Reasons

Standing in my door's archway that marked the center of our hallway, I gave my room one last glance; the light ignored my blinds, shooting through the window and resting on a broken futon that was covered with clothes and white stains that contrasted the black material. I looked at my wall, covered with paintings from my brother's younger years that had survived under my wing, some childish and colorful – others refined with strong black lines that curved out a woman's face; souvenirs of my world travels, a Gothic Hello Kitty mask hung between two Japanese subway maps. I looked at my black shelves that were littered with badges of honor: a bottle filled with sand and ocean water from the Texas seas, a German bottle of liquor that a loving family had given me with a hint of tears lingering in the air. I paused for a moment, trying to take it all in; the smells, the sights, and the memories. Then I said goodbye.

Weeks before, out of foresight, I gathered my prized collection of books, flipping through their pages, reading personal notes written in the margins by a lost love and family members who have passed on, and sold them for petty cash. Moments afterward, I sat on the hood of my car staring at the city into the sunset that painted the background of Austin's few skyscrapers. I was smoking a cigarette purchased by said cash, exhaling deeply – every last ounce of air till my lungs shriveled up – in hopes that whatever longing I felt would escape with the smoke. The feeling returned when I closed my bedroom door for the last time and set fourth on the black sea that separated Austin and San Antonio.

It's a unique feeling, looking at your possessions – your past – and asking yourself what to leave behind. As if, without them there would be no proof of who you are or what you have accomplished. One would assume, like every other feeling in life, that with repetition its edge would be dulled until eventually the sadness would be a quick flash that reminded you of those youthful, emotional, days; but even on my third try – the third time I had spoken my fair wells to everything I owned – the sadness clung to me like an ex girlfriend, crying in my chest as I stroke her hair – bittersweet finality.

Friends assumed that I was a masochist when I shared my thoughts, though they were partially right, but I had reasons. The first time was when I signed up for the Navy, hoping to pursue the tastes of other cultures, foods, and women: I gave whatever I held dear away and shipped out to the cold winter of Chicago, and enjoyed every pin prick of icy wind. The second time was when I moved into independence a city away; scorned at a free woman whom was incapable of returning love, I said, “Fuck it – Why not move to a hip city?” and I was gone once more.

And now I had Mexico.

“Why the Hell Mexico?” Every right minded person asked me after they got off of their stable, well paid jobs.

“That's a philosophical question.” I'd reply to their bewildered faces before they rolled their eyes at another wild idea Kellan was having.

Several failed attempts at explanation – how I felt suicidal and with nothing to lose, why the Hell not – I gave up and decided to keep it simple, “I have no reason.”

“But it's dangerous right now! You might die!”

“And so too if I stay.”

One day I was driving through Austin's downtown, its streets a grid system where one had to chase green lights by slightly speeding, and enjoying the cool breeze a convertible allows. The Sun was almost gone, but its light faded to the sky's center. All of a sudden I realized I had been thinking about suicide for thirty minutes. And so too the next day, and the next, till finally I thought I might have a problem.

People assume depression is pure sadness, the kind portrayed by Hollywood, dead girlfriends and failed aspirations fueling self hate; but depressions is worse than that – it's less interesting – it's gray and gratuitous. You stare at a painting and you see only a cloth canvas, oils covering its surface, and a metal rim; but with depression everything is like that; love looks like two people attached to each other for selfish reasons; friendship is prolonged association; and yourself is another shape floating in space.

To define it is futile – it simply is. However to use it, to learn from it, to gain courage from it – that was enough delusion to add the color back into my life. Free from death's grasp I could do anything, and soon an opportunity presented itself; so I said why the Hell not.