I spent my formative years eagerly building my life brick by brick. Some of these bricks were handed to me by family, friends, or society. Some of the bricks, I imperfectly molded myself.
Eventually, I built a home large enough to house my ego. It wasn’t a perfect abode, but it was mine. I decorated it with all my favorite things that made up me. Plants and accents of green everywhere because duh, it was my favorite color. Shelves of books whose stories lived rent-free in my mind and fictional characters I probably had an unhealthy attachment to. Trinkets from my travels and accolades of my accomplishments. It was a beautiful, vibrant space that I was proud to call my own.
A massive storm came without warning and flooded the home that I was so proud of. Assessing the damage and inspecting the property for repairs, I explored the dusty basement that I had not visited in years. That’s where I hid all the intangible things: False narratives of self-worth perpetuated since childhood; entirely wrong visions of happiness, success, and a life well-lived; and an inflammatory central nervous system direly need of rest. It was clear that I needed to strip everything down and start over.
I placed all my treasures and memories in boxes. I had to let go of many things. Some things were easy to get rid of — clothing that no longer fit or items I no longer had any need of — including the need to be right or the stubbornness to forgive; some other things were much harder to give away — like sweet handwritten notes and the desire for control over my life. There were also a few things I happily set on fire — my high school yearbook, college degrees, and the yearning for cheap affection.
As I continued to work, I hoped I could salvage parts of the house, but when I took a deep look there was mold everywhere. Everything had to go. When I was finally done, I looked around and there was only dirt and the ground beneath my feet. I had returned to the earth, and I knew I was finally home.
