…From the Chronicles of Mailman-in-Exile
Thursday, August 12, 2010 at 6:15pm
8/10/10
A catch-22, it seems. The uppers keep me from getting too low and the downers keep me from getting too high. The purpose of this, as proscribed by the doctor, is to gradually achieve what the experts call mood stability.
Ironic then, that for the first time in so long, these parameters make it possible for me to be a truly productive worker—free from the distracting and disabling effects of constant obsessive thoughts and erratic and compulsive behavior (an added bonus in that I can also concentrate well enough to get more writing done).
Yet this so-called stabilty prevents me from truly reaching a point of enjoying the experiences of my travels. Whenever I find myself in surroundings that favor my preferences, the effect of the downers kick in, essentially restricting the activation of my pleasure receptors and the release of endorphins necessary to gratification (please don’t mind my amateurish generalizations).
I think it’d be more apt to refer to this state of mind as more of a “healthy low” than an actual place of stability. It’s healthy in that at least in this condition I can deliberate on the present and future and approach tough decisions and make plans from a point based on reason and logic, as opposed to the days of living without medication, when every decision I’d make was based on impulse and emotion and without the process of rational thought.
This also led to delusions of grandeur and invincibility. Lows, in turn, make one feel dirty; like a wretched, crawling worm.
Ironically, it has been in the state of constant High that my personality has been most colorful. I worry that my mood in its current state has been far too subdued to let me be of much humor to people.
One benefit of living a life on one great High was that it kept me motivated to stay in constant contact with all the many friends and acquaintances I make wherever I travel. In my present condition I have mellowed out a great deal and I have, for the most part, been staying off the grid (the grid being Facebook, that is). Save for checking in sporadically to update my status, follow the progress in everyone’s lives, satisfy my occasional curiosity as to how the French Woods mailroom is faring without my stewardship, etc, etc.
The question in my mind though, is how I should feel about that.
It has always been the case that in the peripatetic lifestyle I lead, (and I have no intention of slowing down yet) it is difficult to nurture friendships and relationships. I don’t beg for reassurance, but I often wonder if I am callow in this behavior.
In my more obsessive states of mind, at least I could count on having a greater desire—or rather a compulsion—to stay in frequent-to-extensive communication. I have been mostly playing it by ear, now. But one advantage I have is that in my travels I take time to stop and smell the roses (so to speak) and I am not preoccupied with always trying to plan things to work out perfectly. I accept the reality that I cannot always visit everyone, everywhere. As the late John Lennon said, “life is what’s happening while you’re making other plans.” How fitting that it was 19 months ago that I saw that saying posted on the side of a city bus in Melbourne.
Of course, I can’t live the way I do forever (between the lines—I won’t be a young man forever).
In Europe and Australia I’ve felt more accepted in my chosen wandering, at least while I am still in my 20s. Back home in the United States I feel as though there is some stigma to it. At my last appointment with my head shrink, he spent 45 minutes lecturing me about taking responsibility, moving ahead with what I want to do with my life, and other clichés. Another irony in that while my family and friends are supportive of my choices, I seem to find the least support from my doctor.
I recall a scene in Pulp Fiction, where the John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson characters are having an argument over the virtue of Jackson’s proposed living as a nomad. Travolta says it’s the textbook definition of being a bum. Jackson, in his defense, calls it “walking the earth.”
Compare these two events:
The time is late January 2009; I am standing barefoot in the sand in a garden on a farm in Gingin, Western Australia. Images of the character of John Blackthorn in James Clavell’s Shogun fill my mind. How cunning and resourceful he was as he in essence parlayed the sand between his fingers making into his fortune. Mimicking this scene as it plays out in my head, I take a handful of sand in my palm and let it slip through my fingers. At that moment, I was on such a great High that I was euphoric.
I called these Aussie adventures my “razor’s edge” experience, as the experience resembled a spiritual awakening of sorts.
Now fast forward to August 2010. I am picking weeds out of the soil on a farm on the lovely island of Strynø, in Denmark. Heavily medicated, my mind is fully focused on the task at hand. There are no lingering doubts or worries plaguing me. I am getting the old job done, with no distractions. I realize how different my work performance is than it was a year ago. How depression had weakened me, both mentally and physically. That is not the case, now.
Still, I can’t help but feel the maximum pleasure I think my brain is due. As impractical a thought it is, oh how nice it would be to feel the High again.
There are still plenty of nice points, though: The feeling that I received yesterday, standing on the deck of the ferry taxiing me from Strynø to Rudkøbing, a cool morning breeze. Many decent photographs came out of those moments. As the man standing next to me observed, lighting in a photo is everything. And the silhouette that he captured covering me in the portrait he took says it all.
Everything happens pretty fast. I took a bus from Rudkøbing back to Copenhagen and subsequently, a train to Stockholm. I find Stockholm to be a captivatingly beautiful city.
For a final irony, I haven’t done much exploring today. I’ve been sitting in a ‘Kebab House’ all day writing up a storm—hence this entry. It seems to have done the trick since my mood is lifted considerably. It’s 6:10 in the evening. The sun has come out, where it was overcast four hours ago. I look out the window, pondering trekking down to the harbor. It’s the Land of the Midnight Sun, so there is plenty of time until sunset. I’ll transcribe this piece and edit and post it later. I’m feeling a bit wistful. Danish wwoofing farms are fine. But how much I do wish to remain at Tralee Orchard in the Wirrabara Forest in South Australia. Oh, what that would mean…
From Stockholm, Sweden
This is Joe the Mailman
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