The Call

         I've never been camping, at least not in the traditional sense. The closest I've gotten was a football to the face and my church youth group surrounding my unconscious, seventeen-year-old body at the base of a pine tree. I still can't wrap my head around why my best friend's brother would yell catch but not signal as to who would receive the football. All I remember is seeing the ball hurtling towards my face, my final thought as I fell over and hit the ground was that it was a perfect spiral.

         My church would annually hold a retreat at Camp Allen, a good hour north-west from Houston. I always enjoyed these retreats, whether it be the adventures I'd have with friends, or just being away from the city. I grew up in the small town of Freeport, TX fifty-Ish miles south of Houston. Life in Freeport wasn't glamorous, but it was home, it's where most of my childhood memories were made. So, when my brother, sister, and I were placed in foster care the move to the big city was quite the culture shock. At first it was exciting being in the bustling city. A place my family only frequented when my brother needed medical care at Texas Children's Hospital, the pride of the Texas' Medical Center. Throughout the years though I began to resent Houston. I had developed a love-hate relationship. This was the city where I had gone through so much hurt in the foster system. Where I had been given a second chance and adopted by a loving and caring family. But it was always a constant reminder of my past life. I've never really felt at home in Houston. So, when the opportunity presented itself, I practically jumped to move away.

         In my final year of High School I had narrowed my eyes on the University of North Texas, in the "quaint" city of Denton, just north of Dallas. At first, I loved it, the atmosphere, just being somewhere new. But as time went on, I fell into a dark place, yearning for "home". College had been the first time in years I was truly alone. My family and friends were almost three-hundred miles away, and it felt like an ocean away. My grades would soon plummet as I struggled with being homesick. Then COVID-19 happened. I took the chance and returned home as the State was shutting everything down. Mere days after I returned home the University had cancelled the semester. My return home was bittersweet though as I had come back to my family, but my boyfriend of nine months decided it was a good time to break things off. I had seen the signs but I denied that they had stopped loving me.

         In hindsight it feels like that was my turning point. Since then, I feel like I've been lost not sure where to go with my life. I tried everything, the Police and EMS Academy, CDL School. I even tried a second run at UNT. But I find myself where I am now. Looking not only for a job but for a purpose. So, I've come back to the drawing board, a place where I once felt safe, writing. It's been a while since I've written anything meaningful. Even now as I type these words, I wonder if they have anything of value. I was an avid writer in my teens. I could sit for hours, immersed in a world of my making. It was my escape from the world, a place where all the worries and tribulations would fade as I made a world from a blank eight-by-eleven piece of paper. I felt as if the world I built rivaled that of "Inception", a place where I was God.

         So I've returned, after thinking that chapter of my life was closed. As I dust off my notebook, I can feel it again. The feeling of release, the warmth of comfort. That mind-numbing feeling would focus my mind on the thin blue-lined piece of paper. It's the same feeling I have when I think about my time camping. It's been six years since I've been to Camp Allen and three since I've had a proper hike. I feel like something has been calling me back to the wilderness. I gave up on religion a long time ago, so I assume it's my subconscious. Part of me wants to just fill up my tank and drive, get out, and disappear into the wilderness. I'm not suicidal, I just want a break from getting punched in the gut by life. I want to go into the forest and breathe.

         I can't run from life, so I've settled on walking. Once I have a job and get settled, I'll go back to the wild, not back to Camp Allen but back home, back to Brazoria County. Brazos Bend State Park holds a special place in my heart. It was where I went on my second date with my current boyfriend of three years. It's halfway between Houston and the place I once called home. As I finish up, I hope that in my next entry here I can tell you of my return to the wild, my reprieve from the little bubble I call, Houston.