Four days in Las Vegas…

It’s 3:30 am as I write this and in five hours I’ll be on a flight to Las Vegas.

It’s a stupid city, in a desert, using too much water and too much power and too much consciousness in a lack of consciousness sort of way, but I always have a good time. I’ll be meeting my partner there, who is flying in from Chicago and it’ll be emotional, warm and nice to not feel alone for a little while.

A couple of days ago, I spoke with my therapist and we discussed trauma. Recently I witnessed a stabbing a few blocks from my apartment in a neighborhood where stabbings are not that uncommon and with her guidance, I revisited how I felt, the anxiety, the dread, fear, and all of the self-criticism for not doing something to stop it which I know logically would have been impossible, but with feelings, how often is logic really coming into play? Initially I didn’t care for this therapist; she suggested I alleviate stress by going dancing or to comedy shows which if one were to know me would be similar to suggesting Las Vegas go a year without water or power. We talked it out though, and since then she’s been far more helpful and shown insights into my behaviors and those feelings, especially the ones that have little basis in logic.

We also discussed my depression and how I choose to live and spend time in neighborhoods where stabbings aren’t uncommon as opposed to parts of San Francisco where stabbings are rare. I identified that in the nicer parts of town, I’m surrounded by people I don’t relate too, people who are with friends and out to dinner on dates or with family or etc…and these parts, while more aesthetically pleasant feel unpleasant to me. In the stabby neighborhood, people are alone or estranged or oftentimes off in some way and I simply feel better there, more at ease, despite the trauma and occasional recklessness involved.

In Las Vegas, my partner and I can go to any neighborhood we choose and it’ll feel just fine: air hockey at the Golden Nugget, drinks and music at the Double Down Saloon and blackjack at the El Cortez. I’ll be leaving much of the above behind until I return to San Francisco on Monday.

The neighborhoods, stabbings or non, and the impossible job: those are Monday problems.


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