When we travel between gigs, we boondock. It maximizes driving time and saves money on campground fees. We usually stay in rest areas, squeezed in-between the 18-wheelers. I always have trouble falling asleep on those nights. Part of it is the rumble of the trucks mixed with smell of exhaust. Part of it is a niggling worry about someone breaking into the motorhome in the dark hours.
But there’s something else. Something I’ve noticed happening after we’ve settled into our next RV park.
Post Traumatic Rest Area Syndrome
I wake up in the night, not sure where I am and feeling the coach swaying, even though there’s no wind… even though the jacks are down… even though we’re in a level, spacious spot with no trucks lined up beside us. In the morning, I’m disoriented and slightly nauseous with an odd urgency thumping in my chest. The feeling that we need to get moving overwhelms me for a moment before I realize where we are and that we don’t have any miles to put behind us.
It’s not as serious, of course, as the P.T.S.D. that plagues soldiers returning from combat. But it’s unpleasant and disconcerting. I suppose I’ll get past my P.T.R.A.S. eventually as I adapt to our new lifestyle. For now, at least I have a name for what I’m feeling.