38. Assessing the Halfway Point of My Paris Trip.

Yeah, I’m having some fun experiences but I don’t feel like much has really changed. Still depressed, still feeling blah.

Bienvenue to the 38th article in my Medium publication, Inside Me Inside Paris, a work-in-progress memoir about my 2016 deep-dive into Paris & my journey to find my soul amidst the onslaught of depression…

C’est 24 août 2016:

I’m sitting in a Starbucks on Saint Paul in Le Marais, people-watching, writing in my journal and missing home a little bit. Reflecting.

A few days ago, I reached the halfway point through my three month trip. I’ve been in Paris for ninety days now and I’m in the same mental space I was when I got here. I’m doing everything that my therapist is asking me to do: embrace the unknown, go with the flow, be receptive to all the possibilities and every potential direction. I’m growing frustrated, waiting for a map to materialize. What and where are the fucking possibilities and what direction should I take? Any direction, Universe. Some thing.

It might seem like I’m doing a lot based on what you’ve been reading, but actually, there are many hours that I’m merely lounging around in my underwear pinned to my bed, distracting myself from the voices in my head: watching stand up comedy on Netflix, Dodger baseball games (This is Hall of Fame announcer Vin Scully’s last season) on my laptop at 2 in the morning, or watching obscure summer Olympic sports in French.

I finally forced myself out of the apartment, and walked a couple miles to Gambetta to watch the new Jason Bourne film. The Bourne movie wasn’t bad, but it’s hard for me to watch movies and TV series for pure entertainment without thinking about the hassle of managing the film logistics.

Afterwards, I went to a quaint Chinese restaurant around the corner. I’m here now, eating alone. After going to the movies alone. I can do alone, but I don’t do well alone. People are a drug for me. I probably need more hugs than is normally required for a grown man. The food is actually good here, unlike a lot of Chinese restaurants around town which just microwave their food.

The incessant sound of water pouring into the fish tank that sounds like perpetual peeing and the droning whiz of a box fan aren’t enough to drown out my inner voices. They are front and center reminding me loud and clear that all the walking, all the tourists, trying to speak French, finding my authentic voice, it’s all futile. I’m dominated by thoughts like: “You can’t follow through! Look at the trails of failures behind you! You can’t do anything right.”

The feelings of past failures and the running theme of not being born, wired or cut out to fulfill the dreams that I’ve conjured up for myself are surfacing again. I can’t shake them off. So many of my dreams were so grand, so out of reach, so egregiously ambitious. As a senior in high school, I made it a goal to qualify for the Junior Olympic Gymnastics Nationals. I went to practices twice a day, four hours a day, six days a week. I thought the sheer will and effort would be enough to overcome a glaring problem — being a late bloomer. I started gymnastics only two years prior. There was no way I would’ve qualified for Nationals. I should be happy that my efforts resulted in a gymnastics scholarship in college. But I’m not happy. I hate myself.

French is so hard for me. I speak French, the French think I speak French, and they go rapid-fire and I have to revert back to English. It’s always slightly embarrassing for me, but I’m trying very hard to not be affected. Little kids get on just fine not knowing their language. They just go about their day, perfectly satisfied that they can only say five words. I wish I could be child-like in that way again and be free and stumble along and not be affected.

There are four people in my inner circle back in the States, including my therapist, who are really trying to help put me back together again. But there’s nothing they can do for me. I’m un-fixable. I don’t really think I was destined for great things. Passion and intent simply aren’t enough to see your dreams through.

I read a Steve Jobs quote today: “If you are working on something you care about, you don’t have to be pushed. The vision pushes you.” Well, I don’t care about anything anymore. Every time I try to have vision I fall short. So now what? A voice comes to me. “Why don’t you just kill yourself?”

“Oh, I want to,” I tell the voices. I’m trying to figure out how to get off this planet. I desperately want the peace and quiet. The inconvenience about disappearing is how to do it without leaving a trail of pain for others. I’m not selfish. I just want to go. Isn’t it peculiarly interesting that I have to think about staying alive to protect my loved ones from pain, but in turn, I’m the one suffering alone in my own dark hole of hell?

A Coldplay song came on in the background. It’s making me sad:

When you try your best but you don’t succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep
Stuck in reverse
When the tears come streaming down your face
’Cause you lose something you can’t replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
What could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

I’m really sad. I could use a hug. Someone to hold my hand and tell me they will try to fix me.

Maybe I’ll finally get around to writing that good-bye note I’ve been meaning to put on paper. Just to get it out of my head and onto the page. Man, I sure could use some weed to lighten things up. I’m in Paris, for fuck’s sake.

I snapped a photo of this man sitting next to me at Starbucks because it encapsulated how I’m feeling. Staring into his phone, the man desperately wants to connect with a friend on some platform, any platform, after a day of being alone with all the voices in his head.

Thank you very much for reading this memoir I’m workshopping. I’m a writer/photographer based in Burbank, California. Some of my work is visible on my Instagram.

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