Sliding Down the Mountain in a Basket: Memoir

By Bronwyn Wilson

Finding wonder and humor in a journey to live free of anxiety

Out of anxious childhood beginnings, Bronwyn Wilson developed an anxiety disorder. She worried about things that would never happen. She traveled no further than the grocery store. She quit driving over bridges, riding in elevators, entering parking garages, going out at night, and refused to ever board an airplane. As she worried about possible dangers, her world grew smaller while physical ailments grew larger. Doctors couldn’t find a biological cause for her hives, dizziness, and intestinal issues. Searching for answers led her to ask, how has this happened? What is anxiety? Where does it come from? Where does it lead? In her memoir, Wilson travels through the Mediterranean using the new coping skills she has learned.

How does she handle dangling in a gondola high above the town of Funchal, Portugal? How will she cope when she discovers herself sliding down a mile-long road in a wicker basket? What happens when she wanders the streets of Barcelona searching for underwear?

Wilson’s story offers a message of hope and humor for those suffering from anxiety, or for those who know someone living with it, or for those simply wanting an inspiring read. In addition, she offers nine recovery steps that helped her break free of anxiety’s grip and led her to physical and emotional well-being.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665566193

Bronwyn Wilson

BRONWYN WILSON currently lives in sunny Arizona with her husband Jerry and four cats (a self-proclaimed princess, a humble sister, and two feral cats who moved into her house and never left). Previously, Bronwyn wrote feature stories and a humorous garden column for the Woodinville Weekly in Woodinville, Washington. A Master Gardener, Bronwyn has a fondness for all kinds of plantsexcluding pampas grass known to tantalize her allergies. She’s happiest when chatting with a friend or family member in a quaint coffee shop; feeding the giraffes at the Phoenix Zoo; or writing at home in her fleecy pajamas. WWW.BRONWYNWILSON.COM

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© 2022 Bronwyn Wilson. All rights reserved.

Cover art by Marie Muravski

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   10/20/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6618-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6620-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6619-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022913790

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

For Wendy,

               with love

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For the memory of Beverley

Without her, many days would have been uninteresting.

~written beneath her senior picture in her high school yearbook.

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For all who have suffered, or are suffering, from anxiety and don’t care to read books written in doctorese.

With Gratitude

Jerry

For reading my work and giving me your honest feedback. For

cheering me on and listening with a caring heart. For your love.

Tyler

For telling me I’m one of your three favorite writers. I forgot the

other two. For your support, wise advice, and engaging humor.

Erin

For your loyalty, faithfulness, wisdom.

Kiera

For the immeasurable joy you bring to our world

Julie Mastel, Jennifer Herman, Emma Mastel, Nancy Edmondson,

Aubrey Cowley, Linda Dully, Kathy Wilson and Jodee Johnson for

your supportive friendship and all the laughs and fun times we share.

Teresa Fletcher and Peggy Parker Blue for being a light in

my childhood and for the lifelong friendship we have.

Kathy Wilson for the encouragement you give me and for always making me smile.

AuthorHouse Publishing who brought this work across the finish line. Author/Coach Susan Pohlman for editorial guidance. Beth Hatcher, Grace Kowalski, Karen Stanton and Kathy Wilson for inspiring this revised edition.

Thank you to Dr. David Kosins for helping me see what I couldn’t see to live a free life.

Finally, I thank God, the Almighty, who has granted me

countless blessing, grace, and salvation through Jesus.

BWilson%20image1.jpg

Bronwyn, age 4, on Christmas morning with the

sock monkey her grandmother made.

"Your story could be the key that unlocks someone

else’s prison. Don’t be afraid to share it."

Toby Mac

Contents

Author’s Note

Introduction

Chapter 1     Late Night Escape

Chapter 2     Decades Later

Chapter 3     Fish Guts

Chapter 4     2005 Panic

Chapter 5     Three Years Later

Chapter 6     First Day at Sea

Chapter 7     Lip Gloss Smiles

Chapter 8     Stepping Out the Door

Chapter 9     Clobbered by a Princess Wand

Chapter 10   Dining Back in Time

Chapter 11   Travel Brochure Promises

Chapter 12   Golden Moments and Flying Fish

Chapter 13   Master Card Wedding

Chapter 14   Get Your Pitter-Patter

Chapter 15   Madeira

Chapter 16   Elephants and Unmade Beds

Chapter 17   Laundromat Love

Chapter 18   Seville

Chapter 19   Gibraltar

Chapter 20   Cagliari, Sardinia

Chapter 21   Rome, Italy

Chapter 22   Moonface

Chapter 23   Tuscany

Chapter 24   Provence

Chapter 25   Gucci Envy Me

Chapter 26   Elevator Limbo

Chapter 27   Escape the Escape

Chapter 28   Hairy Artichoke

Chapter 29   Backyard Book Burning

Chapter 30   Final Port: Barcelona

Chapter 31   Mrs. B

Chapter 32   No Goodbyes

Chapter 33   Worthy Naranjas

Chapter 34   Going Home

Epilogue

Nine Steps to Anxiety Recovery

Author’s Note

Read this book in the way you would receive a long story told over many cups of coffee…with French vanilla creamer and whipped cream.

Sliding Down the Mountain in a Basket is a revised and updated edition of my memoir Five Minutes For France, published in 2014.

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Introduction

Our ship docked in Barcelona.

I knew little about the town, other than the locals speak Spanish, dine on tapas, and prefer dinner at midnight. I knew it had a beautiful church I wanted to see.

After a two-week cruise through the Mediterranean, my husband Jerry and I disembarked our ship. We looked forward to spending a glorious time exploring Barcelona’s sights before flying home to Seattle.

In the ship’s terminal, I couldn’t locate my luggage among the stacked hodgepodge rows of suitcases and backpacks. Jerry found his immediately. One by one, passengers headed out with their bags in tow.

Everyone, but me, found their luggage. The ship’s crew searched in places I might not have looked. When they couldn’t find it, they promised to call me as soon as my suitcase turned up. I checked-in at the hotel with only a purse and the clothes I wore.

The mishap caused a desire within me to immediately replenish my lost clothing. I had no idea if I’d ever see my luggage again. I focused on underwear. I would survive the remainder of my trip without shirts and pants and pajamas. But not without underwear. I set out on Barcelona’s famed road La Rambla with an obsessed goal of purchasing underwear. Colorful mosaics, artists, mimes and musicians surrounded me. I didn’t stop to enjoy the carnival-like atmosphere of Barcelona’s famous street. I didn’t have time. I would revel in the sights later.

With my focus on acquiring underwear, I missed out on much of the joy of Barcelona’s beauty and mystique. Looking back, I see a similarity to the way I lived my life for many years. Rather than making room for the joy in my present circumstances, I focused on potential problems or dangers and how to avoid them.

Fixating on danger and seeking ways to keep myself safe wore me down over time. I experienced a full-blown case of hives, headaches, dizziness and intestinal difficulties. Not all at once, but at various intervals to keep me continuously unsettled. I trekked from doctor to doctor. Naturally I wanted a cure. Each doctor gave me the same diagnosis after exams and tests and much scratching of their heads. You’re healthy. I can’t find anything wrong, they told me. Did they think I made this up? I couldn’t believe it. How many doctors does it take? Fifteen? Twenty-one? Maybe forty? But who’s counting? Not one doctor could find anything wrong. To quote my husband Jerry, No wonder they call it a practice.

The parental admonition to be strong and never be a sissy haunted me from a young age. I believed the erroneous idea that admitting to fear, anger, and sadness demonstrated weakness. In my show of false bravery, I deprived myself of personal growth as well as happiness and freedom. I didn’t tell anyone of my inner struggle, not even Jerry. I wandered alone in the dark caverns of my self-imposed entrapment.

I didn’t connect my inner world with my physical ailments. I felt exasperated by the few people in my life who didn’t have a medical degree, yet felt qualified to diagnose my condition. I clearly remember a friend calling to give me a secondhand diagnosis, Penelope says your problems are due to your nerves. But she says you won’t listen! Nerves! Hah! The nerve of her to say nerves. I continued my search for a biological cause.

This memoir follows my journey with anxiety: how it developed into bouts of panic, my search for a cure, what I discovered, and how I recovered. It also follows a scenic journey through the Mediterranean where I practice new coping skills.

This is a true story. In some instances, I’ve imagined details, or converged scenes, in an effort to convey the truth of the experience or to cover for memory gaps. (No one remembers the name of the hamburger joint we patronized at midnight. Was it Zingers? Zippy’s? Maybe Swanee’s?) I altered some sequences for context and flashbacks. Many names, and characteristics, have been changed for privacy.

My account in no way means to discredit my dad’s desire to be a good parent. Everyone has, at times, given and received relational injuries. This isn’t to excuse hurtful behavior, only to understand we all have emotional wounds and that forgiveness of others and of ourselves is the only way to heal.

Wherever you are in your life travels−if anxiety has you in its grip, I hope my journey might help you in yours. If you’ve never experienced anxiety’s debilitating stronghold, it’s my hope you’ll gain insight into anxiety disorders, a condition that affects millions.

My story begins late at night in 1961...

1

Late Night Escape

Garden Grove, California 1961

Papa doesn’t know our secret.

I’m in bed with the lights out. I have my play clothes on and my saddle shoes tied tight. I’m ready to go when Mom gives the signal. I can’t fall asleep. My little sister Wendy can’t fall asleep either. She’s in bed with her clothes on too.

I hear Papa snoring in the next room.

SNUFFLE, SNOCKKKK-CHOO.

It’s so loud the neighbors probably hold their hands over their ears.

My stomach feels like twisted rubber bands. What if he wakes up while Mom, Wendy, and I try to make our secret getaway?

Mom explained the plan to Wendy and me after we came home from school. Since Papa has to get up early to go to work, he goes to bed when we do.

Before jumping in bed, I hollered, Good-night Papa! I wanted to make it seem real. I didn’t change into my pajamas. I turned the lights out and snuggled beneath Grandma’s patchwork quilt with its bright red, yellow, and blue squares. Papa hollered from his bed, Don’t let the bed bugs bite.

I’m sure I fooled Papa.

I’m ten and Wendy just turned eight. This is our fourth secret escape and Papa hasn’t caught us yet.

Mom taps my quilt. There’s the signal.

Tiptoeing in blackness isn’t easy. I feel the walls as my guide. I hear Wendy ahead of me. This isn’t a time to sneeze, bang a head on an open cupboard door, or yell ow.

Wendy and I are as quiet as Tonto¹ sneaking up on the bad guys. Mom carefully opens the front door. Crrr-eak. Did the creaking door wake Papa? I’m worried we’ll hear Papa’s barking voice any minute.

Outside, we creep down the front step. The stars scatter the clear, dark sky like spilled glitter. Somewhere behind the hibiscus bush the crickets host a loud party, all chattering at once. It reminds me of Mom and her friends having coffee at our dining room table.

Wendy and I tiptoe along the front walkway and pass Mom’s garden of gloom. She has a black thumb, she tells us. Her meaning: don’t get too attached to her flowers as they’re doomed. Under the streetlight’s fuzzy glow, the red geraniums give off a smell that reminds me of perfume mixed with wet dirt. Mom’s geraniums look healthy to me. But who knows how much longer they have?

Mom pays no attention to her doomed flowers. She follows behind us, sweeping along the walkway with the grace of a fashion model. Her dangly gold earrings sway back and forth. She doesn’t seem concerned. But I’m nervous. We’re breaking Papa’s rules. He tells us he has to have rules because he’s a strict disciplinarian.

In the driveway, we gently open the door of our dark-green, 1956 Nash Metropolitan. We call it the Metro. I climb into the scrunched back seat. The air has a chill and I wish I had worn my blue jacket. Wendy doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. She bounces in the front seat.

Mom settles behind the driver’s wheel and releases the handbrake. The Metro rolls backwards. Tires against the pavement crackle and pop. For cereal that’s okay. But we want silence. We coast in reverse, inching down our sloped driveway. I watch the front porch. If the light flashes on, it could mean the end of our late-night adventure.

Lock your door, Wendy, Mom says in a hushed voice. After all, we never know when muggers lurk about. Once we’ve rolled into the street, Mom turns the key in the ignition. The engine sputters alive. My eyes stay glued to the front porch. It remains dark.

Let’s go, girls! Mom whoops and guns the engine. We’re off. The Metro hums through dimly lit streets, full of ghostly shadows and puddles of light. The pale moon hovers over a towering Sycamore like a treetop Christmas ornament. We zip past the old Quaker church with its lofty steeple. We breeze by the cemetery where lumpy grass and headstones mark lives that are no more. The thought that death could touch my world doesn’t occur to me.

Mama, are we going to Aunt Virginia’s? Wendy asks, making sure our plans hadn’t changed.

You bet, Mom replies. It’s odd that my mother turns to Papa’s sister for friendship and comfort, since Papa and Aunt Virginia have a feud going on. I don’t know for sure what started the fight. I only know Papa suddenly forbid us to visit her. Sometimes Aunt Virginia comes to visit us, but if she sees the Metro in our driveway − it could mean Papa is home. Whenever she spots our car, she continues to breeze past our house and on down the road in her turquoise, barge-sized Chrysler.

We defy Papa’s command to not see Aunt Virginia. Her easygoing manner makes Mom feel at ease. She says Aunt Virginia is one of her best friends.

Mama, what does the yellow light mean? Wendy wonders as we near a yellow traffic light.

It means, Mom explains with a mischievous grin, Ya better hurry up. She throws her head back and hits the accelerator. She glances at me in the rearview mirror and beams a wide smile. I realize she’s found a place where rage can’t control her. We fly through the yellow traffic light. Our car bolts down darkened side streets like a corralled pony on the loose. The Metro jerks to a stop when the headlamps spotlight several gigantic tumbleweeds blocking our path. Mom climbs out and we watch her silhouette drag the giant spiky weeds to the side of the road.

We’re off again. We pass a gas station still open for business. We turn on to the highway and the movie screen at the Highway 39 Drive-In Theater comes into larger-than-life view. Hayley Mills lights up the screen in her golden curls and pouting lips. She towers over the parked cars below. "Mama, that’s Hayley Mills. When can we go see Parent Trap?"

I didn’t hear Mom’s reply, if she had one. We continue on. Finally, we pull into the parking lot of the apartments where Aunt Virginia lives with her two daughters. We made it. My thumping heart calms down. No Papa here. I’m in a peaceful world where colorful garden lights cast pools of fluorescent green and blue on palm trees.

I hate Papa, I told Mom a few days ago, after enduring another one of his horrid, painful punishments. Wendy said she felt the same way. I waited for Mom to tell us why we shouldn’t feel the way we do, that he’s our dad after all. She said nothing.

We knock on 3C and Aunt Virginia’s door springs open. Hi, Aunt Virginia says, giggling. We rush inside with the excitement of Christmas morning. Aunt Virginia could easily be the lady from the Lustre-Crème shampoo commercial. She has brassy blonde hair with Grace Kelly curls. Her husband, our Uncle Johnny, died unexpectedly over a year ago. She now raises her two daughters on her nursing income. We all miss Uncle Johnny, a kind man with movie star good looks. But on this night, it’s time for fun.

Mom and Aunt Virginia chat at the kitchen table. I can’t hear their conversation. I bet they’re talking about Papa. Aunt Virginia frowns and twists a lock of her hair with her fingers.

My cousin Marcia turns on the record player and soon I forget about Papa. Elvis sings, You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, and Marcia shows me new dance steps. Marcia is older than me by five months and believes her age advantage allows privileges. Aunt Bev, can I babysit Bronwyn and Wendy sometime? Mom smiles in amusement and doesn’t answer.

Uh, ahem, excuse me. I don’t need a babysitter. I’m in the fourth grade.

Soon we’re danced-out. We converge around the TV. We watch Johnny Carson and slurp mugs of Sanka with more sugar and milk than anything else. All of a sudden Aunt Virginia grabs her keys, We’re going to Swanee’s.

The thought of Swanee’s hamburgers and milkshakes at midnight causes us to shout as we race toward Aunt Virginia’s big, honkin’ Chrysler with the snazzy chrome fins. We pile into the car, laughing and shrieking.

Girls, you’ve got to be quiet or you’ll wake the neighbors−if you haven’t already, Aunt Virginia says as she settles in the driver’s side. Nanette, the gray fluffy poodle, jumps and hops in the front seat like a dog with caffeine jitters. Nanette’s tail wags fifty miles per hour before she plants herself beside Mom on the passenger side. Us girls have plenty of room in the back seat as we rumble along.

At Swanee’s, the car-hop meets us in the parking lot. From my backseat view, I focus on Mom’s wavy dark hair and glossy red lipstick as she talks with Aunt Virginia. Mom never goes out, even at midnight, without her makeup applied or hair brushed perfectly or her earrings on. Teresa, my best friend, says Mom is glamorous.

I’m relaxed and happy.

At home everything is different. I don’t know when Papa will turn from jolly dad to angry boogeyman. I’m constantly alert. Making too much noise while he’s watching TV or leaving my roller skates on the front sidewalk are opportunities for his angry face and punishment. I try to be on my guard at all times, but it’s not easy.

I know Mom is unhappy. I see her sadness all the time. On rare occasions, Papa hitches a ride to work, and Mom has the Metro for the day. She’s off to Buffum’s and the Broadway where she loses herself in cosmetics, jewelry, and lacy blouses.

At home she loses herself in writing her book, a story based on her real-life experience as a Navy WAVE during World War II.

But she hasn’t figured out how to lose the constant quarreling and fury that dampens the longed-for harmony.

Each weekday morning begins on a cheery sing-song note. Bev-verrrrr-leeeee, time to get… UP. Papa’s voice rolls down the hallway sounding like someone on an amusement ride. Mom drags herself from bed at his calling.

Robot-like, she places a pot of water on the stove for Papa’s usual Cream of Wheat. She dumps bacon grease in a frying pan for his fried egg. Every morning he has the same breakfast before leaving for his draftsman job at an aircraft company,

From my bedroom, I hear Papa’s voice grow loud and harsh on many mornings. I usually can’t make out what he’s saying. Some mornings I hear him call out, You’re nothin’ but a parasite. The front door shuts with a bang. Bam. I hear the Metro’s engine rev up and whine as Papa backs our car out and blasts away. I breathe easier when the sound of the engine grows faint.

I find Mom crumpled at the breakfast table in her dainty blue-flower print nightgown. Why are you crying, Mom? I ask. I want to know what causes Papa to say horrible things. She always responds, I’m all right. Are you ready for school?

As I leave for school, I often notice Papa’s plate on the kitchen table. The half-eaten plate of buttered hot cereal gawks at me in a glued mass of mush.

Mom, the daughter of a Baptist minister, says her childhood had the privacy of a goldfish bowl. Parishioners walked into the family’s charming three-story parsonage without knocking. They believed the house belonged to them as much as it did to Mom and her family. If Mom did anything other than what was expected of a preacher’s daughter, parishioners clicked their tongues in disapproval. Mom’s teachers also expressed disapproval if she acted different from the expected high standard, commenting, "I never would have dreamed you’d do anything like this, Beverley. You’re a preacher’s daughter after all!"

Mom has a fun-loving side. In high school, she starred in her own one-woman comedy show, basing her performance on the zany radio show character, Tizzy Lish, known as the cooking expert who insisted her audience jot down her terrible recipes. After Mom’s performance, her high school friends called her Tizz and voted Mom as most humorous of her class.

Mom makes me laugh. Last Halloween, I came home from school and found her sitting at the kitchen table. She wore Groucho Marx glasses with the black fuzzy moustache and bulbous rubber nose. She looked up at me as if nothing was different about her. How was school today? she asked in a serious way.

School was…, I burst out laughing. Mom also laughed and kept the glasses on as I told her about my day at school.

The ladies in our neighborhood don’t know about Tizz. They call her Bev. During the day, the neighbor ladies sit in our dining room drinking coffee, laughing, some smoking. This same group of ladies formed a soft ball team. I sit in the bleachers and cheer when Mom slugs the ball to the outfield.

Mom likes to give surprises to Wendy and me. Once, when Wendy and I stamped through the door after school, she said to us, Go look in your jewelry boxes. We raced to the jewelry boxes set on top of our chest of drawers. Inside, we found gold necklaces holding a tiny gold box. One for each of us. We flipped open the tiny gold box hanging at the end of the chain and an even tinier gold Mickey Mouse popped up, jack-in-the-box style. We love her surprises.

We don’t feel the same about Papa. His surprises are never fun.

When I first heard of Robert Louis Stevenson’s tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, I thought, That’s Papa. The fun Papa takes us on jaunts to the beach and sings songs in the car along the way. Oh, what a beautiful mornin’, oh what a beautiful daaaaay…² I never know when our beautiful day will turn from happy to sad. Without warning, mean Mr. Hyde appears, speaking and spitting through his teeth with his eyes on fire. Many offenses ignite his anger. Often followed by the dreaded punishment. At times, the offenses are ones I don’t know are offensive. Perhaps I answer his question, I don’t know. Angry Papa spits through his teeth, demanding a better reply, followed by the punishment. Answering with the words, I don’t know, counts as an offense.

Although Papa is handsome, he looks hideously ugly to me when he speaks to me in his angry, hissing voice. His flashing, dark eyes drill holes straight through me. Wendy and I shudder in fear wondering when his mood will flip. Who would Papa be today?

After spending time at Aunt Virginia’s, I feel calm and a lightness from the fun time. We return home and begin tiptoeing back to our rooms in the darkness. We’ve done this easily before.

Out of nowhere, the lights in the hallway blast on.

Papa’s tall and slim form comes into full view. He stands in the hallway beside the light switch. He squints, adjusting to the sudden bright light. He doesn’t move, standing motionless like a mannequin dressed in a white t-shirt and blue-print boxer shorts. He doesn’t speak. Who knows how long scary Mr. Hyde stood in the dark waiting for us?

We stare at Papa, his uncombed hair flopping in his face. His fierce eyes stare at Mom.

Papa didn’t shoot death stares at Mom when she first met him in 1947. She tells me she noticed him while working at her job in a Denver soda shop. After the war, she attended the University of Denver and worked afternoons at Doc Mewborn’s drug store operating the soda fountain. Papa’s boyish grin and disarming charm caught her attention. He liked to order the shop’s special soda called the 400, prompting Mom to begin calling him the 400 Guy before she knew his actual name. Ordering the 400-soda sparked friendly discourse, then kidding and laughing. Papa gave her a big smile and a few winks and soon they were dating. Six weeks later, they eloped.

Mom didn’t know about Papa’s angry mood until sometime after she married him. She explained to me once that his anger started in his childhood. His mother didn’t give him much love when he was a kid, she said, adding, One day he came home from school and she had moved without telling him. He lived with your Aunt Myrtle after that.

Papa’s dad died when he was five years old. Mom believes this event triggered his dark moods. After his dad’s funeral, Papa sat on the front steps of his house and complained to one of the friends or neighbors who stopped by, I wish it had been Mother who died instead of Daddy.

Mom said, Your grandma overheard his complaint. And she held it against him throughout his growing-up years.

Knowing a reason for his anger doesn’t help us this night. His eyes have closed to slits and he clenches his teeth.

I don’t move.

2

Decades Later

The late-night escapes to Aunt Virginia’s apartment put me on anxiety overload. Today, I look back on my childhood and see how the tension, apprehension, and fear creeped into my sunny world.

In 1955, Papa, Mom, Wendy, and I moved into our brand, new Garden Grove ranch-style home. Our new neighborhood symbolized the spirit of a modern post-war society. Real-estate developers built and sold homes to fit the needs and dreams of our returning armed forces of WWII. Orchards of orange trees in Southern California disappeared. Tract housing neighborhoods popped up.

At four-years-old, I felt joy and optimism for our