The Long Days Between Trips
Sometimes I feel like all I do is wait to leave.
When I was in the throes of a case of postpartum anxiety and depression that came a little too close to killing me, I was seeing a cognitive behavioral therapist who “prescribed” that I take a night alone at a hotel. I managed to make that prescription last for most of CJ’s childhood. To a certain extent, I think that’s where my adult wanderlust was born. And like any potentially addictive prescription, over time, more and more is required to meet the bare minimum.
That might be where I am at the moment. Not only between trips, but also in limbo, awaiting CJ’s return to art school. As always, summer has flown. This might be their last summer at home—they’ll have the option of staying on campus next summer, and their also looking into summer programs in California. We didn’t do much of anything together this summer, which makes me a little sad and a lot proud because they have their own thriving life.
I’m tired of the Midwest summer heat. I’m bored with my writing regimen. I’m watching my money because I’m still unemployed and embarking on two trips before the end of September (so I don’t go completely out of my mind), and I’m spending an inordinate amount of time on the couch, watching J and Arty, my current squirrelfriends.
There was one huge victory this week—I got a piece published at Another Jane Pratt Thing, momentarily cheering the crabby 15-year-old who will always reside in me.
What does any of this have to do with travel? The past two depressive days, I’ve felt like I can’t do anything. Getting off the couch to walk the six feet to my desk took all day. But if someone said, “There’s a free flight for you if you can get packed and to the airport in an hour,” I would be boarding a plane unshowered and in pajamas because I only have an hour and I live forty minutes from the airport.
Yes, I travel to escape my life. The monotony, annoyances, stress, all of it. If my past hotel nights (Eloise Fantasy Camp) were the original prescription that got me hooked, now I need regular trips to keep myself less depressed and anxious. Usually, just having a trip scheduled keeps the deep blues away, but it’s not working this time.
Yesterday, a friend who lives a couple of hours away in Missouri was considering a last-minute trip to St. Louis to see Wilco, did I want to join her? Any other time, I’d say, “Absolutely!” and I’d have a great time. But neither of us was fully feeling it. We very briefly considered tonight’s show in Springfield, Missouri, but realized neither of us is wild about that town. We could see the band at a fantastic venue in Kansas City tomorrow, but we haven’t talked yet today. And I doubt I’d have the momentum to make that happen.
But getting on a plane to Oakland at 5:30 a.m. in twelve days (but who’s counting?) I’m honestly ready to start packing now.
Although traveling doesn’t cure CPTSD (the root of my anxiety and depression). I do get whallopped with the occasional depression day when I’m traveling, but it’s rare. I’m more likely to experience anxiety. In small doses, the anxiety isn’t the worst travel partner. My hyper-focus means I’m awesome at being aware of my surroundings, finding my way in new terrain, and having the alertness necessary to drive in cities like L.A. and Chicago.
I’m very open about being a stoner. Cannabis is awesome, and it does wonders for my anxiety and the chronic pain I’ve had in the past. I generally don’t use it when I travel, mainly because I like to keep my alertness when I’m not home. Also, I’m more likely to have a cocktail or two when I travel. With my brain chemistry, weed and alcohol don’t play nice. But here’s where cannabis is a huge help when I travel:
A few years ago, when the flight chaos began with cancellations, delays, and computer snafus, a flight attendant friend advised me to start taking the earliest flight of the day. I’m not a morning person and have always preferred the red eye, but should a red eye flight get cancelled, it causes more problems than getting bumped from the first flight of the day. Plus, since I’m often time traveling to the Pacific Time Zone, which is two hours behind St. Louis, the first flight of the day means I’m on the ground in L.A., for example, in time to have a pre-lunch coffee with friends.
Here’s where the weed comes in: Catching that 6 a.m. flight means getting up at 3 a.m., and no, sir, that will not be happening if I go to sleep at 10 p.m. I need at least eight hours of sleep. So, the afternoon before a pre-dawn flight, I will eat an unadvisable number of weed gummies, which almost always makes it easy for me to go to sleep by 7:00 p.m. at the latest. That’s a full night’s sleep right there.
Unless, like the night before last year’s Afghan Whigs tour, when I took it a little too far and had the worst combo of travel anxiety and weed paranoia of my life, all alone in an airport hotel. But even then, I still zonked out early. It just wasn’t fun.
So, twelve more days—closer to eleven, really—until I fly to Oakland for my Central Coast adventures. I have a therapy appointment before then. And a shrink appointment where we will definitely be discussing the changes she made in my meds that I think might be at the root of my current state of mind. It’ll be okay. There’s an escape just a few days away.
That, and Jane Pratt said I am “a dream to edit,” and “the ultimate dream contributor.” Somewhere on the astral plane, 15-year-old Robin is throwing down to Erasure and squealing. That kid will lose her mind when she finds out all of the places we get to go.
Wanna buy my sorry ass a coffee? That helps, too.
“the ultimate dream contributor" tho... 😲