Travelogue 41, Oakland, CA: The Truest Travelogue I've Ever Written

Let me give you a little heads up on this one. I'm in a mood, a white knuckling-life kind of mood. Maybe, right now, in this moment, I am about to share the truest travelogue I've ever written, the one that chronicles the only journey of any longstanding relevance evidencing that I have traipsed across the planet. To share this could be one of the most empowering things I ever do... or one of the most devastating. If I decide to do it.  [I know that is sentence fragment. It's not out of ignorance, but apathy that I leave it stand alone in blatant disregard for all rules of English grammar, which frankly I could give a rat's ass about at the moment. Only about 10 of you even know what I am talking about, maybe 2 even caught it and 1 cares.] And I may not.

I'm not in the mental state to care about punctuation, either.

Does it scare you? Does it make you uncomfortable to think that I might expose myself like some half-whacked streaker at a ball game that the police drags off in handcuffs? Are you thinking, Oh Geezus, why doesn't she just stick to her amusing little anecdotes about her travels? I'm scared you are thinking that, which is all part of what goes into an episode. Rational thought is a poot in the wind, as Pop used to say, and so you see I'm not so out of it that I can't remember the roots of my crude humor. I'm hesitant to leave that sentence in there. I should probably erase it. Oh, just fuck it. You might think I'm joking about the seriousness of this travelogue. It's raw. It's real time. It's going to throw me at the feet of vulnerability. You might think I'm faking it. You might think I just want attention. You might think I'm just feeling sorry for myself. You might think this isn't fun to read. You might think this is a bunch of rambling bullshit that isn't worth your time and you might think I can't write worth a shit and none of what I am saying has any point or purpose and you are so bored with it you are going to stop reading and then say to somebody how terrible this travelogue was in comparison to all the others and it doesn't fit in and it's not funny, and for the record, all my existence at this moment hinges on your opinion. Irrational. Real. Very real. Edgar Allan Poe suck-you-in real. And yes, I'm doubting that spelling of Poe's middle name, but you can look it up and correct me if you want to. It doesn't mean that much to me. What I care about at this moment is making the churning drone in my head stop and not feeling crazed and manic and volatile and like nothing matters, but everything could hurt me deeply, even though it doesn't matter anyway. Irrational.

 Don't you think I KNOW that it doesn't matter what you think? I KNOW that your thoughts only affect me if I allow them to. I KNOW that you don't have to read this; you can stop at any time. Hell, you can never read another word I write and I KNOW it means nothing, but I don't believe it. I believe I am responsible for whatever response you have to reading my raw truth as it flows from me and if your response is negative that means I have caused harm and that is not OK. I KNOW that whatever your response to this travelogue, it will not be cause for any of you to stop loving me. I KNOW that. You,

Nayi, Debbie,  Forest, Pam H,  Jodi G.,  Joe W., Laura A.,  OD,  Ricky, Rose, Roxanne, Pame S., Zana, Gwynne, Alenne, Alina, Carmen, Christine C. Christine M., Johnny, John C. Lola, Lynn F., Maruja, Pam F., Spike, Stacy, Susan M., Alex S, Clinton, Craig,  David L., Dru, Jan H., Laura S., Lori S., Monica, Lydia, Brian M., Cesar, Denise, Gosia, Marta-Petra, Mary Beth, Miriam, Nancy H., Onia, Ron L., Ronnie L, Sally, Teresa W., Tom C., Ulises, Judy C., Carlota, Carolan, Courtney, Dani, Dottie, Judy, Karen, Michelle, Lisa M., Marcelo, Tim S., Penny, Petra V., Sandra B. Lynne P, Sherri R., Tita, Elaine D, Susana R, Chandler and Krystyna   

love me. There, I named you all. If your name isn't in there it's because I don't think you read these. Doesn't matter. Point is, I KNOW you love me. But I can't access the knowing or the feeling. It's on the other side of the glass.  

 I'm very scared to tell you that the real reason I am writing this is yesterday I was feeling so panicked that all the crazy, racing thoughts in my head were going to reach such a high velocity of  warp speed that centrifugal force would suck me right over to the other side where the homeless people who talk to themselves dwell and I wouldn't be able to get back to this side and somebody would take me to a psych hospital and I was so afraid of that happening that before it did, I sent a text to someone and said, "I need to stay connected. I need to ground to someone who believes I will get through this, someone who is not going to judge me and knows how to handle it if I get irrational. I just need to stay connected until the doctor calls me back and tells me what to do to make all this stop. I need to stay connected until this passes and it will pass, it always has. I will get through this. I keep writing that over and over in my diary to keep my mind focused on something that might be helpful." I sent it and felt so guilty and ashamed that I crawled under a pillow. And she sent back a link to this "The Voices in My Head" video:

 http://www.ted.com/talks/eleanor_longden_the_voices_in_my_head.html

which had this "Lessons From the Mental Hospital" link beside it:

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHHPNMIK-fY

which I clicked on.

And I watched them both over and over and over and a feeling of invincibility took me and I thought, rationally, that if I do what they did--tell their real story, past and present, without shame--I can be like they are and the craziness will stop, at least for a little while. G1 said damn they must feel so empowered and then started writing and not long after G2 took back over and ripped all the beliefs and courage it would take to make that happen right out of G1's hands. It's five days later and I'm so desperate that I'll try anything to make it stop.Writing this is anything. Publishing it will be everything.

This is what it is to be me: Cruise along for months collecting experiences with the abandon and joy of a little girl plucking daisies to make her mother a bouquet. Craft a travelogue like 39: "Open and Courageous in Cuba! Living the Values!" written on the wings of a deep knowing that my highest self is engaged in passion and purpose, that I am helping people just by doing what I love and sharing my humor through my writing sustains that. And then, out of the blue, but not really, it creeps up on me; one day I feel a tad "off" and the next day a little more, and the next even more off until off grows so enormous IT overcomes me. Believing in anything except what IT tells me is impossible. I stop believing in a higher power, in my abilities, in truth, in knowing, in the sincerity of others, in possibilities, that I have any purpose, that life has any meaning, that joy exists, that there is anything beyond how I feel, that I have any control over what is happening to me and so on with a plethora of despair.

Faith turns as fragile as a powdery moth wing on a window sill. I try to pick it up and it crumbles to dust between my fingers.

All the while, I keep masking up and showing up--making myself get out of bed, making myself say 'good morning', making myself keep social engagements, making myself act like none of what is going on inside me is really happening. And then I start doubting that it really is going on, because afterall, I did get up...I did go out, and G2 makes G1 feel like a drama queen whiner and gives her a good bashing for being so pitiful. And G1 takes it, until she can't anymore, and asks for help.

That's what it's like to be me, between the travelogues.  


So, I'm going to send this just to show god, or the universe or whateveryouwannacallit, who I told to fuck off 5 days ago, because I am sick of this and mad that it has happened AGAIN, that I am doing my part. So, I'm going to send it and then either go crawl under a pillow, or not, and wait until G1 returns to tell you what's new and next. She will. She always does.