L.A. MALAISE

I really like the concept of fight or flight to explain how people react when under stress or duress. Whenever I’ve tried “fight”, it ain’t pretty. In fact, it’s downright embarrassing. I’m just too emotional and I come off as a big mess. So flight it is. Oftentimes, literally. I hop on Air Canada or Icelandair and hope that a change of scenery will not only calm me, but bring me a boost.

I’ve been stressed lately because I’m awaiting hospital admission for a six-week intervention for my eating disorder. In my mind, a hospital is the least conducive place for recovery. I’m a medical wimp. What’s worse, I’ve only been hospitalized twice in my life and both times involved extended stays in psych wards. The things I witnessed, the people I resided with only made me edgier and more depressed. I tried to “fight” this upcoming admission, arguing for treatment in a group home instead. I lost the fight. While I believe my weight is within normal, my symptoms are too acute, too entrenched so it’s a hospital stay before any group home care.

Bring on “flight” mode. When I was number two on the wait list, I boarded a plane for LAX. It’s been twenty-five years since I lived in Los Angeles but it’s still the place where I’m most connected to friends, a couple of whom go back nearly forty years. It’s also the place I finally began to live as a gay man, where I carved out many a four-day weekend in West Hollywood because, back then, the gay bars were the center of gay life.

I figured I’d soak up some sun, take in my favorite beaches, enjoy some trendy restaurants and shopping, view some art, immerse myself in good conversation and return to Vancouver as calm and refreshed as possible given that the hospital admission still loomed large.

Mission not accomplished.

I wasn’t in the mood to shop. Not a bad thing. My wallet had enough leaks as it was. I did go through the rest of my checklist—jogs along the beach from Venice to Pacific Palisades, a walk at El Matador State Beach in Malibu, trips to The Getty and The Broad, meals at favorite restaurants plus some new ones and, best of all, reconnections with friends where it seemed like only days had passed since our last get-together. Still, it felt like I was only going through the motions. I was only a fraction of myself. The trip offered convincing evidence of my suspicion that my antidepressants flattened my mood. I don’t go super low, but I also struggle to feel joy. I live in a narrow mood path whereby I have a generally low affect. I sense that I am technically present for various experiences but I’m not really living them. Rather than getting the mood boost I’ve picked up on so many of my travels over the past five years, I felt more frustrated and disappointed. I existed safely, as if I walked around L.A. wearing a helmet and kneepads, as if walls of mattresses flanked me on both sides.

Where’s the fun in that?

Returning to Vancouver, I’m now number one on the wait list and the flight mode remains as high as ever. How many days of freedom do I have left? Can I squeeze in a jaunt to New York or a road trip to Seattle? Can I afford to go? Can I afford not to? My foot taps nervously, my chest tightens. I’d prepared myself to go to hospital a day or two after being back. I’d emptied my fridge and prepared a packing list. Now I’m told it’s unlikely I’ll be admitted before April but I still have to be ready with a day’s notice if a bed opens up.

All I can do now is wait while I try to repress the old fight-or-flight. So far, not so good.