Driving
I worked with a woman who made several attempts at driving away from Depression. Seems she would hop in the car on a whim and find herself in another state a day or two later. Either out of gas, out of money, or out of a down phase, she would eventually call a relative, usually one of her teenage kids who would figure out a way for her to return. I knew this woman long before I was diagnosed, but was intrigued by her stories as I had entertained thoughts of driving away myself but didn’t know why.
When all else seemed impossible, a road trip always provided an antidote to the gray periods. Perhaps it was the low vibration of the car, or the rapidly changing scenery that required little effort. There was something about even a ride in an automobile that sedated me.
During several bi-polar downers a vehicular escape seemed my only way out. I would just drive until I couldn’t go any further. After that I would walk. Where, I don’t know, just to keep moving was all that mattered. Several times during college, and several times since I have started my car with the intention of driving somewhere for no reason. During times when waves of doom throbbed inside my head so intensely that I wanted to squeeze my skull in a vice. Somehow driving gave me something to do until the episode passed.
Even more profuse were the fantasies of escape. I really had nothing to get away from, but the thought of being free on the road provided respite for reasons I’m unable to articulate. However, it’s difficult to run when the culprit is a permanent stowaway in my own head.
My most recent escape episode happened just a day before my breakdown. I was at work, trying to work, but the mental was under siege. All morning I stared at the monitor but very little was happening. I couldn’t even perform simple typing. By lunchtime I was awash in swells of bent light and sound. I was at breaking point and needed exit. My co-workers were milling around the office but out of focus, and I was unable to communicate with them. I left everything at my desk, checked my car keys, and exited the office building. I got in my truck and mounted the Interstate eastbound toward the Supersition Mountains. The center lane was good, and 54 mph was even better. I just focused on the lane in front of me and felt the rhythm of the expansion joints as they thumped under my wheels.
Twenty minutes later I was still tooling along the 60. It wouldn’t be long until the freeway ended into a two-laner and I would be commited toward Globe, Miami, and points east. A spark of rationale got me thinking of where I might be that evening. I couldn’t think, where would I sleep. Then other thoughts of what my family would think. Was this truly my breaking point?
I swerved onto the 202 beltway northbound, in a slow arch that would direct me back to the office. My temporary mania subsided, back to the dull massage of the motor, wheels, and preditable freeway beneath. I knew I would be back at the office in a half hour. Escape aborted.
Back at the office it was apparent that I was in no condition to work, but that hour break on the road was enough to buy me another four hours of staring into the monitor. Then I could commute home, nobody the wiser for my lunch hour departure.
The next day I didn’t get out of bed.
In: Depression · Tagged with: bi-polar, brain slow, Depression, driving, nervous breakdown, unable to concentrate