Recovery

    Nathaniel Ayers does not care what conditions he finds himself in, so long as he is free to play his instruments as depicted in Steve Lopez’s The Soloist. Lopez struggles to understand why Nathaniel chooses to sleep amongst the degenerates he bad-mouths, all for the sake of playing music, only to be drowned out by cars and horns. Nathaniel just wants to make music, showing little interest in being heard. He has no desire in the stress of becoming a professional musician or in recovery. As a young child, I had a lot of anxieties and paranoia. My siblings offered to teach me many hobbies, my favorites by far being arts and crafts, reading, and swimming. Although these outlets were healthy and fun, I would still feel internally tangled by the end of the activities. As I got older and lazier, I developed a disorder called trichotillomania. It is defined as having an irresistible urge to pull at one’s hair. I was at a loss on how to manage it.

     My godparents wanted me to seek therapy, but I refused. I did not want to be diagnosed and medicated, like every other kid in high school who claims to be bipolar. Instead, I got busy, filling up my schedule with a part time job and a college class. If I was constantly using both of my hands, then I couldn’t possibly pull my hair. Much to my dismay, I found myself thinking about pulling, an experience much more treacherous than actually pulling. When I was a cashier at Green Arrow Nurseries, the girls I worked with would comment on my fidgeting. It took all my willpower to resist my abnormal urges. Once the desire overwhelmed me, I would escape into the greenhouse to have some privacy. One day, as I felt for my next victim, I noticed an Epipremnum aureum, commonly known as Devil’s Ivy, covered in brown leaves. I grabbed it to toss it, but saw that it had plenty of happy sprouts popping up in every direction. I sat down and started pinching away the dead leaves. Something in me clicked. I was no gardener, but I felt at peace trying my hand. By the time I was done, the Devil’s Ivy looked nurtured and refreshed.

    I no longer work at Green Arrow, and Green Arrow no longer exists. My days of being in the beautiful 1950’s green plank-paneled greenhouse are over. I have created a potted garden in my modest balcony, with 62 plants from many places (some were even propagated from neighbor’s yards). I can name most of them, but I am only interested in names for the sake of looking up ideal conditions, soil requirements, and potential pollinators. I enjoy nurturing them, because I understand that I need them and that my plants and all the ones I ever knew and may never see again are made up of A, T, G, and C, just like me. When I see a stagnant stem, I see wasted energy that could be better spent replacing it. So I grab my scissors, the ones that either encourage growth or end a life, and cut away. Like magic, I usually see signs of new growth the next day. When I remove hair from my scalp, I am left with embarrassing bald spots that grow into obvious patches of hair. I seek to escape my limitations and pains. When I remove dead leaves from vivacious plants, however, I leave them with room to grow. I accept that I am growing, too.

    Nathaniel has schizophrenia, sometimes unable to tell the difference between the present and past. The only link he has is his craft, it ties him to what he once worked for to his present freedom. Fortunately, I do have the tools to get better and am living in a time where mental health and how it’s treated is a hot topic. In fact, it is likely that Nathaniel’s story contributed to the discussion on mental health. After two years of self-treating my disorder and anxiety with gardening, I realized I had helped myself as far as I could without treatment. I seeked help at Open Paths Counseling Center, a mental health clinic that aims to provide treatment at a low-cost for low-income individuals. I still struggle, but take solace in the fact that I am getting better because I was brave enough to admit I needed help.