I am writing this in a dark room in a Dallas suburb. It is a twin size bed with Minecraft sheets. I have been alternating sleeping here when my friend's son is at his mom's.
Depression is a real son of a bitch.
Being a vagabond with depression is a real mixed bag too. Sometimes—a lot of the time, most of the time—I can literally run away from it. The novelty of new landscapes and different people and the challenge of re-orienting oneself gives enough for the brain to do so that it isn't so bothered by its total depletion of serotonin.
Whatever negative circumstance that triggers whatever negative thoughts and emotions usually fade away more quickly too. Depression, at least in my experience, feeds off of routine. It's the same grey getting up and doing the same grey job and interacting with the same grey people that has traditionally got me into the real bad place. Which is why I jumped on the road in the first place. One fast move or I'm gone, Kerouac said. If I don't do something now, I die.
But man, Texas has been an exception to my ability to run away.
In part because my circumstances are more dire now. I ran out of money at the end of August. And even though I still somehow magically was able to make it to Iowa, Branson, New Orleans, Sarasota, Philadelphia, Fucking New York, Chicago, Minneapolis, and now Dallas on basically nothing, I am really empty now. And can't go anywhere.
But that's not where the depression lies. I've got myself some jobs, I could be making money right now. But, and this is something only people with depression will really understand, I am too sad to work. I am too sad to write. I am too sad to do fucking anything.
I am stranded not by circumstance. I have been running away from depression and now it has caught me and locked me in its trunk.
Texas, man. Fucking Texas.
This is where my life diverged from the perfect one laid out. I arrived here for the first time at 17, a bright young boy with God's call on my life. I came here to become a missionary. I left here a bitter atheist reeling from several untreated nervous breakdowns.
So maybe that's it.
Maybe this is just me facing these particular demons. Maybe it is the triggering feeling of being in the same place as the birth of my trauma.
Maybe I am just tired of being on the road and want to have my own place where I can cook and entertain and lay around naked all day if I want.
Maybe I am again thinking that I just can't do this writing shit. It's funny—hilarious, really—how often I feel that way when the reality is that I succeed every time I try at it. It's just that I am always too sad, nervous, anxious, stressed, to ever try it.
But that's what my brain is saying today. Has been saying these last several weeks. I am too depressed, too mentally broken, to ever make anything of myself.
I lack the vigor of self-promotion.
I lack endurance.
I lack stamina.
I lack confidence.
Being depressed on the road is a mixed bag. I want to hide in this dark room on this twin bed for the rest of the day. For the rest of my life.
But I can't.
Because a 13 year old boy lives here.
Because my friend is in the other room and will notice that I haven't left.
Because I can only be here three more days and then I have to leave and still don't know where to go.
And all that forces me to go outside and move around and face all of this shit head-on.
And that usually helps.
But it's not helping now.
I don't know what to do.
7:18 a.m. - 2018-11-08
Recent entries:
I hate feeling like this. - 2019-01-18
I am so lost right now. - 2018-12-12
brain full of static. - 2018-11-29
I don't know. I don't know. - 2018-11-16
An attempt to write. - 2018-11-14
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