Beasts of Burden

I can sense the emptiness of him, as soon as he walks through the door of the old barn, a big man trying to make himself smaller.

He’s ex-military; I can tell from the way he holds himself. I’ve worked with his kind before.

He moves farther inside, through the dust-filled light shafts coming through the cracks in the hayloft above.

As he nears my stall, I can see his uneasiness under the blank veneer. He’s probably assessing the exits, edgy in the semi-darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He’s on high alert, but he’s trying not to show it.

Beth comes out of the tack room behind him. I shift my head toward her and perk my ears to alert him to her presence; he reads me well enough to start to turn, then her foot creaks on the floor, and he startles.

“Jake”, Beth says, walking forward, her hand outstretched, “I’m so glad you decided to come out today.” She takes his hand and smiles up into his face. I know what he’s feeling right now; Beth has this effect on everyone. She feels warm and safe. She smells good too, like a field of sunlit grass.

Beth leads him off for a tour of the barn; I can hear the gentle murmur of her voice as they move away from me into the shadows along the far wall.

The routine is the same every time. Beth meets them, shows them around the barn, and describes the process of therapy. The breakdown of each session and the progression over time until they’ve reached the goals they’ll set together later today. If he decides to proceed.

They come back toward me, getting close enough that I can hear what they’re talking about. Jake mentions he grew up around horses. “We didn’t have one ourselves; my dad didn’t have a lot of patience for taking care of things, but a couple of my buddies had them. He walks up to the side of my stall and looks into my eyes; a smile lifts the corner of his mouth for a moment. His whole face brightens.

I think that must be what he looked like before, as a kid. People show you glimpses of their old selves sometimes, and those older versions of them usually seem lighter, more dynamic. The people we work with are just as much beasts of burden as I am. They are so weighed down with all the choices and mistakes and judgments; they get boxed in over time, so they don’t really know who they are anymore, and they don’t know how to figure it out.

Jake starts his first full session the next week, and as the time passes he’s doing pretty well until week six. When he walks through the door that day, I can tell something is off, but we start out smooth until we get into the teamwork.

He’s feeling frustrated as he tries to lead me around the course, which throws me off my stride. He’s making sudden movements in trying to show me where to go, movements that are making me increasingly nervous. I start to resist more, I pull away, we are completely miscommunicating and no matter what we try to do to re-establish the connection, we keep missing each other’s signals.

He’s right on the edge of losing it, so he suddenly withdraws, drops the rope, and moves jerkily away to the side of the corral where he leans his folded arms against the top railing, puts his head down on them, and takes several slow, deep breaths.

Beth comes to me, settles me down, moves me away, gives him space to work out what he’s feeling.

She murmurs softly to me, her voice a comforting, familiar rhythm that soothes me, brings me back to a feeling of safety.

She feeds me a slice of apple from her pocket and strokes my nose. Good boy, she whispers to me over and over, her fingers playing in my hair. When she’s sure I’m alright again she moves back toward Jake.

Slow and steady, she strides across the dirt to where he’s still leaning. She moves up beside him and leans back against the rails. She doesn’t say anything for a while. A breeze sighs across the paddock, lifting pieces of straw and dust and whirling them away. Beth has a companionable silence down; she just stays with you and holds space for you to get through things in your mind.

Eventually, she speaks, “What were you feeling there? She looks over at the side of his face, still buried in his arms as she waits for his response. Eventually, “frustrated and pissed” comes out muffled. He straightens, leans his chest forward onto his arms, and looks out at the horizon while he continues speaking.

"He wasn’t working with me, he wasn’t doing what I wanted, and part of me knows what it’s like when someone keeps after you relentlessly, and I wanted to back off because I want him to like me. But I could also feel the anger rising. I can’t let that feeling get started. I’ve been there. I could do something to hurt him. I could get to that point of panic where I can’t control myself, and I’m big, so big. I’ve always been really aware of that."

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. "My dad was a big guy too, you know, and when he got to that breaking point when I was a kid. He was so scary, it made me hate him a little because I hated feeling so small and so helpless. That’s why I joined up, trying to prove I was too big to be afraid anymore and that I was gonna do what a man is supposed to do. A man isn’t supposed to make you afraid. He’s supposed to keep you safe. He’s supposed to be strong enough to do what it takes to keep everybody safe."

He pauses for a moment and looks down at his big hands, now hanging over the rail, flexing his fingers. "But it's an impossible task, that’s what I learned from being in combat, it’s impossible to not hurt people, and it’s impossible to protect everybody you’re supposed to protect. You have these people that are closer to you than your own family, and you have to go out every day knowing it’s only a matter of time.” His voice breaks, and he seems unable to continue.

Beth keeps looking at him, her gaze soft. She changes the subject, “Do you know why working with horses is so therapeutic?” Jake shakes his head, still unable to form words. “People don’t see themselves very clearly. When you think about it, emotions are like highlighters for your brain, they make things that are important stand out, but a brain that has suffered trauma doesn’t process emotions the way it’s supposed to. The emotions that are associated with the trauma are so strong that the brain can’t see anything else, and it starts to color the way you see everything, but especially yourself."

"It gets to the point where you can’t really tell what you’re feeling or why. So, the horse acts as a mirror. Horses are pack and prey animals, so they are hyper-alert, and they react to the emotions of those around them. Humans can do this too, but we spend a lot of time trying to conceal how we feel.”

She pauses, chuckles quietly, “Horses don’t do that. If you're frustrated or anxious, they are gonna pick up on it and they’re gonna react. Humans try not to react until everything goes too far, and then they don’t just react; they overreact.” She pauses, “Does that make sense?”. Jake nods. Beth waits for a beat and then continues, “Part of the work we are doing is to retrain your brain to process emotions correctly.”

Beth continues talking to him, low and soothing, her voice almost makes me sleepy. It begins to calm him down too. I can see his body start to relax after a few minutes as they move out of the corral, out of sight, to do some grounding exercises. I wait patiently, listening to the wind that caresses my face and teases my tail. Somewhere on the property, a bird is singing.

Soon enough, they come back. We are done working together for today and Jake leads me back into the barn to groom me before he leaves.

He seems calmer now, but the tension is still there, buried deep. As he gets to work, I relax. The feel of his sure strokes lulls me as he meticulously brushes me down. My breathing slows and deepens, and so does his. He leans his forehead against my neck, and I’m surprised to feel wetness trickling down. He’s crying; I whicker softly in encouragement; this is good. Nature gave people the ability to cry for a reason. It’s healing to cry, but I know most of the men that come here don’t think they are supposed to do it. Their society doesn’t give them an outlet, and then they’re surprised when they get so angry. What choice do they have?

Jake improves steadily after that until finally, the day of the last session arrives. He brings his family to meet me. His daughter, a little girl with brown curls just like her mother, hangs on his legs and hides behind them. I also understand about being big and scary, so I don’t take it personally. His wife looks like somebody seeing the sun come out after a long time. She looks at him like he’s the best thing that ever happened, she’s not afraid to cry, and her eyes fill several times that day seeing him alive again after so long.

He comes to me at the end of the day when it’s time to leave. He strokes my nose, just like Beth does, and he thanks me. I butt his shoulder with my head to let him know he’s going to be alright and I’m here if he ever needs me again.

He walks out of the barn with his family, their shapes silhouetted against the bright sunshine outside. He has one arm around his wife, and his little girl’s hand is dwarfed inside his own.

Jake doesn’t come back. I’m glad he doesn’t; that means he’s probably ok. That means he’s found a way to change, a way to grow. I’m not surprised; I could see the beginnings. The first time I saw him, he felt like nothing, and the last time I saw him, he felt like love.