Is this Giving Up?

Greenhouses and life challenges

Some damage simply cannot be fixed.

Bolts removed, screws unscrewed, poly panels cracked, bundled under arms, hauled to the section of the yard for a dump run another day. Piece by piece I have been breaking down this structure, careful not to collapse the parts of it that remain and continue to work to my benefit.

I hate that this is such an obvious metaphor for where my life is at this moment.

Last winter there was a snowstorm. It happened while I was battling a mild flu – not so mild that it was kind, just that I was only bed-ridden for a couple of days. But those few days were enough for a heavy, wet snow to fall and collapse the roof of my darling greenhouse.

Last winter there was a shitstorm. I saw it coming, but the winds swept up my emotions into a torrent I had not anticipated, had not braced for, and did not weather well. Allow me to be blunt. It made me suicidal.

We both collapsed a little under the pressure, under the cold, damp frozenness of betrayal. That sounds heavy, right? But bear in mind, snow serves a pretty important process in the garden – It provides insulating cover, it hydrates slowly, it fends off winds, and even the deepest freezes over winter serve to kill off irksome little bugs that plague the soil. To be crushed by that very thing that can help… If that’s not devastation I don’t know what is.

My snow? Not so simple. The crushing part was the same, but I can’t see a rosy side to any of it. Not even now with distance and a little healing.

As the tide of woe and misery over my greenhouse (over my emotional state) subsided, I held off rebuilding. How many times did friends ask about buying another greenhouse? And I simply wasn’t ready to face that. I think I didn’t want to admit defeat. No one asked how I was recovering from my emotional wounds. I would’ve had to tell them in the first place, and I refrained.

Spring began to warm the air and the soil, and I went on like nothing had gone wrong. I started tomatoes and peppers in the kitchen window like I always do, the heat-mat under them warming their germination and emergence into the world. I knew I wouldn’t be able to put them out as early as I do most years. When the greenhouse was damaged, I literally lost half of the roof. Those panels which had not been torn off in the brutal winds of January were removed by hand to keep from damaging anything else. So I was left with four sides and a roof over one bed, the other exposed from above. All that torsion made it hard to wrench the doors open and closed, and I knew I wouldn’t have that movement for long. I was on borrowed time.

But still I could not rebuild.

My departure from the toxic environment in my workplace was similar. I knew I needed to take steps to leave, but my feet were stuck in place. I still had four walls and a partial roof over me, and I didn’t know how to go.

How do you leave all of that behind when it has served you so well for so long? Doesn’t that feel like giving up?

Parsley flowering in the old greenhouse and attracting a friend.

Over the weeks of March and April I spent more and more time in the garden, prepping, planting, tilling, readying for the warmth that would show up soon. Walking in and out of the greenhouse felt chilling, like it was the dead husk of something lost, and I knew I was ignoring the importance of all those signs around me.

It’s time to move forward.

Casually, barely able to make eye contact with what I was doing, I set about finding what I wanted to build to replace the old version. Something larger this time, in a different spot, with better airflow and more capacity to grow in the shoulders and over winter. No potting bench inside this time. In ground beds instead of raised ones, no gravel paths, just dirt. I wanted to get my feet back in the soil where they belong. I have always been about growing the best plants, building the healthiest soil. All that work to create a nice space to be in was what failed me the first time. I lost sight of what was important.

When it was time to order the new building, I felt numb, like I was going through the motions. I could not face the other greenhouse, its skeleton swaying in the early summer breezes. It was sheltering the tomatoes and peppers already – broken but not useless.

And this is why it’s so hard to let go. It wasn’t a complete waste.

And this is why it’s so hard to walk away. I wasn’t a complete waste.

I took more time than my busy hands wanted to spare, but it was worth the extra work to get the site right, to remove the mountain of rocks, to reconfigure the fence, to ensure that there would be adequate space for years to come. I wasn’t going to do this a third time. This is it. This is going to be the real thing, and it’s not going to fail like the old one did.

I am taking so much time to find how to walk away that I’m impatient with myself. Resumes don’t really take this long. Surely there’s got to be a job out there that’s a good fit. But if I leap? I will have so many regrets. It’s better to clear the foundation, to rake things smooth, to be intentional and aware of each place I set my feet as I move slowly forward.

The 450-pound pallet arrived, and within two weeks it was fully assembled in its new location. When I’m ready to commit, I don’t hesitate.

Really, I was pouring all of my emotion and focus into building that damn thing so that I didn’t have to face the pain and hurt of where I am, of what I am giving up, of how tired this fight has made me. I wasn’t born to argue and wage war like this. I was born to grow things. I was born to tell stories.

The soil inside the new greenhouse needs work. Fertilizer is helping, but it takes time to restore those essential connections in fungi and bacteria. The “help wanted” sign is out for the worms and bugs to return.

But the sight of a light rain beading up on the surface of it as I stand within, safe and protected, is beautiful. This will be where new things grow, where I dig bare toes in the soil in the coldest moments of winter because I can. This will be a haven of cool green softness in the windstorms of autumn, a dazzling warmth of buzzing growth in early spring.

Today I began disassembling the old greenhouse. Some parts fell rather abruptly, an angry, widespread arm posturing of bitterness. Didn’t we grow things well together? Didn’t we spend time in spring and winter, too? Wasn’t this supposed to be something great?

It was.

It still is.

And I am grateful for all of it, mostly for the memories I will keep long after the walls and foundation have been repurposed into something new. Here will be the site of an apple tree, too crowded where it stands now and so much happier with room to breathe and stretch. Here, too, will be those same beds, now exposed, free to grow something other than solanums. The gravel already has a new destination, the workbench is ready to move as well.

I couldn’t stay. I cannot continue in this old place. Something has to change. And I am so afraid of what that means, of where it will take me, and of what I may have to leave behind. But I will still pick up the wrenches and remove the screws and the bolts. I hope there is something better growing soon.

Your trans friend,

Robin