There I Go

        I became depressed, not in the usual way. I stayed in bed for weeks after San Diego. I blamed it on the time difference and jet lag. My dad knew better. I skipped a lot of school but not enough to flunk out on my final year. Graduation and my birthday came and went. I subtracted myself from the usual social scene once we were no longer in high school. I remember being at a house party, the same house party that it always was, when suddenly I knew right then and there that I was done with it. The friends, the drinking, the smoking. I just wanted to be in bed or be inspired. There really was no in between. I watched Netflix on my small phone screen, squinting and crying at movies like "Seeking a Friend for the End of the World" and I binged all of "The Office". I spent a couple months trying molly and going to EDM shows, but I didn't have any dopamine to release to be doing those sorts of drugs. I kept my old fling from high school for entertainment for when my dad was out for the night. Nothing could fill my void. I got a second job, just for shits and giggles. In other words, boredom. I would be a hostess at the new restaurant across the river from my house.

    It was a normal night at work. I could see the bridge and its lights shining off of the water. It was getting dark and it being a new restaurant and a Wednesday, it was slow and very quiet. For whatever reason, my heart began to race and my skin was crawling. It felt like what I would now describe as my version of drinking back to back Cuban coffees with added dread to the mix. I was cleared to go home early. I had an old tiny habit of taking my lighter to things and then taking those things to my wrist. So, I went home and into my bathroom I went to try my old friend out. Pain. Could I feel you? Would you distract me from the dread? No, it would not. It would keep on coming and I would put my hands at the top of my head to grab a fistful of hair and pull. I knew I was in trouble and called my dad. "Please come home", I said, "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong. I don't feel good.". He would plead with me for a few minutes, asking what's wrong, before he got off the phone and headed my way.

    There he found me, in the hallway between my bedroom and bathroom. My face soaked with tears and red from all the heavy breathing. He would continue to ask me what was wrong and I would tell him, "I don't want to be like her. I'm scared I'm going to be like her.". I was rocking myself back and forth, with my head in my hands and my head and hands into my knees. I was curling up into a ball, hoping I'd disappear. I wasn't one for using my words and I can't say that much has changed nearly a decade later. My dad knew this and began to make guesses as to what was causing all of this. There it was. The truth I had told him that broke both of our hearts. It came to life when I said it and it was part of the monster inside of me that I couldn't yet understand. 

    It was the culmination of my new found independence, our trip to San Diego, my now obvious battle with PTSD and speaking my truth that ultimately led to my freedom. I was fiending for meaning. I was in my usual oblivion of a dark room in the middle of the day, staring at a tiny screen, when I stumbled upon "Into the Wild". A movie of pure rebellion, carelessness and wanting to break out of society. That's what I wanted! Yes! There it was again. The truth. But this time the truth was an epiphany. I must go, I told myself. The very next day, I went to the bookstore and spent a buck fifty on USA road maps and guides to the ultimate road trips. I laid them out across my bed and started perusing. I bookmarked, highlighted and underlined nearly every page. I researched, I took notes, I budgeted...HA! I budgeted for the first and probably last time in my life.

    There I was, 18 years old, planning a roadtrip by myself. I had a car I needed to sell in order to get a proper hatchback car that I could sleep in, I had an amount I intended to save each week and I even knew the towns I would stay in. I dreamed of driving into one of those towns, falling in love with it and saying "I think I'll stay awhile". This will become a regular theme in my life, searching for a place that feels like home. I went to my dad when I knew I had over planned just enough that I would be ready for whatever he threw my way. "Dad," I said "I want to take a road trip for a couple of months. Travel and see where I end up. I might find a place and decide to stay.". I gave him the whole run-down of the money and preparations I had made. And to my absolute astonishment and to yours too I bet, he almost seemingly shrugged it off and said "Okay. I think that will be good for you.". 

    Dear Dad, was our relationship all a mere illusion to me? Had I been pretending all this time that you were the over protective, loving, caring father and I was the daddys girl who depended on you so? Were you always ever so sneakily trying to get me to go? I didn't think of that then. I thought, oh what joy! He gave me his approval hoorah! There I went, always seeking your approval. And there I did go, on my lonely roadtrip, in my new hatchback with a proper full sized bed in the back.