Night in the Woods: How a tale of mental illness helped me take control of my own

Autumn has always been my favorite season, and Night in the Woods evocates it like no other game.

Prior to the title screen, you’re greeted with the whoosh of primal air and the earth tones and crackle of passed-on leaves.

The stylized tree-stump logo, accompanied by the foreboding, uneven thump of a bass line as you peer through foliage, unsure if you are stalking, or the one being stalked.

And then, the screen goes black, and you are thrust into a somberly typefaced, choose-your-own-adventure ghost story. You don’t get to know everything; only the responses to your specific choices are revealed, replete with the rush of drafty air.

I picked up this game in the dead heat of summer, shortly before the July 4th holiday, and I felt I had been thrust forward three months.

My curiosity had been soundly piqued.

After the introduction, you are slid into the mind of 20 year-old Mae Borowski, returning from her sophomore year of college after dropping out to an empty station, save for the presence of a surly janitor and a tinny television speaker blasting hackneyed one-liners from a late night talk show. Step outside, and Mae’s loneliness becomes evident. Dead end town, blighted streets, parents nowhere to be found, and while traversing the dangerous way home, she vacillates between a determination to reach her safe, warm bed and a half-jested hope to die on the way there, setting the stage for the mental struggles she faces throughout the rest of the story.

The character of Mae is a rather realistic one; unpredictable mental states are altogether quite common when struggling with mental illness. By the next morning, all seems well. She has her trademark snark, time with her friends, her band practice, though throughout all of her interactions, there is a seed of doubt planted; an undercurrent of some deep wounds that have never fully healed. A hint of instability, a shoe waiting to drop at the slightest trigger of some routine event, such as simply peering into a mirror. This becomes evident during her first major breakdown in the game when she desperately attempts to summon the courage to go to a party in the woods, her first major social event since returning home.

You’re able to control Mae’s thoughts but the end result seems in no way relevant to your choices. Self-deprecating feelings may be twisted to have positive bends, and attempting to bolster her confidence may just backfire through some unforeseen double meaning; as if you are driving a car and your passenger has decided to yank the wheel at random.

Upon arriving at the party, Mae makes an embarrassment of herself. She acts sour towards her friends. She’s unable to come to grips with the prospect of talking to an old boyfriend. She gets near-blackout drunk and vomits. And worst of all, she becomes a blubbering mess on the ride home, trying the patience of a childhood friend, and eventually gravely insulting her through a total lack of recollection of past events. Mae had completely forsaken the situation of her childhood friend Bea, who in return harbored a growing resentment and jealousy over Mae throwing away an opportunity that Bea wanted so badly.

And then it hit me — Mae and I had the same struggles. We were one and the same. I, too, was staring into a mirror. She needed help. I did, too.

At the time when I started playing the game, I, too, had my own struggles with mental illness. I was recovering, a few weeks into a program with a therapist in which I was diagnosed with a mood disorder; I was slowly on the mend, but still quite out of sorts. The seeds of my breakdown were planted six months prior when I found myself in an unenviable position with a roommate that had just moved into our home. I would rather not go into details on what happened; suffice it to say, however, that I created a toxic living situation. Her presence would throw me into the foulest of moods. I watched myself degrade day by day; my roommate had done nothing wrong, mind you; the problem rested completely and wholly on my shoulders.

My friends watched the train wreck happening in slow motion, a collapse in my structural integrity, elongated over several weeks. I strained my friendships day after day, watching them crumble; one thing I experienced first hand is that mental illness destroys not only the person suffering, but the around them as well. I would listen to advice and not take it — not because I wanted to ignore it, but because I couldn’t find the mental fortitude to proceed with it. The rut I was in contained some sort of odd, cold comfort. It was the deepest rut I had been in, but it became my rut, a familiar sort of hopelessness that I had slowly furnished and moved into.

I became trapped in a negative feedback loop that continued to deteriorate my mental state as time progressed over the next six months. My sleep schedule withered just as much as my friendships did. I spent less time on the business that I left my job to cultivate. My social circle would shrink and withdraw, which further degraded my own outlook, which caused my friendships to suffer even further. I lost some of my best friends due to my actions. Even moving to present day, some aspects of my life have never fully recovered. I had acted so poorly, so consistently, for so long, that the people that I knew had begun to automatically assume bad faith on my part; my actions would be interpreted in the worst possible light even when I meant completely well. I felt I could say or do nothing that would make things better. I would try, and try, and try, and be found wanting. For every step forward, I’d take three steps back.

So I did the only thing I thought right at the time, not knowing it would seal my fate in ways I hadn’t intended.

In May, I ran 800 miles away to my own childhood city. I left everything behind I had built for years in New York, just like Mae had, so I could move back to my own small-town suburb.

And when I saw her break down in the game, I broke down too. I knew her position all too well.

I felt the sting of retaliation when I came to visit in June after having a month to recover.

“Why are you so mad at me all the time?” I might have asked, just as Mae did in the game.

“What happened to you? You used to be smart! You used to be cool! You used to be worth talking to!”

The words in real life were never exactly the same — in fact, they were often worse in real life — but the sentiment was the same.

Did everyone else change, or did I? Occam’s Razor would lay the blame at my own feet, and I saw no reason to disagree. The stab in my heart from this game was one that I desperately needed. And so I pressed on after a good, cathartic cry, and hoped to find some sort of direction as the plot moved on.

It wasn’t long before I found a guidepost.

The morning after, Mae’s concerned mother says this to her:

“Friendships are like trees. You have to water them so they grow, and we only have so much water.”

Mae dismisses this as ‘fortune-cookie’ talk, but I realized the truth of the statement. If trees were friendships, then I had become a cactus, greedily holding onto the little water I contained, pricking anyone that dared get too close. This quote laid my sins bare to me. While it was true that I was suffering from a mood disorder, I still retained agency for my actions. I had hurt others that tried to help me, because I was too proud to seek it; and by the time I realized what was happening, I had already decimated those relationships that I had spent years building.

The more I pushed for reconciliation, though, the more I was pushed away by people I wanted so badly to be accepted by once again. The more I tried to give of myself, the more I felt rejected. Evidently, the damage had been done. I took security, however, in the fact that I knew I was at last trying to do the right thing. Whether or not people that once loved me would accept me again, I didn’t know. To this date, it still seems rather unlikely. But over time, bit by bit; I found that when I gave of myself freely, others that I had unfairly left on my periphery for years gradually began giving of themselves to me in return. I was yanked out of my emotional freefall by outstretched hands from others who genuinely wanted to help. With their help, I had found some level of peace that grew day by day. A door had been shut; a window had been opened.

I would rather not spoil the rest of the goings-on of the game; but there is a motif throughout the rest of the game of reconciliation and re-connection with old friends, and as I gave of myself, I found others had given to me in return. Somehow, I lost sight of this fact that seemed so simple; but I have been blessed to experience the warmth of closeness once again. I have been given a second chance that I don’t deserve with people that reached out to catch me before I hit the ground.

I hope one day that I can set things right with those that I have wronged the most with the full acceptance that it may not happen, and it is well within their right to refuse me. I miss my Bea most of all. So far, that hasn’t worked out in real life as it did in the game.

But for the first time this year, thanks to the love of my friends that I received after I shed my sinful pride, I can say, “It’s going to be okay”, and I can finally believe it.

All thanks to a video game.

Life lessons come from the most unlikely places.