Something happened. I’m still not sure what. I crawled out of my stinking cave, came out blinking and shrieking at the garish light of day. But I was okay. I suddenly realized I was alive and what that meant. Odd changes began to take place. I started to balance my poisons with my antidotes, my toxins with my elixirs. I’d take tea with my wine, food with my cigarettes, baths with my self-harm, socialization with my hermitry, creation with my mindless absorption, sleep with my insomnia, vitamins with my junk food, books with my t.v., journeys in the woods with my cabin fever, meditation with my mental destruction. I started singing to flowers, playing the ukulele, talking to people. Instead of spewing hate and filth upon the universe, I started to put out good energy. Instead of hating myself I started saying mantras. I was no longer an angsty teenage freak, I was a spawn of the stars. This did not happen overnight. I was not perfect. I messed up a lot and I was lonely. I fell back into spiraling despair. But I was climbing. And now that I’ve seen the sights from the top of my inner mountains, staring down at the twilight tangled in the trees below, watching the critters talk to each other in woodspeak and the spirits floating in and out of rotting stumps, I know what the climbing is for, I know who I am, I know what I have to live for. Nature was one of my many cures.