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You Can't Run Away from Your Mental Illness

Trust me. I tried.

By Little WandererPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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I left my job, my home, all my family and friends behind in the hopes that maybe I wouldn't want to kill myself so very much if I didn't have to constantly fit myself into some semblance of 'normalcy' for their watchful eyes. Seven states, two provinces, and more than 10,000 kilometres showed me just how wrong that sentiment was; almost fatally so.

I left it all behind with the most intoxicating taste of freedom and spontaneous adventure. I wasn't so much driving as I was gliding. I had no idea what lay ahead of me and every intention of finding out. Mania's funny that way. It's the most addicting stimulant I’ve ever stumbled upon. And let me tell you, I’ve tried my fair share of intoxicating substances. Nothing else is quite capable of making you feel like you're on the absolute tiptop of the world whilst still maintaining the legal ability to operate heavy machinery. Who needs uppers when you've got mental illness hey?

Cruising down the coast of the Pacific northwest, sleeping in my rust bucket of a car, smoking tons of medical grade weed, and stopping at every used bookstore and cafe along the way felt a bit like some hipster cameo from a swanky Indie flick. And man, it sure felt pretty damn swanky at the time. Until all of a sudden, it didn't anymore.

Suddenly, I felt that oh-so-familiar darkness creeping back upon me, dragging me back into myself; into the abyss as I whirled down into northern California. I was no longer gliding; I was crashing and burning. Hard.

There I was, in literal paradise, a place I had dreamed of countless times and all I could manage to focus upon was keeping my gaze, and the tires, fixed straight ahead as I traversed the Golden Gate.

What a bridge man.

What a bridge to jump off of.

What a skyline to drink in with your last breath of life.

Needless to say, I did not end up jumping. But I also didn't end up spending much time in glorious San Fran. Debilitating despair has a way of overshadowing sightseeing. My internal state proceeded to get worse and worse the farther south I brought myself. The blinding sun and smiles in L.A. only made me want to ram my car into one of their fuckin' picturesque brick walls. Farther south, Slab City had me clumping huge piles of sand with my endless onslaught of tears.

Unbeknownst to me - or consciously unknown at least - Slab City had sort of existed as this great safe haven in my mind. A place I could exist in utter chaos without drawing stares, or the cops. Mental illness sure has a way of changing your plans; of pulling the fuckin' floor out from under you. Making you question even the most basic concepts of up and down, reality and illusion... Fuck man, that's some shit.

There I was, thousands upon thousands of kilometres from home, from anyone and everyone that I knew and I was having a goddamn breakdown. It may sound stupid - well now, this whole thing probably does to the sane individual. But then, aren't we all a bit mad? - But the only thing that really brought me even a morsel of comfort was the fact that at least my external finally matched my internal. Because I was in the middle of a fuckin' barren wasteland and all.

I still can't quite fathom how exactly it is that I actually managed to deliver myself back up north here. It's a wonder I returned home with only minor vehicular damage. I won't yet comment upon the damage done to my psyche - nor my bank account - as I really can't even begin to comprehend the magnitude of that just now. Literally all my energy is going into not breaking into a million little pieces currently... Well, and typing this out.

So there you have it. There's really no running away from your problems; especially when you carry the most cataclysmic of your problems around in your head with you... At least I’ve got a mop of nice curls to top it off with.

depression
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About the Creator

Little Wanderer

Independent scholar & world traveller

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