Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Advertisement
Something else that isn't dead, obviously, is my obsession with the road. So lately, maybe in desperation, I've been wondering whether its benefits are as transient as everything suggests, whether I could still travel in Kerouac's pure, unprotected way and cure this illness.But I've wondered about this enough to know I'll never take that step. I think, at 27, I've tried all that I'm going to try: meditation, medication, religion, exercise, therapy, to name but a few things. That's not to say that I've tried everything there is, or that I've done all these things correctly, only that—after a decade of pushing myself to the brink, pouring time, money, and my heart into different treatments, different methods, and different doctors—something eventually has to give.Did I think I needed the road at 19 because, actually—like Kerouac's generation—I wanted to rebel? Certainly, my vague ambitions did extend to not wanting to end up like my parents, eking out a living while taking shit from people who didn't deserve that power, ultimately being so racked with fear that, if my son came down with a serious mental illness, I could barely even speak about it, much less get him help.But to say I truly wanted to rebel would be bullshit.I think, in the end, my obsession with the road comes from hope—not hope that there's a cure to this depression, but that there's an easy answer. I think, if I hit the road, everything will be fine. I think, if I drink that shot, take that pill, see that therapist, I'll be a completely different person."IN THE END, MY OBSESSION WITH THE ROAD COMES FROM HOPE"
Advertisement