Traveling while depressed means depression is your traveling companion, because you have no friends.
It means repeating every few hours, "Yes, I'm here by myself. Well, you know, if you wait for someone to take you, you'll never go."
It means hearing strangers praise how brave you are -- traveling solo -- they could never do it -- but you laugh because you're never really alone. Depression winks back at you from the passenger seat.
Traveling with depression means you choose a hotel for the free breakfast, but you never wake up early enough. People with depression need the whole morning to prepare for life. They aren't early-risers.
Traveling with depression means you spend hours planning with anxiety as your travel agent, while repeating to yourself, "This is an adventure. Let yourself experience spontaneity," and "What if you find yourself walking around lost with nothing to do? What a loser."
Traveling with depression means you spend no precious energy at the airport. No smiles, no concerns for others, no forced small talk. Everything in your fragile mental state must be conserved in such a temporary place and your normal Christian charity goes out the damn window. You need to search my bag because a small change purse of quarters looks suspicious, TSA? Fuck you. You want me to explain the meaning of my tattoos, random stranger man? Get the fuck away from me.
Traveling with depression means you forgo evening plans because you're tired. Physically, mentally. You sit in your hotel room at the Super 8 drinking wine and watching documentaries on the Kennedys. And you don't feel bad -- yes, you do -- but you know you deserve it because you gave it your everything all day and you know you have nothing left.
Traveling with social anxiety disorder means you spend a couple hours in the afternoon walking a trail around a popular park to find the kayak rentals. The trail provides a view to the river where others are happily flocking in the sunshine of the river; they inspire you in moments of doubt. Without a good map, you follow people who look like they might be interested in the river, too, and trust your own intuition and your ability to forgive yourself for being wrong.
"You don't belong" and "You look stupid" and "You'll never get there" are as naturally produced by this solo traveler with depression as any other traveler naturally walks with a water bottle or a favorite sunscreen. Each step is a small rebellion.
You ignore because you believe that you'll find the kayak rentals. When you do, you surprise yourself because you expelled so much mental energy finding the place you need to find a second level to go through with it. But you have faith that carried you through the walking alone and it'll carry you through the human interaction.
You tell the cashier it is your first time and he gives you extra instructions, because he doesn't think you're stupid. You wait anxiously at the dock until someone helps you, thinking you should probably be more assertive.
You paddle away.
You feel the delight of floating on the river.
You cry on your boat from the joy, because you have rarely been happier.
You stretch out your arms to the sky for your faith and patience is so immense you could fly away on it, like two wings traveling to a warm place.