A Venetian romantic getaway for me and my depression
Ah, romantic Venice. You know, snuggling in a cute little gondola, serenaded in Italian by a gondolier and all that crap. By the time I had gotten there, I had already completed two weeks out of my three-week solo backpacking extravaganza(!) to Italy. It was the trip I secretly hoped would relegate my depression — my companion — to the backseat. My companion, however, was interested in no such arrangement. This is my tale of depression in Venice.
Thanks to medication-induced coordination problems, I had wiped out in the middle of the street in Rome, making sweet love to the pavement. So I was already hobbling by the time I reached Venice. Classy all the way! I soon concluded that the world was full of jerks — people who were happy to stare at the Tensor elastic bandage wrapped haphazardly around my ankle, but couldn’t be bothered to offer assistance as I made my way up and down stairways with the speed and stability of a 90-year-old woman.
Depression in Venice sucks!
My companion seemed to set the tone for the remainder of the trip. I had multiple bouts of crying in public, as well as a meltdown after being sexually harassed by a creepy hostel worker guy. I was burnt out from visiting museum after museum that I didn’t give a crap about because of the ever-present depression-induced apathy. I also wished I had some sort of invisible shield around me because the crush of tourists was so agitating.
Oh, and did I tell you that Venice is full of canals? It turns out you simply can’t get around without using a boat unless you’re a crazy, hardcore swimmer. So I was a bit concerned about that. Why you might ask? Well, I’m a puker — on planes, trains, and automobiles, but especially on boats. Once, on a snorkeling excursion in Tanzania, I was convinced that death would be preferable to hanging over the railing and barfing over and over and over again. So yeah, Venice was a bit of a concern, what with all the canals and boats and such.
Little did I know that being a little (or a lot?) crazy would come in handy! By the time I got to Venice, I was totally overstimulated, and my depression had funneled all that energy somewhere else. The outlet of choice turned out to be my balance, which was already a little wonky from my medication. I developed what Dr. Google refers to as rocking vertigo — basically, I felt like I was constantly on a boat. If I were sitting, I would end up rocking from side to side as though I was trying to balance myself on an imaginary wobbly boat. Any time I was awake, I felt like the ground was moving beneath me.
It was indeed odd, and I’m sure I looked like a weirdo as I rocked in an attempt to counterbalance the non-existent movement beneath me. But the cool result was that I didn’t get sick on the mini-ferries I had to use to get around the city. Rocking around on the boat didn’t feel any different from rocking around on dry land, and since I didn’t get sick from the pseudo-motion, I didn’t end up with motion sickness. Score!
When I got home, my depression heaved a sigh of relief and put the kibosh on the pseudo-motion. These days, if people notice me, chances are they’re staring at my medication-induced tremor. To be honest, I’d rather be that weird chick rocking out on a moving dance floor only I could feel.
