I pull into the desert town at sunset feeling empty. I felt empty the whole drive from Los Angeles and hoped that my arrival would alleviate the emptiness, so when the emptiness is not alleviated, not even momentarily (all emptiness-alleviators are temporary), I feel emptier. "Help me not be empty" I say to god in the Best Western parking lot. Since I don't turn to god very often, I feel self-conscious when I do. I'm not sure what I'm allowed to ask for, and I worry that I shouldn't want the things I want. Are my requests too specific? I should probably ask to simply be happy doing god's will, though I've heard it said that when you're doing god's will you feel like you're flowing with a great river, not against it, so it seems like the happy feeling should just come naturally.
Earlier today, a friend texted me a quote by Kierkegaard: “Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.” Ordinarily, I’d do nothing more than mark this kind of text message with a heart, maybe respond with the word yesss, and move on. But because of the low place I’ve been in, I saw the quote as a life raft, as though I were a small version of me adrift in a bowl of milk and the quote was the lone Cheerio I had to grab onto. Halfway between LA and the desert town, I stopped at a Circle K to pee and get some beef jerky. On the public toilet, I tried to meditate using the Kierkegaard quote as a mantra, but the quote only made me feel worse. I realized that I was doing the exact opposite of what the quote suggested: trying to solve a problem, the problem of me and my mood, rather than just experiencing it. But how do you just experience things? In addition to the beef jerky (Jack Link’s brand, Sweet & Hot) I bought a large cup of black coffee and two cans of Red Bull Sugarfree—a decision that is now coming back to haunt me in the motel parking lot. Some bad electricity is going down in my nervous system, and I can’t tell what’s caffeine-induced sensitivity and what could be a real physical problem. When I look at the glowing blue WELCOME sign, it appears to be vibrating. The Best Western is at the edge of town, and beyond it lies nothingness: a desolate stretch of sand and rock, peppered with dead brush, all the way to the hills. I play it fake cool to the dust, casually unloading my black duffel from the trunk. But my hands are trembling. Am I dying? This thought triggers an unexpected surge of tenderness, as though I am a child who needs comforting. In the settling dusk, I try to think of a positive self-affirmation, the kind that one woman I know has written on Post-its stuck to her bathroom mirror (a behavior that makes me judge her as a person, though there’s really nothing wrong with it and I wish I didn’t). What I come up with is: You have a good reason to be depressed. The phrase serves as a soothing reminder that my doominess isn’t baseless. I am going to clutch it like a blankie as I move through the gloom—deeper and more alarming than my typical sea levels.