The freedom of trees

Friends, readers, people who don’t even like what I write: I bring to you the alarming news that I am regressing.

Do not confuse this with people who go online and read about a clutch of symptoms and decide that is how they will now identify. No. I didn’t even bother to read anything. I just know.

Nor am I looking for an excuse to fashion a new persona (or excuse) that fits why I’m being the way I am.

Recently I asked a friend if a mutual acquaintance had ADHD. Friend was almost jovial in his response that she of whom we spoke most certainly did, and was happy to say so to anyone within listening distance.

I wanted to know what she was doing about it. How was her family handling it? How long had she been diagnosed?

He was taken aback. Not by the actual questions, but that I had questions at all.

She’d never seen a doctor of any kind. She was a bit of a runaway train. She could not stay on topic for love or money. So she decided that’s how she’d label herself.

This seemed normal to him.

Easier than actually finding out what the real problem is, I suppose. And people are doing it more and more. With so much easy-to-reach information out there, that’s a big fire and I can’t figure out who’s trying to put it out.

Then there’s the curious case of my regression. Some of it has to do with trees, but what it unequivocally does not get mixed up in is the charade of being a real mental-health problem.

There was a scene in a film I saw not too long ago: a girl in a tree, a tree that went on forever and must have been the first tree to take root at the beginning of time. I’ve seen huge and ancient trees but nothing like this. And it was not CGI. It made me think of all the trees I’ve loved and tried to live in.

As a child (and a little older) I loved lying in trees. And on rooftops. Anything high, really. But trees most of all. If you have the luxury of one, I think it’s the closest an urban creature can come to feeling the wilderness in themselves.

I love their shape and scent. The patches of moss and patterns in the bark. I love the light through the leaves – it’s different from when you’re lying on the ground under the tree.

But is the truth really that up in a tree simply means I’m further away from the reality of life in a house?

That is no longer a choice I have. The cats may be open to a bit of tree-climbing but they will not accept being fed there. Bowls are in the living room and there they will eat like normal civilised folk. If I chose to have dinner in a tree, the much-put-upon Cats’ Father would no doubt bring me something to drink.

I miss spending time in trees. No one’s actively stopping me, but my life is hemming me in. And I’m not quite so tree-worthy as I used to be.

Trees were a safe space, and we all need safe spaces.

Rain is another one. Being wrapped in the downpour brings me comfort in a way that seems at odds with the idea of comfort. It is solitary and cold, yet there is something freeing about it. The sound, the taste, the way everything looks different. Maybe it’s as simple as the fact that water always feels right to me. (I know this is a great privilege. I’ve never lived in a part of Trinidad where rain poses a threat.)

I’ve done a lot of running around in the rain all my life, but never was it as beautiful as when I was very young. I think I started to be aware of it when I got older. Younger me just did. Just lived either in or out of the rain. In or out of trees. In or out of the sea.

I’m starting to wonder if this longing is really a sign of regression, or if I genuinely never left scraps of my childhood behind. And would that be the worst thing?

What I will not be doing is tugging on your hand and saying, “Hi, I just turned five and can’t cross the street by myself.” Or jumping into a water feature in a mall because in my head, as a five-year-old, that’s ok. I’ll need a note from my doctor for that.