With one hand sliding on the wooden railing, I continue on my journey through the Binghamton University Nature Preserve. When I initially walk into this foreign land, I am met with an alienated feeling. As if I am visiting a new world that somehow lives a mere few minutes away. One with beautiful tall trees that score high above my initial field of view. Which continues into a dirt path leading to a gorgeous pond (or lake, according to anyone from the city). I begin to see a glimpse of this pond through the many cracks in between the leaves and bushes. Step by step the pond begins to emerge, along with a bridge that allows the journey to continue. When stepping on this wooden structure, I can’t help but run my hands across the railing as I walk. Finally, as I walk out, the entire pond and the dozens of pines and oaks that hug its edge come into clear sight. Typically at this time, I begin to see the ducks rolling on one another. Squawking and playing, they always seem to miss the occasional beaver that discreetly swims over to its damn. Eventually, I near the halfway point of the bridge, which is a place to stand and observe, typically I sit.
I can’t understand why all the city kids insist on calling this body of water a lake. I mean, come on. A lake is expansive. It has cliffs you can jump from, room to ski on, and mountains to complement it. This is no lake, but instead a beautiful pond. One with the look of glass, except for the far away ripple of an airborne blue jay.
Already forgetting my thought, I take a second to observe the blue jay as it glides above the water. My eyes become fixated on its elegance. I see the effortless posture the creature maintains as it scans the pond looking for a snack. With its bright blue back and smooth white stomach, I begin to consider just how long it takes to develop such features. I wonder how long the gooey brown fluff ball that cracks out of an egg takes to transition into this independent flying animal. It would be a simple Google, but who would I be to resort to such an effective tool.
Ha, I suppose there is something fun about not knowing, even when knowing is just a few clicks away. But what is knowing? Do we really know what we know? Ugh, what a seemingly endless train of thought. One that tortures me more than it enlightens. It would probably be best if I just move on. Move on. Yeah, I should do that. How long have I been on this bridge? I suppose it doesn’t matter. Go to the right or the left? Well, I suppose that doesn’t matter too much either. Left it is.
As I come to the end of the bridge, I notice something in the bushes. I stop in my tracks and squat down in hopeful curiosity. You never know what you will find in the preserve. Like a child on Christmas morning, I peer inside the bush to see what gift was in store for me. To my disappointment, I find that it is just a piece of paper. Carly Davis. Carly Davis got a six out of ten on her unit two chemistry quiz. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been that ashamed. I mean it could have been a five or a four, and even so, neither of those would justify littering.
It was typical for little things like that to spiral into an entrapping thought loop of memory and reflection. A moment where simple observations become a connection to the world in the most twisted ways.
Paper. What about the doctor’s paper? A simple paper, single-sided, Times New Roman, double-spaced, and equipped with just the right-sized headers. Every six months I faced this paper. And every six months I faced the same issue. I was “forced”, more forced by myself than anyone else, to lie my way through the semi-annual depression screening.
The questions would always begin harmlessly. Have you had a poor appetite? Do you feel tired? Simple questions, but the simple answers are not what they are after. As clear as an inverse relation graph can show, with each question growing in significance, my confidence got smaller and smaller. The time between each question grew longer and longer. Questions like, have you been feeling hopeless about the future? and Have you been feeling blue became a tricky question to maneuver through.
This trend continued until I was stuck. I was stuck debating whether to answer how I feel or how I “should” feel. What I actually think or what I am told to think. I usually solved this issue by turning to my mother. She told me what I should think. She was good at that, always has been. She told me the excuses I needed to hear to feel normal. With her help, I was able to maneuver and lie through the questions successfully for years.
Years went by and paper after paper I was faced with the same questions over and over again. Each time I read them they got worse. Severity grew from 4 to 5, which later grew to 6 and then to 7. Questions that I could once confidently check off became questionable. Questions that were questionable now became impossible. Impossible until the normal was gone. Until the moment I accepted that I may just be abnormal after all.
On that day I looked at that paper and I answered it. I answered it all. It felt good to tell the truth. I didn’t totally know why, but I just felt satisfied. I was honest. And in my state of honesty, I felt true. True with the test, but more importantly, true to myself.
Not an hour after leaving the office I received a call from the very nurse who gave me my semi-annual paper. I heard concern in her voice. Over the phone, she asked if I knew what I had written, how I had answered and what it meant. I said of course I do. She asked if I was getting help. And I said of course I was. She said okay, have a nice day, and hung up.
That was it. Years of fear from telling the truth, from really saying how I felt, for that. For a two-minute phone call. It is amazing how extreme our imagination can inflate these situations. I mean come on, I was expecting something. No screaming or crying on the phone in protest of my answers? Not even a call to my parents informing them of my possible condition. Nothing.
Ugh, I hate that. Fading back into reality, I begin to wonder where I am. Ah yes, the preserve. I guess I took a right after all, and I once again, I am gazing at the lovely “lake.” I take a seat since standing requires too much focus. Taking a moment to settle into my new nest, I notice two squirrels playing what seemed like tag. Like ninjas on a mission, they leap from tree to tree, chasing one another. How cute, I think to myself. Connection is simply beautiful when done right. If done in love, and not need, but maybe the two are not so far apart.
Like a trap, I, once again, become wrapped in thought. I become engulfed in a memory and experience it like it was now and not then. The pond fades and I begin to reimagine last year’s New Years party, the time I knew what connection truly was.
There I was, at the annual New Years party I was desperately waiting for all year. As soon as I stepped inside the mansion-like house, a feeling took me over. With the music blasting and lights flashing, a sense of fun mania took me over. I was going to have a great night.
With dozens of people from all around the area, I was astonished by how many of them I had never met and would probably never meet again. With everyone in such a good mood, it was impossible to not feel the same way. Whether people were playing drinking games, busting a move on the dance floor, or lounging on the couch talking about god knows what, it seemed there was something to do for everyone.
The party was sensational, but as usual, it was only short term. A feeling that seems to never fully go away began to resurface. I have grown accustomed to this feeling, hence why it only took my subconscious to know what to do next. Like a snake slithering away silently, I withdrew from the scene and stepped outside as everyone continued to have the time of their lives.
As I stood there, with the cold winter breeze chilling my skin, a feeling of peace fell over me. I knew that I would just need ten minutes of this bliss before the night would be mine once again. As I stood in the cold winter night, I noticed a man around my age sitting with his legs hanging from the edge of the porch. As he looked down at his feet, which he swayed back and forth much as a child does on a swing, I recognized our similar situations. We both seemed to desire contentedness in so much fun.
I then proceeded to sit next to him. At first, we both said nothing. Listening to the distant noises of the party just one door away and looking over the glass-like lake, the need for words was not yet present.
After a few minutes, I began our conversation with a simple hello. We looked at each other and smiled. As we talked there was no secret to why we had ventured off to such an isolated spot. We spoke of depression, anxiety, and most of all, we spoke of suicide. There was no judgment and there was no stigma. We simply spoke our thoughts, and nothing was there to stop us.
The loveliest part of this conversation was that both of us were isolated, as we desired to be, but we were also not alone. It is rare when we simultaneously experience both solitude and the comfort of another person. We stayed in this unusual sense of bliss for what seemed like hours.
Eventually, some of the partiers ventured outside to find their lost friend. As they found us sitting on the porch, and I watched a look of confusion fall over their faces. If they were not questioning why their friend was sitting out in the cold, they certainly must have been questioning why he was doing so with a stranger. I then watched as my newfound friend bounded up from the porch with light in his eyes. I don’t believe it was entirely fake, yet I do believe his joy was a bit exaggerated in order to silence their questioning thoughts.
As they bounded away, back into the party, I was alone once again. Surprisingly, I felt better. I felt fuller. Normally it took a bit longer to get back to the level of happiness, but for some reason, my tank seemed to be refilled. Therefore my next decision was simple, it was time to slither back in the exotic New Years’ atmosphere.
Maybe from the distant call of a blue jay or the squirrels continuing their fun, I began to come back to reality. As I come back to, a thought hits me. This time I do not feel that it takes me over, but instead, I take it over. I analyze it, I record it and I use it.
I realize that the real beauty of the preserve is not the limitless treetops. Nor is it the hand attracting brown railing. It is not the blue pond and it is definitely not the nonexistent lake. I would not even say it is the blue jay, or the dozens of other animals running around. The beautiful part of the preserve, the truly beautiful part is freedom. The freedom to think, but not be required to.
This freedom lets our minds wander like an explorer in the pursuit of self-discovery. In this pursuit, there is no direction. Left is as useful as right. Our wandering minds explore the deep subconscious, along with the vast number of stray thoughts and ideas we have but many times forget. In this freedom, our minds can discover who we are, and not who we should be. There is no right or wrong in this pursuit, there is simply moving or staying still.
As I rise to begin my way home, I contently absorb this feeling. I look at the world from a new perspective, from what I believe to be a blue jay’s perspective. A blue jay on Earth would be quite curious. It would want to learn more because of how fascinating each and everything aspect of life would be. Seeing the land and water from far above or down low, the different perspectives would seem limitless. It would have the ability to see the world in such a way that no beaver, no squirrel, or any mammal for that matter has ever done before. It would have this choice, yet also have the luxury of flying low and seeing just how the other animals do. The blue jay would not be bound by any limits other than the ones it gave itself.
I believe the best part is that the blue jay does not know where it is going, but yet it knows it is going somewhere. And somewhere is exactly where I go in the Preserve. Somewhere in my mind that I can freely explore the vast savanna that we call consciousness. The true beauty of the Preserve is not the Preserve at all, but instead where our minds wander once in there.