It’s the Worst Time of the Year
Pit Stop 1 Extras
What I’ve Missed
Some photos sent to me by my sisters, Mary and Kathleen, from recent Christmases. With their husbands Jeff and Dave, my son Alec, my father, and Mary and Jeff’s children, Kyra and Austin.
Photo credits: Kathleen Fisher and Mary Coupland
Transcript
My name is Carol Fisher and this is The Carol-Van. For more than three-and-a-half years I’ve been living and traveling in my minivan full-time, by choice. I don’t own or rent a conventional home. Anything I do own fits in my car; I sold everything else. Second only to becoming a mother, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done.
Despite that, I battle depression and anxiety. Especially now. The holiday season destroys me. I’ve been holed up in my minivan for the past two weeks because I’m too depressed to get out and move on. I want to. In my mind’s eye, I see myself breezing through my day and getting stuff done. Instead, I’m a prisoner of paralyzing indecision and lethargy. I hate myself for it. I haven’t brushed my teeth in three days and I don’t even care.
I know there are so many other people suffering like this, disconnected from joy while festivities swirl around them. Depression, anxiety, abuse, family conflict, financial distress, illness, grief. Life is hard. And for those struggling with their mental health these challenges are intensified during the holidays, expanding into a vast divide from loved ones that feels impossible to bridge.
That’s why I’ve chosen now to release The Carol-Van’s first Pit Stop and share my mental health struggle. Pit Stops will be mini episodes designed for me to check in with you from the road between full-length episodes.
This Pit Stop was recorded in the parking lot of a dirty noisy truck stop near Victorville, California. It’s filthy with litter everywhere despite all the trash receptacles. At night, the walks are occupied by folks curled up on the ground, freezing and exhausted, with nowhere else to sleep. Diesel engines drone constantly in the background while the unhoused and the unhinged beg and bicker.
This is an exceedingly difficult time for those who suffer. When one’s spirit is broken, it’s terribly isolating. So, please, sit with me. Perhaps in hearing my story, you might realize that someone close to you is suffering too. And if you are having difficulty, I know you feel alone, but I promise you aren’t. Hold on with me.
Before I go further, Listener, I continue to discuss anxiety and depression and hint at suicidal ideation. If this is triggering for you, I suggest you listen with caution or skip the episode entirely.
Christmas is the worst. There’s no other time of year when I’m as sad or as lonely. These days I have very few specific memories of the dozens of Christmases with my parents, but overall, I carry a feeling of love and joy and fun from those family holidays. Now, Christmas pales in comparison to that emotional memory.
After I divorced my son’s father, my Christmases lost their joy. Every year until he graduated from college, my son spent the holidays with his dad, far away from me, in another state. No matter where I spent Christmas, or who I was with, without my son my whole heart was never in it.
In the past decade especially, the more merriment that surrounds me, the sadder I feel. To counteract my despondency, I’ve taken to searching out towns famous for their Christmas decorations, to photograph the lovely ways they glow up in December. I purposely travel to places filled with people I don’t know because I’m more comfortable there, where I can pretend I’m invisible.
One year, I hit Helen, a mountain town in northeast Georgia with charming Bavarian-style buildings. If you want Christmas-y this place does it up. It’s been named one of the top Christmas towns in the US. And, it is a wonderland. Strings of lights frame every store front and every façade. Stand in one spot and turn 360 degrees. You’ll be dazzled by glimmering Christmas trees in every line of sight. There are oversized gingerbread men, oversized presents with oversized bows, and almost as many Santas as there are Christmas trees. It is Christmas supersized. I take it all in as I walk the streets alone with my camera. Watching. Waiting. It’s glorious. When revelers stop to take selfies in front of displays blazing with a thousand tiny lights, I stop too to make photos and capture their joy. When they notice me, I worry that they think I’m a crazy stalker. Thankfully, that never happens. Instead, they call out to me and ask if I’ll take their picture. I always do. It’s fun for all of us. For me because I love photography and I hope to manage to make a portrait that impresses them. Fun for them because they walk away happy. And then, I inevitably beat myself up and regret that I couldn’t introduce myself and ask if they wouldn’t mind one more for me, for my collection of folks I meet in my travels. But, there is no collection. I’m usually too ashamed and uncomfortable to ask. Instead, I scurry away like a dirty little rodent does when the lights come on.
Not only has Christmas lost its sparkle, over time, I’ve come to feel so worthless that it’s unbearable to be with people. I’d rather be a voyeur to the festivities of strangers, than feel like a pariah among family and friends.
So, I become unreachable during the holidays to protect myself.
As a nomad traveling solo, I’m alone nearly all the time. Which suits me fine. For as far back as I can remember, I’ve had no trouble spending time by myself. And much to the relief of my parents, when they were young and exhausted with two littles only 14 months apart, I’ve been this way since I was a baby.
Many of the things I enjoy work well as solitary pursuits. Somehow van life neatly encapsulates my favorite things. There’s something so attractive about the convenience of having everything I need with me all the time, stored compactly in one small space. I feel super competent and self-reliant. Everything I own fits in my minivan. But nothing takes up more space than my emotional baggage.
No matter where I go, what I accomplish, or what I do in service for others, I always know what I am, what I’ve done, and the pain I’ve caused.
So, what may be a merry ramp up to the holidays for some, is a bitter reminder to me that I have nothing to offer. Instead, I become an observer. A role that feels safe. A role in which I’m simultaneously painfully envious and deeply relieved that I’m not participating in holiday fun with people I love.
Every year, my anxiety starts spinning out in October as family and friends make Christmas plans in earnest. When they ask me where I think I’ll be, I stammer that I haven’t thought that far ahead. I refuse to commit. For nearly two months - that's not true, it's all twelve months - I'm tortured by the guilt of knowing I'll decline every invitation. Not only have I managed to avoid attending my boss's annual holiday bash for more than a decade, I haven't spent Christmas with my sisters and their families or my father in eight years. It might even be more. It’s so long that I can’t remember.
Like Gollum, I’ve examined my secret misdeeds over and over and corrupted my self-image. I hold them tightly to me, believing the narrative I’ve constructed about my worthlessness. Eschewing love and human connection, my preoccupation with the things I regret has made me sick. Hidden in the darkness of my shame, my secrets feed on my guilt, growing and festering, and have manifested into addictive behaviors that I know are killing me. And there are plenty of days when I’m OK with that.
But if someone else were to confess the very same misdeeds to me, I’d be compassionate. Humans make mistakes. Yet, I’ve imposed a bizarre double-standard on myself. I argue if I don’t hold myself to a higher standard, if I simply forgive myself, where’s the accountability?
I’m an atheist. There’s no turning to a higher power for absolution. And, I don’t fear eternal damnation because I live in my own hell on Earth. Dragging my misdeeds and the weight of their consequences until the day I die.
And so, this time of year, when family beckons most, calls and texts may go unanswered. Alone, I choose to fully immerse myself in what I love to do. Travel, photography, writing and music. Activities that nourish my self-esteem and distract me from self-recrimination. Although I post my travel photos, I avoid scrolling through my social feeds. The onslaught of all those smiling faces and holiday greetings ignites a resentment that makes my heart feel very small. But nothing drives me to despair like seeing my sisters’ posts. I want so much to be with them, but I don’t want them to be with me. So, I deal with my pain by compartmentalizing. Thoughts of the family and friends I’m missing are put away. I don’t belong in that world. Shame taunts me, “If they really knew you, Carol, well surely, they wouldn’t want to.”
People think I’m brave for living van life on my own. Following my wanderlust isn’t brave. Brave is standing before a group of one’s peers in a 12-step program and admitting to addiction. Brave is making amends. I am a coward. I lack the courage to admit to all that haunts me. And without doing that, I cannot make amends.
For a long while I didn’t talk about my inner life. I wrongly believed that there was strength in my silence. It isn’t strength. It’s straight up fear. Fear of rejection, of humiliation, and fear of loss. Even though I can identify those obstacles, I can’t break through. It’s ridiculous. It’s only fear. I’ve faced fear before. But this is different. I’m afraid that all my negative self-talk will actually be validated. That those I’ve hurt will look me in the eye and confirm that I’m a piece of crap.
No amount of external love or praise has turned my self-image around. My crazy brain registers compliments as insincere. Say something nice. I won’t believe you. Try to love me, and I’m suspicious that there’s something very wrong with you for loving me.
I have to figure out how to combat the mental cacophony that fuels my social anxiety. And, I’m running out of time. I feel the pressure of my personal Doomsday clock fast approaching midnight. My father is 88, my sisters are past middle-age, and I’m in the eleventh hour of my life. I’m terrified that I’ll continue to squander time, and then, lose everything. It boils down to a choice between shame and loss or redemption and love. It’s so obvious, right? But I well know that a mind tortured by fear and shame and self-hatred, sometimes sees a third choice that a healthy mind would never consider.
My family may have difficulty understanding my struggles. Or they may be beyond trying, I wouldn’t blame them. They may be exasperated by my behavior and my reluctance to fully articulate what I’m feeling. They may have opinions of what they think I should do, and they may be impatient for my recovery. I get it. I get all of it. I’m grateful then, that when dealing directly with me, they’ve been kind and supportive.
Although I know that time is running out, I’m depending on more of that kindness this year, so that once again December 25th will be simply another day on the calendar for me.
Cheers, listeners. Please be kind to everyone. And may whatever you do for the holidays bring you peace.
If you are struggling, please reach out for help. If you can’t talk to friends or family call or text 988 for help from the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline.
As for me listener, not to worry. I have my coping strategies in place. I’ve found if I let it ride the worst of it passes. Getting outside to walk or bingeing sitcoms sometimes helps. My go-tos are 30 Rock and Arrested Development. I also like Schitt’s Creek, oh, and Community. Right now, I’m rewatching New Girl.
Alright, down to business. All episodes of The Carol-Van are written, hosted, and produced by me, Carol Fisher.
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Alright, that’s it for now, Listener. I gotta roll. May your new year be filled with peace and good health.
I’ll see you further on up the road.
Show Notes
The Carol-Van: A (Van) Life Podcast, was developed and created by me, Carol Fisher. All episodes are written, hosted and produced by me.
Theme Song "The Wanderer" by Lemon Music Studio www.pixabay.com
Background music used in this episode, “Sad Piano” by Psystein www.storyblocks.com
