David's Inferno by David Blistein Read Free Book Online Page B

accomplishing something,
anything
.
    I think about people with PTSD. What do I know about their suffering?
    I think of friends who have been incapacitated by drugs or mental illness. What do I know about their suffering?
    I think about my own last 6 months, during which stringing together a few moments, minutes, or hours has been such a relief. Only in those moments—after maybe a week of constantly dealing with this physical anxiety-without-object—do I realize that I’m in pretty deep myself
.
    March 15, 2006: Dummerston, Vermont to Morgantown, West Virginia. 637 Miles
. Beware the Ides of March. Snow flurries. Blue sky. White, puffy fair-weather clouds incongruously threatening. The sun rising over New Hampshire hills as I round the cloverleaf onto Route 91 South. Wind blowing hard enough to send a warning shot of adrenaline as I cross the bridge over the West River.
    Sometimes I’m dealing with the agitation. Sometimes I’m breaking down in tears. Sometimes I’m just happy to be here … and a little concerned for my sanity. It’s a fine line.
    The speedometer breaks shortly after I entered Pennsylvania. Can’t go over 62 miles per hour. That’s not fast enough.
    The labels … this is mania, this is depression, this is agitation … just make it more difficult to get out of the boxes they’re slapped on.
    Crossing the Susquehanna River near Gettysburg. Skirmishes breaking out all around me; the ghosts of Lee and Lincoln on my flanks. Caesar falling in the Forum … 2052 years ago today.
    Route 68. Rolling hills from 1200 to 2800 feet. Up and over, up and over. The VW slows to 50. That’s not fast enough.
    The sun sets oversize, full orange behind light haze as I come into Morgantown.
    Maxwell’s, 1 Wall Street, Morgantown, West Virginia. Dinner for $13.52. “Sinfully Nutty Tofu” for $8.50 or “Chicken Pie” for $9.50. Who in their
right
mind could make a decision like that?
    The moon rises oversize, more pale-orange than yellow, above the Hotel Morgan as I climb the breathless steps up to the University. The view is stunning. The students are oblivious. I am invisible.
    At some point you have to realize you can’t blow on your own embers.
    March 16, 2006: Morgantown, West Virginia to Morton’s Gap, Kentucky. 556 Miles
. Okay. Everyone who’s been to Morton’s Gap, Kentucky raise their hands.
    Just as I thought.
    After checking into a motel behind a truck stop, I go for an out-and-back bike ride. I prefer loops. Most bikers do. Especially guys. It’s a corollary to the not-looking-at-maps thing. You only do an out-and-back when you’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s late in the day, and you realize that if you get lost you might be literally in the dark; or you find yourself in an area with lots of strange dogs (and perhaps even people) who aren’t used to bikers and might consider you fair game.
    Ordering Irish Whiskey in Kentucky is like saying the Sh’ma under your breath while everyone else says the Apostle’s Creed. Which is something else I’ve done. Fortunately, tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, so they take pity on me and find some Bushmills. I pass on the corned beef and cabbage.
    The mornings are the hardest. I always cry a little—not about anything; just something in the throat that flutters. It’s begun to feel natural, like brushing my teeth. Feel cleaner afterward. Should brush more often.
    The evenings are best. Probably the whiskey and/or the exhausted relief at having survived another day … and/or the anticipation of sleep.
    William Styron wrote:
    The evening’s relief for me—an incomplete but noticeable letup, like the change from a torrential downpour to a steady shower—came in the hours after dinnertime and before midnight, when the pain lifted a little and my mind would become lucid enough to focus on matters beyond the