Academic Papers

From the House to the Forest (Advanced Comp)

Author's Note: This was actuall published in my university's art and literature booklet!  Go me!

Icy dread curled around my spine like a snake as I became a statue in the shadow of the big beige house. My legs refused to carry me any closer as my gaze remained transfixed on the door. What lurked behind the door? Would I be faced with abusive silence or battered conversation? The trellises clung to the side of the attached garage. All the flowers and trees and bushes that made the house look normal and welcoming, but the becoming veneer hid rotted, disfigured trees. The snake tightened its hold on my backbone as I hesitantly took another step toward the house. I stared at my hands as they shook and swallowed down my anxiety that threatened to suffocate me. Giving the house one last wary look, I altered my route and walked past it. I migrated down the slight hill to the abandoned treehouse. The treehouse stood next to the neglected part of the yard where weeds and grass ruled the land. I wiped away a congress of tears, ascended the stairs, and sat on the floor of a house with no ceiling. A mongoose fought off the spinal snake, and I stared up at the sky, removing earbuds that had blasted unheard music. The crickets' lullaby and the birds' whispers reached me. Being in nature has shaped who I am as much as living in that house. Nature freed me while the house made me a captive. Nature calmed me while the house only made my emotions turbulent.

Whenever I think of the house where I grew up, I can only think of the bad things: how my parents could never stay in the same room without an argument starting; how the house slowly decayed around me as everyone stopped caring about the state of repairs; how the world seemed to twirl around me in an elaborate dance as what I knew to be my family disintegrated. I became my parents' messenger, and they used me as a buffer when hurling insults at one another like missiles no longer derailed the train of their arguments. When I was no longer useful as a shield I became evidence to further their agenda. I curled up into the couch and hid among the mountain of blankets that were meant to hide the scars of the worn leather during these battles. I sometimes retreated to my room, but no matter where I went, I could not ignore the screaming, the accusations, the crying. The thick walls obediently bowed down to their volume. This shaped me into hating arguments. I am always startled when doors are slammed. I get nervous around voices raised in anger. Death played a prominent role in making the house a nightmare.

After my grandma and grandpa died, the state of the house fell to the side. Vacuuming, dusting, and mopping only happened when we were expecting guests. We did not properly train our baby Chihuahuas, so they would urinate wherever they desired. This caused the wood that supported our kitchen countertops to collapse at the knees due to rotting. The stone floor became permanently stained. Ammonia and feces starred as the house's new scent. My family and I wore slippers or shoes all the time in fear of stepping in a pile of shit or a puddle of urine. Dishes were never touched. Every available space became the home of mail everyone refused to sort through. Closets were stuffed full of decades old stuff: jackets, boots, toys, books, blankets, clothes, presents, and decorations we never used. Some rooms were so crowded that there was only one path in and out of the room. My family became experts in acrobatics due to looking for needed items in those rooms. The only bathroom with a shower had a layer of dirt and grime everywhere. Mold caused tiles to crack and fall off. Towels were often cast aside and rarely washed, so it was always a gamble whether or not the towel was clean when we dried off after a shower. The kitchen became the home of a crumbling ceiling due to water damage. I now cannot stand a messy, unclean room. I hate seeing piles of dishes or discarded mail. I dislike holding onto things simply because they could, one day, be useful. Growing up in a decaying house made me feel like a prisoner.

Despite the nature of my backyard only being a few steps away, it made the shackles disappear. Instead of screaming, there was chirping. Instead of the stench of urine, there was flowers. Instead of stepping on feces, I wiggled my toes between the blades of grass. The voices of worry and fear in my head would shut down. Meditating in the woods was like jumping into a pool of cool water. Adrenaline rushed my system and gave me a sense of purpose and power when I spent time outside. Hope would became a strangled flame when I was in that house, but that spark became a wildfire capable of burning the world down when I was outside. Nature is the mongoose that chases off the snake. Nature unlocked the cages I placed around myself to keep toxic emotions at bay.

Nature allowed me to process the chaotic feelings. I spent hours just sitting and thinking by a river, lake, or in a tree. A sense of weightlessness and peace would spread through me. It was a high I never got enough of. Nature was a mother and teacher to me. It taught me that not everything was bad, that everything will be okay, and that everything will balance itself out. Nature taught me that life is always simpler than the tangled mess of "what if"s I contorted it to be. When I spent too much time away, it gently reminded me that I can escape a bad situation and that I always have choices. It whispered comfort and forgiveness to me. Nature shaped me by giving me the solitude and understanding I needed to heal. It gave me a calm and predictable place to let my emotions settle down.

The house caused my emotions to run rampant. Fear, rage, and anxiety consumed me. Thoughts of causing pain, to myself or others, became a necessity to remain sane -- except those thoughts made me feel like an abomination. The true monster in my head greedily fed on the contradiction. Depression would toss the demonic acts of my imagination in my face to drink up an intense cocktail of sadness, shame, and guilt that shut down my heart and lungs. The house gave me emotions so extreme that I became split.

The warring emotions forced me to become two different people. I never felt safe enough to say I was not okay. I always lied about how I felt. A crooked version of my smile took place of my real one. Everyone eventually believed the imposter was the genuine. Lying became an art form I practiced regularly. I now hate lying, but untruths still slip off my tongue when I want them to. I lie when I think it will save me grief or in hopes of getting people to like me more. My mom has a habit of interrogating me about the people I date. It has become second nature to say that I am hanging out with a friend instead. I lie about being interested in activities friends of mine love in hopes they will hang out with me more. Knowing how easy it is for me to lie, I doubt almost everything someone says to me. The number of people I trust could fit in a compact car. It is to those people that I show my true, brutally honest self. I tell them exactly what is on my mind no matter how gruesome or angry the thoughts are. They swallow down the criticisms I sling their way with a self-inspecting nod. The truth has yet to stop burning me when I speak it. My two halves are slowly figuring out how to fit together while carving out the pieces neither side wants.

The house served me more than depression with a side of honesty and trust issues, but nature has taught me that I do not have to hold onto these scars. The icy snake still wraps itself around my spine and neck, but the mongoose is always waiting for a moment when the snake is not paying attention. The mongoose is the predicted winner. The snake-eater sits on my shoulder and whispers in my ear that I have the choice: to let the past go, to evolve into a better and more content person. Nature gave me those tools long ago, and it is time I start using them.

vm