Static.

June 9^th 2014

I’m sitting in a café in Frankfurt, finally able to gain some perspective on a long trip which is nearing its end. I breakfasted at my hostel, and as I walked back into an empty dorm-room, a sense of absolute stillness suffused the atmosphere. The air was thick, warm, and pungent with the odors of a dozen people who had come and gone during the night. Beams of sunlight streamed in through the window, and the sounds of the city below were muffled. Only dust, and the jumbled memories inside my head, stirred within that empty, disheveled room.  

I took a seat on the lone chair situated in the corner. As I sat down, twenty months’ worth of memories flooded my consciousness. I pondered in the stillness for five minutes; then ten, and then I lost track of time. Recollections of the trip played at random – each a wordless clip of the various incidents of the past twenty five thousand kilometers.

I had already reviewed these memories several times, but in that moment I noticed that their texture had changed. What had once been a mere archive of historical information about my trip had become something dynamic; seemingly separate from me, yet tangible. I felt as if I was watching scenes from someone else’s life. It was there, in the stillness of that room, that I began to realize that my trip was finally over, and that I had enjoyed it immensely.

But, how did I get to Frankfurt? The last time I wrote, I was very much in India. That was nearly five months ago, and much has transpired since then. For better or worse, most of my travel since then has been inward. That story will have to wait. The bill for my cappuccino has arrived, and I must for hunt down a good mechanic in Frankfurt. I’m still with the motorbike, and she needs new tires.

I’m sitting in a beer-garden in Bruges. The bike is in tip-top shape, and it rode the 500Km from Frankfurt quite smoothly. The weather in Belgium is uncharacteristically perfect, with cool morning and evenings, and moderate, sunny afternoons. I’m sipping down a tall wit-beer, enjoying the shade of a tree, looking out over a gorgeous canal in the picturesque, tourist laden town of Bruges. I shipped the bike from Kathmandu to Frankfurt only a few days ago, and am only one day’s ride away from London. For the first time in seven years of travel, my perception of the world seems altered in a way which feels permanent. But, as travel has also taught me, so much can change in so little time.    

Poignant memories of the trip continue to roll in sporadically throughout each day. My mind is changing so rapidly that it is hard to put much faith in the thoughts it produces. Currently, I consider the trip to have been a tremendous experience, and well worth the effort. However, any assessment I made of the trip just a few short weeks ago was unambiguously negative. Several times I had declared the trip to be the worst decision I have ever made. I had become frustrated by all the time and resources I was wasting. I was frustrated that none of my most important plans were coming to fruition. I was frustrated that I was frustrated must of the time. Eventually, I fell apart. I became numb, and apathetic. I didn’t care what was happening with the trip, and I didn’t care that I didn’t care. Months ago, I lost the ability to enjoy things which I normally find enjoyable. This, in turn, forced me to retreat the only place I knew I could: inward.

Fortunately, I recognized my inability to enjoy things relatively quickly, and this gave me a much clearer idea of what was happening. I was becoming depressed again. About twelve years ago I was diagnosed with Dysthymia, which I understood at the time as a persistent, low-grade form of depression. I never put much stock in the diagnosis because it always felt like excuse making. Additionally, any such diagnosis came loaded with stigma – both public, and private. Was I really one of those weird, nutty individuals who has psychological problems?

As the years have carried on, I noticed that most people have psychological problems. Mild or moderate, clinical or anecdotal, named or unnamed, I have noticed the rarely discussed fact that all problems are, ultimately, psychological in nature. Even the supreme problem of death is a psychological problem inasmuch as people’s psyches do not often feel like being dead. To be upset, to feel discouraged, to be afraid, to be anxious, to be angry, to be resentful; these not all psychological problems, regardless of their proximate cause. However, some problems have pathologies and diagnoses, and some do not. While it is normal to become sad, or angry, or distracted from time to time, it is abnormal to be incapable of experiencing happiness, to be boiling with rage at the slightest infraction, to experience anxiety over trifles, to be unable to pay attention to even the most basic task, and so on.

I have observed myself over the years, and I have noticed that I really do get unreasonably depressed from time to time; in a very predictable manner. I’ve been through five major depressive episodes by my count, including this most recent one. Fortunately, during at least two occasions I felt as if my life was fine in an objective sense. Nevertheless, I was unable to feel good about life, or about anything at all, during my depressive episodes. Objectively, everything was fine, but my experience was anything but.

I should be clear that I’m not talking about feelings of sadness. In my experience, the most defining feature of depression is the inability to feel much of anything. Depression is continual apathy. Sadness, if it comes at all, comes later in the process. For most people, depression is often preceded by negative life events, and is experienced by most at some point in life. In my case, severe depression has twice descended upon me for no reason whatsoever. For this I am grateful because it removes the mystery of my situation. In two instances, I could plainly see that I was not depressed about anything in specific. I was doing things I wanted to do; doing positive, life affirming things that had once brought me considerable joy. However, whenever a bout of depression randomly descends upon me, nothing can bring me joy. Initially, nothing can really make me sad either. It is only after weeks, or months, that the gnawing inability to feel anything starts to resemble what might be called sadness.  

And this is how it went with this last episode, which lasted about five months. Looking back at my journal I can see the general rise in negativity leading up to depression. There was no singular cause that I can pin down, but evidence of its progression is unmistakable. When I left Calcutta in January, I was headed south towards Chennai, and a place called Auroville. I had made plans to spend a month volunteering in Sadnah Forest - a sustainable living community in India. At the time, I was suspicious that I might be falling into a depression yet again – my first in almost four years. I figured that a month of hard labor, early rising, healthy food, and community involvement would be just the medicine I needed. There is strong evidence to back up these claims, too. Involvement with other people, doing meaningful work, eating a healthy diet, and engaging the body in copious amounts of physical exercise all have very, very strong correlations to the experience of well-being. I had numerous reasons to look forward to a month at Sadnah Forest.  

From Calcutta I had to ride about 2200Km to reach Sadnah Forest. The road was very good by Indian standards, but that still meant I’d have to avoid a bevy of livestock, tuk-tuks, push carts, pot-holes, bicycles, motorbikes, and the omnipresent transport trucks which belch diesel fumes, and drive as whimsically as they please.

On the way down I spent a few days in the beach side town of Puri, and later Gopalpur. I made some friends, and technically I had a good time. But, due to the mounting depression I can’t say that I was able to enjoy much of it, no matter how wonderful I thought it was in an objective sense. The weather was good, the people were great, and India was as amazing as I could hope for it to be. I could acknowledge all of the good things in an objective, didactic, intellectual sense. But, I could not feel the goodness of the surroundings. I could not experience the lesson.

Back in Calcutta, I had taken up regular consumption of booze, and hashish. I can enjoy these substances in moderation, and will little ill-effect, when I’m not depressed. However, I rarely feel like drinking when I’m truly travelling; truly happy. Depression can be so numbing that it compels the experiencer to try and feel something, anything. I tend to drink far more when I’m depressed, and am also more inclined to smoke hash, or weed, as the case may be. This time I added a new vice, totally out of line with my character. I started regularly smoking cigarettes. This is not something I’ve done before, and I am, in fact, against it. But there is the rub of depression: you don’t feel much, and thus don’t care one way or the other about anything. Better to feel a transient a nicotine rush, and the regret of having started smoking at thirty, than to feel nothing at all.

Fortunately, I have started to care again. I quit my brief experiment as a half-pack-a-day smoker about two months ago. I have slowly sipped my delicious wit-beer here in Bruges, and have no desire to order another. I’m off to stroll in the beautiful backstreets of Bruges; to sit on park benches, and chat with anyone who is up for a chat. It may sounds cliché, but its true: with the depression recently gone, I feel like my old self again – the gregarious guy I know who loves to be travelling.

I’m sitting in my friends’ apartment in London having arrived –  smelly, but smiling – late last night. The ride from Belgium was fantastic. The roads in Europe are as smooth as silk, and the countryside this time of year is charming, and lush. Crossing the English Channel was a cinch thanks to the Chunnel train. I was parked behind an amicable English couple who were returning from a week in France. Using the toolkit for the motorcycle, I was able to help them fix their malfunctioning bike-rack while we were in transit. I considered it a successful day.         

I left Kathmandu just over one week ago. I spent the last three months of the trip in an apartment in Bhaktapur, Nepal. I retreated there after my plans for southern India came undone. I had made it as far south as Chennai, the capital of the state of Tamil Nadu, a major port city on India’s east coast. The heat in Chennai was oppressive, even in early February. I was two hours north of my intended destination of Sadnah Forest, where I was set to volunteer for a month.

My plan was to stay in Chennai until I resolved a legal issue which had been plaguing me for months. I was riding a foreign motorcycle in India, and thus required special paperwork to temporarily exempt the bike from India’s hefty vehicle import taxes. Initially, the bike was granted 180 days of tax exemption, with the ability to apply for an additional 180 days of exemption at a later date. I was told that the extension process would be simple, and quick. But, knowing full well the depth, breadth, and incalculable inefficiency of the Indian bureaucracy, I began making inquiries several months ahead of time. From one office to the next, my inquires bounced. I was told to check with this office, then that office. I was assured that I would find firm answers in Calcutta, then the office in Mumbai, then Chennai, and then finally New Delhi.

In the end Girish – my faithful, hard-working, and exceedingly generous Indian friend – did most of the legwork. In New Delhi, Girish ferried my ever-expanding application from one office to the next, spending several afternoons riding across town in New Delhi traffic after work. Unfortunately, there was a slight problem with the time-table. If the motorcycle was not out of India by the time the extension was granted, then I would be liable for the import taxes. For two weeks I would wait in Chennai for a decision regarding the extension.  

A ceaseless chain of cigarettes, and coffee was my breakfast. A liquid meal, followed by the second barrage of cigarettes was my dinner. For lunch, I would a stroll just before sunset until something caught my eye. During these two weeks, I stayed mostly in my room, and spoke to as few people as possible. I slept at odd hours, and managed to keep busy doing a whole lot of nothing. After breakfast I would plunge into my books. In the late afternoon I would roam the streets for an hour or so. As I walked, unsullied cynicism coursed through my veins, and informed every passing thought I had in Chennai. In my notes I can see that I still found India exciting and intriguing, but more for its frequent displays of extravagant depravity than anything else. Negativity was all I could see.

Stuffed into the tiny tourist section of the tremendous city of Chennai were all the greedy touts, nefarious beggars, faithless charmers, and niggling importuners that travellers are bound to encounter everywhere in the world. In India, such performers are colorful, and gritty. These city-dwelling deceivers are found in their most concentrated form anywhere tourists congregate.

Initially, they may be hard to distinguish from the genuinely interested, and superbly trustworthy locals which outnumber them ten-thousand to one. But, regardless of how well one can detect such people, a traveller can never be free of them. All travellers in the developing world wear the same sign around their neck, a blight of privilege. It reads: “I am a walking wallet.”

On my daily lunch outing I kept my distance from people, and brushed off any unwanted encounter as best I could. On the surface, I was my normal convivial self, but inside I was hostile. I was still in love with India, yet I wanted to brawl. I wanted to unleash my growing indignation with the Indians who gave India a bad name. I walked the streets as a sentinel of rage. Fuel by self-directed anger over my own decisions, I was eager to unleash pent up feelings in display of tremendous violence. I recognized that my wavering brain chemistry was beginning to get the best of me, and so I took advantage of the one luxury I did have: the ability to insulate myself.  

As the days passed it became increasingly clear that the Indian government would not render a decision regarding potential import taxes in time. Therefore, I would have to get the bike out of the country, which meant driving back to Nepal. In a haze of apathy, I glibly accepted this new fate and more-or-less appreciated it as it gave me a mission. The trip would take at least a week. I backtracked over the East Coast Highway all the way to the outskirts of Calcutta. From there I headed inland through Bihar, aiming to arrive at the border of Birganj on the last day the bike was legally entitled to stay in India.

The journey was exhausting, and dull. My mind was numb, and listless by that point. I overnighted in a half-dozen strange India cities – arriving at night, and departing in the morning without saying much more than “Hello, how are you? How much for the room. Thanks. See you later.” Travelling was terribly uninteresting to me at the time. In fact, travel was a burden comprised of broken dreams, and tiresome hassles that I wished to be rid of at the earliest possible convenience.

I fell ill just outside the city of Patna, Bihar. I spent three nights enclosed in the first air-conditioning, hot showers, and clean linens I had seen in months. I ordered bowl after bowl of overpriced chicken noodle soup, recovered many hours of much needed sleep, and finally had a chance to wrap my head around the situation. I was unraveling in a way I had seen many times before. Things were going wrong, but they didn’t upset me in the slightest. Or, did they? I had no clear idea. I did realize that I needed to take a higher-level look at the situation. I needed to eat healthier, I needed to stop being so damn angry all the time, and I needed get the bike to the border by the end of the following day.

I departed before the Sun was up, and was on pace to make the border by noon. In the fresh morning air, slicing through the empty streets of Patna, I was enthusiastic. I knew was on my way out of India, and whatever horrendous state I was in. I longed for Nepal because Nepal meant rest, and repose. If I smiled at all during these times it would have been the morning that I rode out of Patna. I seemed on the verge of something new. Some sort of positive change seemed to be just on the horizon.

Hours later, at the border of Birganj, I would take my last pictures of the entire trip. I have only just reviewed them. Without realizing it, I didn’t take a single picture during my three additional months in Nepal. I hardly went anywhere, took any notes, or did much of anything. I found a well-appointed apartment in charming town of Bhaktapur, and there I stayed. I have never been in such a neurotic funk before, but at least I was comfortable. Although I knew something was wrong, I was grateful that I had the means, and wherewithal to keep my head above water.

Each day I was stuck in a bizarre, and hopeless loop of attempting to read the entire Internet – in order understand everything that can be understood – before crossing off items on that days scant ‘To Do’ list: get out of bed, shower, eat food, etc. By baby steps I was able to climb out of depression, eventually employing all of the best known remedies. I have much, much more to say on that subject, but it will have to wait. Today is July 1^st, and my friend Girish has just messaged me concerning my whereabouts. I managed to land back in the Western world on a spectacularly high note almost one month ago, and have been feeling great ever since. I am currently touring the Scottish Highlands; the weather and riding are the spectacular.

I learned so much about myself during this trip; so much about subjectivity versus objectivity, reality versus perception, determinism versus free-will, acceptance and surrender, versus hard-headedness and ignore-ance. I don’t think it is possible to understand everything that can be understood. I am suspicious that the set of all things which can be understood is either infinite, incomplete, or most probably both. Fortunately, therefore, I need not fully understand what the previous sentence means, and thank goodness for that.

However our sense of awareness arises; wherever the boundary line between the inanimate, unconscious mater which comprises us, and the sense of being a thing which is alive is drawn, I am, and forever will be, glad that life happened. There are currently seven-thousand-million independent human selves scampering across the surface of the rocky sphere we call Earth. And though it may seem that we are organic automatons, stranded on a sphere, twirling around the nuclear furnace which drives all life on this planet, the experience of meaning does arise. Our incomprehensible insignificance in the grand scheme of things matters not. Locally, we each represent an entity which can feel.

Sometimes the going is rough, and the capacity to feel is a burden. At other times, the configuration of the Universe is such that being able to feel is the greatest of joys. For now, I seem to have found a solution to a passing phase of stasis. The dynamo in my head and soul is active once again, and it compels me to travel ever onward. This particular trip is nearing its end. I will soon sell the bike, and return home. As always, the larger journey continues, and I am already dreaming about the next phase.    

My apologies for not getting back to the people who messaged me in the past few months. Such messages were a source of the few smiles I did have during my random bout of depression. Of course, I intended to formulate a reply to these messages, but that task was on the ‘to-do’ list which was preceded by the infinite loop – the aforementioned hopeless, obsessively driven task of attempting to read the entire Internet.

Thanks to all who have read this blog. I hope to add at least one more post regarding my thoughts on depression in general, with the hope that it may be helpful, or interesting, to anyone who wishes to read it. All humans go through a wide range of experience based on causes external, and internal. My last depressive episode was instructive to me in that it had a ratio causes which allowed me to maintain objectivity throughout the experience. I was continually aware that my subjective experience (that of being depressed) was at odds with my objective circumstance (that of doing exactly what I wanted with my life; doing things that I supposedly enjoyed). Because of this, I never lost touch with an appreciation for the bigger picture. I felt lousy – and recognized that I may feel lousy again for no particular reason – but I never lost sight of the ceaseless march of time, and the change it always brings. Everything is temporary.