I realize, or I have always known, that this is a blog about my depression. About recurring episodes of depression I experience. I have succeeded in avoiding admitting this, that I have recurring and stubbornly persistent depression, for a long time.
I don’t know why I am writing about this, other than that I have been writing all weekend long. I am sitting on a bus, coming home from a long weekend in [undisclosed location] that I decided to take by myself. I hitch hiked here. It was remarkably easy. So easy it was disorienting.
And I felt like I was doing something wrong. I took on a high paying job earlier this year, an action I basically regard as a mistake but which was wholly rational at the time. I wore a pair of fake glasses while I was hitch hiking, and for a little while once I got to my destination. I wore them out of a belief that they enabled me to be someone else, but for most of this weekend I didn’t talk to anybody who was not already a good friend, and when I did it went horribly wrong.
So I’m not sure why I wore the glasses. But I am sure that I felt strange riding in the car, getting a ride for free from a person who was paying a lot of money to drive the distance they were driving. It didn’t make any sense for me to be getting anything for free. I should have paid for gas at least.
I came here because I am bored with my life in [other undisclosed location] and I am afraid I am building walls that will close in on me and kill me. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that I have two committed romantic partners right now, and the last time I felt like I was suffocating was also a time I had a committed partner.
I want to run, far away. I want to quit my job and get on an airplane to a place where they do not speak my language or share my culture, and I can bring a backpack filled with nothing but books. I will set up in public places and read books, and write, and take meals in public places and drink in public places and talk about nothing except the books I’m reading — the ideas, the authors, the times in which they were written. I will never talk about the life I left behind. It will be a struggle to talk at all because in the place they will not speak my language but I will learn, dilligently, and when I feel lonely I will write my friends and family post cards without return addresses.
Maybe I will get a post office box. Not being able to receive letters sounds terrible.
I keep saying that if I make it through this year without killing myself, it will be a miracle. I don’t know why I believe this. But my heart is heavy with despair just the same. It’s a truth I can’t avoid, as much as I’d like to. I know I am not happy and I am living a life that does not make me happy. I am on what I tell myself is a short-term contract to enable a life I actually want. Because I went the route of “just living the life I want” and I ended up broke and precarious.
There is a part of me that says that happened solely because I didn’t try hard enough and I believe it. I have ultra high expectations for myself that I rarely meet. But what I do come up with is pretty good I guess.
This year has been a hard year. I don’t think it’s going to quit.