My Place

Everyone has their place. Somewhere they feel safe, or loved, or happy. Somewhere special to them. It could mean home, it could mean that feeling of belonging, or it could just mean what it says. It could just be a place. For me, my place is just that. The one area that I can call my own.

My place was something I discovered when I was fourteen. It wasn’t something I was looking for; it wasn’t even something I thought I needed. It was just something I stumbled upon. Down the road from the roundabout my house is situated on, taking the second right and then the first left to find myself on Sunlight Court. At the very end of this street lies another roundabout, where the sidewalk gives way for a frankly out of place asphalt road down a hill. At the base of this road lies a bridge. But if you just ignore the bridge and instead take an immediate left into the brush, you will find a little alcove that opens to a stream. That is my place. It’s seen me at my worst, and it’s seen me at my best.

I often went there to write. Whatever’s on my mind, it doesn’t really matter, it flows better onto paper when I’m in my place. I go there to unwind too. Something about the sounds of a flowing stream that really calms you. It wasn’t always reliable, though. Some days the stream would be too dry to really be making noise. But on those days, I could see below the roots of a tree on the other bank, where frogs would tend to hide. Birds would sing loud yet smooth melodies in the morning, and clearer, gentler songs by night. Some days they wouldn’t sing at all. Bugs would be a frequent annoyance, but most of them weren’t the flying or buzzing kind, so it didn’t bother me too much. These were observations I made within the first month of having discovered my place. 

Within a year, I had made myself quite acquainted with my place. I knew what to expect of it when I went, so I could plan out when it would be best to visit. Do I want to get a good amount of writing done? I’ll go at least a day after it last rained, in the beginning of the afternoon to minimize the natural noise. Do I want to just get away and think? I’ll go closer to the evening, when the light is mellow, and the frogs are harmonizing their croaks with the birds. Whatever the occasion, I’d know when to go. It was my place, after all. And I knew it better than I knew myself.

I can’t say exactly how it happened, but soon I began to offload negative feelings on my place. The day after we put down my childhood dog, I went there early in the morning, just to sit and listen to the stream and birds. I didn’t tell it anything, but I knew I didn’t have to. My place listens, even when I am not speaking. It knew of my grief, maybe better than I did. This was the first time I came to my place with grief. I got over the loss quickly, but the feeling of the moment stuck. My place had a new purpose now.

Two years after first discovering my place, a certain world altering event began to occur. I found myself going to my place a lot less now, for fear of not keeping a proper social distance. Perhaps my fear was misplaced, since it was outside where no one really walked. But still, my place and I grew apart. I felt that I needed a substitute. Not a replacement, I thought that nothing could replace my place. But something else in the meantime. I wasn’t actively searching, but I desired it subconsciously.

And that is when I met her. Through a friend, that is. A girl who lived in Ipswich, Massachusetts. Not quite a long distance, but not close either. I didn’t know it then, but she was going to become that substitute.

Three years after I found my place, we were dating – if you can call a mostly online relationship dating. She would visit me, I never got to visit her. I told her things; she told me fewer things. She cared for me, I cared for her presence. It wasn’t meant to last, but that didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered then. I hadn’t been to my place in a long time. I didn’t feel like I needed to. I had my substitute, after all. It wasn’t until we had our first falling out that I found myself back there. I felt almost ashamed, like my place would be hurt that I had essentially replaced it. But that’s the thing about my place, it doesn’t judge. It can’t judge. It exists freely, regardless of how much you put into it. It will always give the same back.

I made amends with her, our little falling out passed, and things were stronger than ever. But this time I wasn’t neglecting my place. I made sure to visit often, or at least as long as it made sense. I had started to keep a journal, and often I would go to my place to write my entries. Everything I wrote in that journal became a part of my place too, whether I realized it or not. It was mostly harmless, but not entirely. You write personal stuff in journals, stuff you can only ever tell yourself and those now inked pages. Maybe my journal was another substitute. But I showed this one to my place, so it had no reason to feel betrayed.

Four years after stumbling into my place, I was going to turn eighteen. A big milestone, and I was excited because she was coming down to visit for the week leading up to it. I made a promise to myself, and then later to her. I was going to show her my place. That’s a big thing to do. Imagine if you could tear apart your chest and reveal the deep secrets of your heart to someone. That’s what it felt like I was going to do. But it felt right. I didn’t want to hide it anymore. My place was a part of me that I wanted her to see. 

So, she came, and she saw. It was only for a moment, a brief one. We just kind of stood there, and she made some comment about how it’s peaceful. But to me it was more. It was safe. It was a haven. It was me. She was the first person I ever showed myself to. I didn’t realize this was something I would come to regret, but it quickly became apparent. That night I couldn’t sleep. I was kept up thinking about what I had done. Should I have shown her my place? Was it too early? Did she even care that I did? Does she know what it means to me?

I broke up with her on my birthday. I’ve tried to convince myself it was a long time coming, but I know that isn’t true. My place knows just as well. I simply couldn’t handle having revealed it to her. It felt too vulnerable. And now I’m not sure which I regret more, showing my place to her, or cutting it off the next day. From then on, I was closed off. I had to be, if I ever wanted to maintain my place. I couldn’t go back. I shouldn’t go back.

Five years after I wandered into my place, I found myself back there. I hadn’t been in a year, not since I closed myself off from it. But I came back. It was the day after my nineteenth, which just so happened to be the day of my grandfather’s funeral. I had grief I needed to unload, and I only knew of one place to do it.

   It was just how I remembered. The stream wasn’t dry, it flowed smoothly. The birds sang their song, and the trees swayed in the fall winds. What was once a dead patch of grass where I would sit was now grown over, and you could hardly tell I ever used to come here. My place had forgotten me. Maybe that was for the better.

   Six years after my place found me, I have not returned. But I’m glad to have found it. As much as I wish I could refrain from calling it my place, I can’t seem to bring myself to accept that. I left my imprint, and although it may not be apparent, I know it’s there. There are parts of me in my place that I cannot scrub clean. And I’m okay with that.