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"Why do you have to travel so much?"

I look at my colleague, somewhat stunned by his question.

"Why do you have to breathe?" I respond.

For some of us, traveling is as necessary as taking our next breath. Without a destination on the horizon, we would surely die. I know, I am one of those travel-addicted people.

You've probably heard of post-partum depression and manic depression but how about "post trip" or "post travel" depression? After returning from that trip to Hawaii, do you experience deep sadness, a loss of interest in the place you live, irritability with your co-workers, feelings of guilt, or an inability to make decisions? If so, you are not alone.

Type "post trip or post travel depression" into an Internet search engine and see how many others are also going through the same horrible psyche-wracking withdrawal. And worse, there is no televised happy drug to alleviate your symptoms. But there is temporary cure: more travel.

I travel frequently, as frequently as time and budget will allow. I am so addicted to travel, I feel desperation at the thought of not being able to sit endlessly on an airport tarmac awaiting take-off, or shove my way through a cramped subway, or talk with a cab driver whose butchered English makes one pray he's taking you to the right city, let alone the right hotel.

Like a bird in a cage, I sit trapped and suffocated unless I know my next trip is booked and my suitcases are half-packed. But those feelings pale in comparison to the feelings I first experience upon returning from a trip.

The doldrums start the night before the last day of the trip. I survey the wild mess strewn about my hotel room: tiny statues, chocolates, ball caps, and T-shirts I will give as presents upon getting home, the purses and exotic soap bars I never knew I needed, and the beguiling tourist brochures filled with places I have yet to go to, and activities I didn't have enough time to do. I can't go yet, I think, I'm not finished. My hands are clenched and my jaw is set. And with all the Arnold-nesque bravado I can muster, I exclaim to the world outside my grimy smeared hotel window, "I'll be back!"

The threat makes me feel better and I return to my packing. I soon realize another suitcase is in order. I run down the street to a local vendor and buy one. My husband thinks I have a mental disorder since I simply cannot travel without purchasing at least one more bag, suitcase, purse, or change purse. I think it's just my way to clutch, to capture a piece

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