Hi. My name’s Ian and I’m addicted to dirt. Have you ever smelled something so powerful that it sent you over the edge and you rubbed your face in it, just so the smell would linger that much longer inside your nostrils? I have. I grew up in an average household, with normal parents at the end of a busy road, just off the expressway. My house overlooked the Puget Sound and backed up against the lushest forest you could ever imagine. The rain would come and go, but it mostly came. When my parents died, I got to keep the house, but that comes in later. Mom was a teacher and dad was a botanist. He loved to help me categorize the samples I took and would help me try to figure out the pH of the dirt I collected. The higher the pH, the more alkaline and better it smells, but the lower pH, the lighter in color it is. Mom would always say, “You boys and your dirt.” 

As a kid, all my friends would collect giant pinecones, seashells, bugs, or baseball cards but not me. I wanted dirt. Our family would take road trips across the country. We loved the outdoors and they thought it was important for me to see the world away from concrete walls. Dad would always let me pack a box of jars, so I could take a sample or two from the roadside, wherever we may have ended up. I would fall asleep with an open jar just under my nose, coddling it like it was a new puppy. 

The red dirt is the worst. It tastes just like you would think, bitter and salty. The golden dirt just tastes like dust. You know what I mean. The sandy dirt crunches between my teeth, tasting of salt and minerals. Brown dirt is overly metallic. It reminds me of biting into aluminum. Oh, but the black soil. The black soil is the very best. The blackest soil you could imagine laid just outside my back door. You know that moment when you smell something that tightens all your insides and makes you gasp to get just a moment more if its aroma? Oh, I loved it! I kept my collection in the greenhouse just at the edge of the forest. All my specimens were neatly aligned by color variances and alphabetically, according to each state they came from. I even have one from Hawaii.  

For show-and-tell, I would bring in my collection, dazzling and boring my classmates with the scientific knowledge of how and why each specimen stood apart from the other. The last time I brought my samples to school was in the fourth grade. Billy Thompson dared me to eat the jar of soil that came from behind my house. All the kids chanted in rhyme, “Eat it! Eat it!” I took one big whiff and dove in. Scooping bite by bite out of the jar until my mouth was full. At first the taste made me gag, but something hit my senses as the aroma intertwined with my taste buds. With every chew, my mouth salivated, growing more and more desperate for another spark of flavor. It was unlike anything I had ever tasted. Mrs. Goldberg tried to stop me, but by the time she made it to the front of the class and grabbed the jar from my hand, it was too late. I looked up and smiled at her. The black soil stuck between my teeth, leaving my tongue with the sparkle of mica and a purplish hue from the deep dark gold I had tasted. She notified my parents and dad had a talk with me. He warned me about the dangers that came with eating dirt and the disease it could cause. He even showed me a video of the bacteria and viruses that live in dirt and soil. I felt so ashamed and saddened by disappointing my parents. But this was just the start. I couldn’t help myself. 

I sat in class every day for weeks after the incident, licking my lips as I fantasized over the aroma and flavor of the midnight soil that lay just outside the walls. The disappointment from my parents kept me from eating it, but I couldn’t stop from dreaming about it. I would run home right after school ended and run out, just behind the greenhouse. I used my spade to trench up some fresh soil and would burry my face deep within the walls of the freshly exposed soil. The smell was orgasmic, only then I didn’t have any reference to that sensation. I laid there, taking in all the intricate wafting aromas. The sensation that took over my body sent me into a frenzy, and I started gnawing at the shallow walls surrounding my face.  

I caught a moment of clarity and ran inside. Mom would have been coming home soon. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. My face was covered in soil, as was my shirt. I quickly disrobed and threw the clothes in the garbage. I started the shower and set it to scalding. I scrubbed and scrubbed until my skin hurt to be scrubbed any more. I sobbed with each stroke from the luffa and curled into a ball and laid on the tub floor as the scalding water reddened my tender flesh. 

I quickly learnt that after school snacks weren’t enough. I needed more. I started filling my pockets with soil, but one day after a good rain, my pockets were soaked and seeping the minerals from my pockets until it looked like I had wet myself, leaving a dark circle of silt around the water-markings. I started sewing in a plastic lining into my pockets to prevent the obvious saturation that good soil has. But when I hit my high school years, everyone always commented that they smelled soil. They all stared at me and chuckled to one another. The girls snickered. Mary came over to me one morning in home room and put seeds on my head and poured water over me. “There, now you can grow something in all that dirt you carry around.” I was mortified. They all knew, but there wasn’t anything I could do. I couldn’t help myself. 

I started skipping class and would just walk into the forest, finding the perfect spot to dig up some soil and take it all in. I found solace in the soil. I started digging far into the woods behind the house, just far enough where nobody could discover my secret. I started digging a trench just deep enough for my face, but that wasn’t enough. I dug deeper and wider. I dug for days, sorting through rocks and roots to make a trench deep enough for my body. I needed to be a part of it, and it me. Smelling it and tasting it wasn’t enough. I wanted to be consumed by it.  

I dug for three weeks until the trench was deep enough and wide enough to fit my slender body two feet below the surface. The sounds of the world disappeared, replaced by the exotic aromas consuming my senses. The pleasure was overwhelming. I didn’t want to be separated from the vastness the soil could offer, so I stripped naked and allowed the fecundate soil to envelope every inch of my body. I would lay there for hours, just being a part of the beauty that surrounded me.  

I managed to pass my classes, but just barely. Mom and dad were disappointed, but they let me be myself. The summer after graduation was when they passed. They were hiking up Mount Rainier and were buried by an avalanche. And then it got worse. My parents had everything set up for when the time would come that they would pass. They were planners. All I had to do was sign a few documents and everything was set. Their bodies were never recovered. I had the family meet at the tree line to say our goodbyes. I stood there, staring into the vastness and beauty of the white, but knew that this was it. I threw the soil from my pocket onto the snow, scattering the remnants of my only solace onto the thing that took them from me. I had to bury them, to cover them with earth and not frozen water. This made me feel closer to them. 

After their deaths, I brought my trench closer to the house. I dug a new space for me to lay in, right next to the greenhouse. I just laid there, naked. The moonlight would refract the mica, sending sparkling glimmers into my eyes as it scattered across my freezing skin. I could only cope when I was in my soil. I would lay there for days on end, gnawing at the walls, covering my body for warmth at night. I couldn’t, no, I wouldn’t get out. I can’t remember how long I did this, but I was saved when my Aunt Silvia stopped by one afternoon.  

She stood above the trench, just staring. She gasped at the sight of me as I lay, partially covered in soil, partially exposed to the sky. She jumped into the trench, lifting me with her strong arms. She carried me from the depths of despair and onto the lawn that was now mostly covered with soil. I don’t remember what happened next, but I woke up in the ER. Silvia was there, clenching my hand. I could barely move. The doctors came and went, but the psychiatrist stayed and observed. He would sit quietly, randomly asking questions about what I had been doing.  

I tried to explain my love of soil and the intricacies that lay beyond the textures and sight of dirt in general and my desire to be as close as possible to it. I slowly began to recover, and I started eating solid foods after a week of colonics and some bitter fluid that would flush out my system. I got up to walk around the hospital wing, dragging my IV cart along. I stopped in front of a window that looked onto a garden. Just next to the window was a potted plant. It was the good soil, the kind you can only get in Washington and it had just been watered. I ripped the plant up and began scooping the soil into my mouth. I rubbed the soil into my face, gasping between bites. Some orderly caught me and dragged me away. I fought him and fought him, but remained too weak to retrieve the last scoop from the pot. 

They sent me to the psych ward and made me start the PICA program. You know how it goes. Countless days waiting in some sterile room with no natural surfaces to be distracted by, no windows.  I couldn’t believe the people in there at first, but the more they spoke, the more I understood what I was doing. I stayed in the psych ward for six months and moved into a half-way house. I learned how to survive without the need to be in the soil or to eat it. I replaced the cravings with blueberries. Every time I crave soil, I scoop a handful of blueberries into my mouth and the craving passes. I still must stay inside when it rains. The smell of the soil saturates the air after a good rain and I am still working on that. It has been one year since my last bite of soil and I am honored to have shared my story with you. Remember, it’s just one day at a time. 

Justin Fredericksen is a published writer who recently accepted a position teaching English in the Arctic Circle. His passion for adventure and knowledge have fueled his writing as he scours the darkest hallways of his imagination. His work draws on the underbelly of life, shedding light on the places few have dared to look. Justin graduated SCAD in 2020 with his MFA in Writing, where he completed his manuscript and is seeking publication for the memoir.