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.
