When clouds roll in
The first things to go when the horizon darkens in my mind are: (1) my motivation, (2) my sense of humor, and (3) my creativity. At least one is needed to write, two to write well.
~
My final re-entry into civilization is permanent, and as such, more difficult. I can no longer flit around the edges of the regular world knowing I’ll leave again and any acclimatization will need to be reversed. Now I’m immersed, and like a kid thrown for the first time into the deep end of the pool, I don’t quite know what to do. The hardest part, I find, is the pace of life. In the wilderness, nothing much happens quickly. Days pass in the slow accumulation of hours and miles; miles only add up in the slow accumulation of days; even thoughts tend to rattle around, only leaving after they’ve thoroughly influenced your mood. With a few exceptions (cannonball rocks, electric hailstorms), you don’t have to think or react quickly. Not so in the “real” world.
You might have guessed I feel overstimulated sometimes in daily life, but landing in Seattle with the knowledge that I need to readjust is a unique struggle. What do I look at? Pedestrians are walking, talking, laughing. Some are in the street. Why are they there? Why are they stumbling and giggling? Cars honk. Someone leans out to shout something. A sign advertises deep-fried hot dogs. Why is there a line for deep-fried hot dogs? What’s the liquid I stepped in? Someone in a ripped tent yells. Did they yell at me? Do I need to answer? Someone urinates in an alley. “No dumping,” the sign in the alley says. Maybe he was too distracted to notice. “Is that a hotel,” someone asks me. I blink. “It’s a hostel.” “What does that mean?” he asks, but I’ve used up my words for the day. Time to buy cheap earbuds. Now I can shut out the world. I can listen to myself a little, and that helps ease the transition to listening to everything else again.
How many words, I wonder, did I speak each day while I hiked? A handful? Fewer? More, certainly, on the days I met new friends. More when I hiked with Captain Fantastic and Kale and Fireball, Shortwave Randy and Nick Lyle the blacksmith and Tony the South African fighter pilot (who I hope will get in touch someday). But other than those days, I doubt I averaged more than a hundred words spoken to another person. I talked to myself, sang to myself, wrote lines in my head that I tested aloud, but none of that was meant to be heard by anyone else. I didn’t have to think quickly enough to carry a conversation.
Only now, the checkout clerk rattles off questions as she scans my items faster than I can stuff them in my backpack. I have to answer:
“I don’t need a separate bag for the sake.”
“Oh, I need to dig it out.”
“Here’s my ID.”
“Here’s my credit card.”
“Sorry, I hit the wrong button.”
“Yes. Chopsticks, please.”
“Oh, geez! Yes, that credit card’s mine. I guess I forgot it?”
One question therapists often ask to identify depression is whether you feel like you function slowly. Do you move in slow motion? Talk slower than other people? Feel like you just are slower?
Absolutely.
Are you depressed?
Probably a bit, though I don’t know which came first, the slowness or depression.
More posts should follow soon now that the clouds in my head have cleared somewhat.