that my brain had gone to such a negative place, and finished the belay. As I climbed the pitch, I realized — with any other partner, I'd have sucked it up, taken the rack, and lead the pitch. But there was absolutely no way I could bring myself to, that day, on that climb, with Shawn.
It wasn't until halfway up the pitch as second that I had my latest epiphany. Finally, a self-diagnosis for the mental illness I've struggled with for the last few seasons.
Climbing-Induced Stockholm Syndrome.
Like hostages who become emotionally attached and fiercely loyal to their kidnappers, we view our mentor partners as powerful figures who help enable our survival, despite the risks and danger we subject ourselves to as a climbing partnership. Over the years, I've followed my mentor partners up countless pitches, and they've helped get me out of countless sketchy situations. They've belayed me up routes up and down the Western U.S., in near and far flung locations. I've learned nearly everything I know about climbing from them. I treasure the opportunity to tie in with these partners, be it in the gym, close to home, or in some exotic destination.
I am fiercely loyal to these partners, and make choices that may appear crazy to a non-afflicted person in order to climb with them. Skip work to go climbing? Sure. Leave a perfectly nice boy who might be fond of me for more than just my belaying skills to travel a couple thousand miles to sleep alone and climb? In a heartbeat. Volunteer to second on some objective that's way over my head? You betcha. Subject myself to hanging belays, epic climbing, rationed food and water, long approaches, death slabs, stuck ropes, rope drag, sun and wind burn, bleeding tips and the risk of a sub-30 degree night shivering on a ledge somewhere hours from the nearest road?
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