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My childhood house rests between the hillside and the tree line that divides nature from the town below. Starring into the dim, moonlit night through the windows surrounding my bed, I can faintly trace the massive spruce tree less than twenty feet from my room. The enormous spruce tree's roots, along with the help of its companions, anchor the mountainside from inevitable erosion. In the dark winter months, rainstorms companied by hurricane-force winds stole anything not grounded. During these storms, the branches of trees would violently swing as if frantically running to escape the storm. The trees’ chaotic waving and beating of rain against my window held my gaze as I stared out, exhausted, waiting for sleep and relief. The storm raging outside was minor to the relentless bombardment of thoughts that overwhelmed my senses and consumed my mind. The restless nights would leave me feeling dead and hollow, hopeful that my clock’s face was mistaken. Despite these feelings, I’m told I was a happy child, always smiling, ready to make anyone laugh.  The jokes and smiles were more self-serving than anything; after all, how could anyone so happy be so sad?

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Early in my life, I learned that people don’t want to see sadness, possibly fearful that the emotion might be contagious. Like a leaper concealing sores under clothing, I hid under a mask of false joy. At first, I wasn’t very good at wearing this mask. The constant flood of thoughts made concentrating in school difficult. Occasionally, I would lay my head on my desk, staring at the schoolroom’s thinly carpeted floor, and silently cry. If caught by a classmate, I’d lie, feigning a false injury. I became a master at lying; it was my camouflage, a necessity for survival. No matter the number of people surrounding me, I was alone. In my solitude, my mind was like a cold, dark room, void of life, an endless chasm of constant crushing pressure that was painful to my body and soul. Unable to turn off the dominating darkness, my thoughts kept me in continual unease and fear. I’m not sure what exactly is wrong with me, but I know I am not “normal”; I am nothing like my peers.

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After several failed attempts to ask for help, I turned to books for a possible cure. I use my allowance to buy psychology books, hoping to find an answer. I discovered a common theme, childhood trauma, to play a part in the list of mental illnesses. Searching my mind, I can see my earliest memory of my father’s last supervised visit. A black rubber rat was lying lifelessly on the undersized circular table in the poorly lit room. I stared blankly at the minor amounts of detail etched into the rat’s body, the noise around me muffled. A woman wearing a floral-patterned ankle-length dress stood in the corner, clipboard in hand. She watched, listened, and noted the last time I saw my father. I don’t believe children understand the complexities of relationships, as I most certainly didn’t at the time. As a stay-at-home father, being told this was the last time I would see my father was incomprehensible to my four-year-old self.

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Other classmates had similar situations, with little to no effect on their outlook on life. And besides, I knew all too well other children who had it far worse than me. I would be reminded of this if I let my wall of lies falter and spill my actual thoughts. This mistake was quickly stopped, and physical and verbal isolation was preferred. Solitude was slightly more peaceful. I could remove my mask and the camouflage and be unafraid of judgment or correction. My mother's schedule and I, being an only child, allowed for ample amounts of time to be alone. I would spend this time quickly finishing any homework and then play video games, an escape from myself. My first-grade teacher had convinced my mother that it was essential that I have access to a computer to succeed in future academics. Since video game consoles weren’t permitted, the new computer gave me access to the forbidden fruit.

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Over the years, I played several different games, but Doom was one of my early favorites. Spending hours in the game with hellish demons and copious amounts of gore made my darker thoughts feel less abnormal. Listening to music while playing the game expanded the sensory overload, allowing me to escape myself further. If I enabled the “God Mode” cheat, it allowed for an unemotional exploration and eradication of the demons free of consequence. Eventually, my mother caught me playing the games, and they were confiscated. Again, I was back to masking the emptiness.

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After years of hiding, unemotional and false emotions were all that remained of me.  People say it takes courage to ask for help; for myself, it was not courage but a storm that had stripped away everything. A cold and barren wasteland was all that remained in my mind. After twenty years in this pit, a rope at the pit’s center always seemed more of a decoration than a way out. Seeing nothing else, attempting to climb this rope out of this chasm would take all my strength.

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The first grasp was weak as the rough texture of the rope cut into my hands. My body, accustomed to pain, I continued to climb unphased. My body involuntarily quivered as I used muscles unaccustomed to use. Climbing the rope became more manageable, and reaching the end, I came to a ledge. The ledge was painted with thick dust, appearing to have never felt footsteps. Peering around, I noticed the light was different, brighter perhaps, but foreign to my eyes. Taking time for my eyes to adjust, I could now make out stairs carved into the cave floor, leading further upwards. With a small opening, my body barely fitting, the stalactites took flesh from my hunched back as I ascended further. Unphased by the pain, I continued. The further I go, the more the ceiling expands, allowing me to run. Faster, I sprinted through the narrow winding passages that now seemed to have been carved just for me. Turning yet another bend, I burst into an empty sand-filled room. Desperate to continue my progress, I clawed at the rocky walls, hoping to find a buried passage. Finding nothing, I slump next to the entrance and close my eyes, accepting my progress as a victory. With my eyes closed, I do not see the usual darkness but light washing over my eyelids. Cautiously opening my eyes to confirm my suspicions, I see a small ray of light piercing the ceiling. Now illuminated is the rock ladder etched into the rock surface just beneath the light source. With calm confidence, I quickly climbed the ladder, my hand shooting past the last rung, feeling warmth for the first time. I now climb onto the ledge carpeted with moss and tiny, colorful flowers.

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The hallway from this last ledge had its walls smoothly carved with a blinding light at its entrance. I cautiously step forward, fearful at first, but slowly, I take my first step out of this labyrinth of death and into life. Blinding is the light as my eyes continually spasm, seeing with foreign clarity. My lungs fill with crisp, clean air, expelling decades of dust and dirt. My skin feels the sun's warmth; my bones no longer ache and are no longer cold.  Looking back at the opening of the chasm that held me captive for so long, I feel a wave of peace and understanding. And for the first time, I smile without my mask, a smile of true happiness and full of life. Calmly, turning away and looking to the horizon, I see a tall spruce tree in the distance, its branches swaying peacefully.