I was merging from I-270 onto 495 South when the text came through, and when I got over to the far right lane finally to get onto River Road to get into Washington, the traffic was slow enough so I could pull it up, after all the driving, back from Mom's,  "You don't need to come tonight, we will see you tomorrow, Thanks."  The Waze app was telling me I'd be due in at the old Gaul around 5:22, up on the center screen of the small rental SUV.   I'd been staring at it since 9:30, that and the road itself. My anxiety levels had been high the whole time, both from what I was leaving, and for what I was going into.  Wine Tasting Night without proper set-up.  Nothing without a proper set-up.

And me being the whole let-down,  the disappointment, the squanderer of people's faith and opportunity.  And now why had it all happened...


But you're almost shaking by the time you pull the car over in front of the apartment, after double checking, I'm here, are you sure you don't need me tonight.  The app had told me I'd get in at 4:30, but with each pit stop the estimated time of arrival went up.  There had been a big storm down from New York State into Pennsylvania along the whole route, and I had to call in on Sunday night, telling the assistant to the manager, I wasn't going to be able to make it.  Every tree branch along the route, covered to the tip with a layer of snow and in some higher places along the ridges glassy with ice, pine trees sagging with snow, the Northeaster Winter Storm Ezekiel, touching upon those returning from the Thanksgiving Holiday.

I took my suitcase and two duffle bags in, went out for a walk around the block, stopping at the store, returned, had a few spoonfuls of some chilled quinoa and black-eyed peas from a bowl in the fridge that I'd had six mornings ago and took a nap on the old black leather couch in the quiet, waiting for the traffic to die down before taking the rental car back to Calvert Street near the Omni Shoreham.  Tired.  Too tired to write.  Thoughts too weighty and deep to wrestle with.



Depression is a contagious thing.  It comes from the beloved, family members, people uniquely like you.  It comes along with anxiety, it comes along with your own bad habits, the ones that come from an ill chosen peer group, the other depressed self-medicating high school friends fallen in with.


The trip had been rough.  The approach of the holidays.  Travel.  Looking for a car key in the haystack of Mom's Bermuda Triangle of stuff, old family objects, memorabilia.  Books.  Piles of books.  On the bed.  Academic piles, clothes piles, old vinyl camera cases, plug in chargers.   The old cat.  Not finding the car key.

I put a load of laundry in, socks, the Levis and the green chamois shirt I've worn for the last week straight.  A cooked chicken breast, with some broccoli, covered with Kirkland tomato sauce and the Korean market's house-made fresh mozzarella, into the toaster oven at low temperature, Ken Burns Civil War, "Universe of Battle," pulled up on the screen before the couch and the low Ikea coffee table.

I wake up the next day.

Thoughts.  Just thoughts.  Not having worked the last four nights, I have some energy.  Awake at a reasonable hour, but without much inspiration.  I've not written in weeks.

Write, I tell my mom.  Keep a notebook.  It will help with all the thoughts.

Weird energy, waiting for the therapy session over the iPhone screen.  Then I will shower and get read for work.