Читать книгу Depression Hates a Moving Target - Nita Sweeney - Страница 11
ОглавлениеMy first glimpse of the running community came in “Calling All Penguins (Slow Runners),” a beginner forum thread on the website active.com. Here, I discovered John Bingham, a writer for Runner’s World Magazine, whose column, “No Need for Speed,” and books encouraged runners of all types, despite slowness, awkwardness, or other limiting thoughts. He described thinking that his reflection in a store-front window made him look more like a penguin than the athlete he felt he was. The moniker stuck.
Runners on the thread waddled or “wogged” or “woggled” or plodded. When I posted that I had completed week three, “irunforbling” replied, “Great job! On to week four!” About my shoe and sock purchase, “slowbutsure” said, “Never enough gear!” I felt at home. Even though I didn’t want to run with (or in front of) people and told my friend Krista I wouldn’t race, it was nice to meet other inexperienced runners without having to leave the house. I needed support.
***
I’d grown up mostly alone. By the time I was born, Mom and Dad were in their thirties. My brother and sister escaped to their adult lives before I finished middle school. My drinking parents fought over money. Occasional outbursts of temper punctuated their brooding silences. To isolate and zone out, I practiced flute in my room, cantered solo around the yard pretending I was a horse, or escaped to the woods to build “cities” from fallen trees. I tried to stay out of the way, but developed a veil of sadness, and extreme negative thinking. In my teen years, I binge-drank.
Alcohol blurred the sharp edges of life, and drinking felt as natural as breathing. My parents allowed me to drink openly with them long before I learned to drive. Our family measured distances and projects by the number of beers they would take. The utility room never contained fewer than three cases of long-necked Budweisers, and the bottom refrigerator drawer (which I would learn in college most families filled with vegetables) we reserved for chilling the beer.
At sixteen, I passed out at a Heart concert on the floor of the women’s bathroom and promptly swore off alcohol only to start drinking again a few weeks later. Into college and law school, with each consequence, I would quit, then soon forgot that even the first drink was a bad idea. I lost the car more than once. In a blackout, I slugged a friend. While working at the law firm, I rolled a brand-new station wagon. I wound up in situations and with people I shouldn’t have, even though my binges were sometimes years apart.
Finally, one night when I was in my thirties, I stood in front of an open refrigerator negotiating with the six-pack that sat on the middle shelf. I knew where it would end. I sought help, and a community of ex-problem drinkers taught me how to stay stopped. Without those fellow travelers, I was doomed.
***
The Penguins became my running fellowship. When I wrote about conquering the hill near the ravine by our house, they cheered. They talked about shoes, water (hydration) belts, sports bras, tech shirts, capris, and underwear. They talked about interval training, long slow runs, tempo runs—all new to me. Fartlek? Is that even a word? They explained that “fartlek” is Swedish for “speed play.” You “play” with speed, altering your pace on a whim.
As my knowledge grew, so did my confidence. Soon, I too was posting “WTG!” if a newcomer reported progress. The people in the Penguin Forum couldn’t see my middle-aged body as I slogged through my neighborhood. I might be shy in front of other people, but not on the internet. I eagerly shared what I had learned.
With the Penguins, I began to think of myself as a runner. Never mind that I was barely running five minutes at a time. Depression makes me think I’m worthless, that the good days are behind me, and only doom and gloom lie ahead. By taking myself more seriously, I put in more effort and was less likely to quit. I hoped others would take me seriously too, but that wasn’t as important as me remembering a competence I thought I lacked. In my slow, middle-aged way, I was good at running. Sharing my limited experience kept the dangerously dull mood at bay, at least while I was on the Penguin Forums.
***
My joy was short-lived. The last week of April, as I completed week four, my ankle swelled the way it had so many years before. When it remained swollen a few days later, it scared me enough to stop.
Over the next two weeks, the dog and I took many long walks, but it broke my heart to think I would lose the fitness and fun. My friends Kim and Fiona continued to post and email about their running. The Penguin Forums just made me sad. I talked to my psychiatrist about a med change, but we held off to see if the darkness would pass.
***
My current psychiatrist and I are vigilant about not letting the darkness linger. We know how bad it can get. In 1994, after I took a disability leave of absence from work, my motivation and joy for life, including the intense running I was doing, faded. Even breathing was difficult.
On a September day, I took the dogs for a run. Weak, worn down, and empty inside, I only managed a block. Running had become a chore, one more thing depression had stolen. I turned the dogs for home. Inside, I took off my running shoes and put them in the back of the closet.
A few days later, stone cold sober, I lay on the family room floor, my heavy head resting on the Berber carpet while Ed was at work. Astro and Maxine, the two dogs I had before Ed and I married, curled around me. My arms, legs, and head felt like they had weights attached, and my mind was thick with sludge. The smallest tasks made me feel as if I were drowning. Outside the family room window, even the blue sky looked bleak.
As I lay there, I imagined loading Maxine, a black Labrador, and Astro, an American Eskimo Dog, into my station wagon, turning on the engine without opening the garage door, and crawling in the back with them. Permanent “sleep” seemed the only reasonable solution. Despite Ed’s love, I believed he would be better off without us.
Before I could carry out my fatal plan, the phone rang. I’d forgotten about my psychologist appointment. Still in my pajamas, I went, told her of my plan, and was admitted to the locked ward of a psychiatric hospital until the suicidal thoughts passed. I spent the next six months in various outpatient mental health treatment programs.
With that nervous breakdown, I left the legal profession permanently after ten years of practice. I haven’t held a regular job since. I began to write and found homes for a few articles and essays, but low energy and perfectionism kept me from finishing anything longer. I posted occasional articles to my writing blog, Bum Glue (“Apply to seat of pants. Sit. Write.”), taught a few writing classes, and published a monthly email of Ohio writing events, the Write Now Newsletter, working those around my inability to get out of bed and the voices in my head that told me everything I wrote was horrible. I also wrote drafts of three novels, four memoirs, a book about writing, and a book of daily mindfulness meditations. But I couldn’t channel the energy to complete those. After several revisions, I decided each book was too flawed and started a new one—nine times. When people asked about work, I said I was retired.
In much the same way that the ex-problem drinkers have kept me on the sober path and various groups of meditators supported my mindfulness practice, the writing community helped me keep pen to page despite my challenges. The Buddhists call their community the “Sangha.” Sitting in a quiet room with others provided structure as I attempted to focus on my breath. Discussing the writings of Buddhist teachers brought us together. In writing, critique groups, writing groups (both in person and online), and workshops and conferences allowed me to mingle with other “scribblers.” With the recovering people, I learned how to live without alcohol. Beyond mere camaraderie, group synergy made any journey more pleasant, and provided friendly peer pressure and support in tough times. I found these same virtues among the running “Penguins.”
***
After two weeks of rest from running, my ankle returned to normal. Perhaps I was ready for week five after all. I mulled that for a few more days before pulling out the schedule. The first day simply increased the amount of jogging and decreased the walk breaks. But the second day required eight minutes of jogging, and the third day jumped to a steady twenty minutes straight with, get this, no walking! I panicked. If I couldn’t do the second or third day, why bother with the first?
No, this thinking does not make sense, but that’s how my mind works. For fifteen minutes, I tried to convince myself to just do the first day. I tried to recall the increased energy and happy mood the workouts produced. I tried to imagine myself succeeding, but the panic would not subside. I’d expected each week to follow the same format, with an increased challenge to be repeated three times. I sulked, unable to make myself put on exercise clothes, leash up the dog, or do anything productive. Blue and mildly nauseous, I called a friend, but she didn’t answer. I called Ed, but he was busy with work. I surfed the internet and played many games of computer solitaire. The day passed, and I did not even try.
***
The next day, I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed. I trust someone’s experience more than their opinion, so I logged into the Penguin Forum to ask about week five. “It’s a big shift,” one person who had also found it daunting said. She encouraged me to just try day one and see how it went.
Two weeks had passed since I’d completed the week four workouts. My ankle had swollen. I’d concluded jogging wasn’t for me.
Her suggestion reminded me of how much better I’d felt after the previous workouts—almost like an athlete. Maybe I should attempt it. When I remembered I was supposed to be talking myself out of it, I laughed.
The dog found no humor in it. If I walked near the table on which sat the little timer, his ears perked up. When I didn’t touch it, his ears fell and my heart broke. Maybe, with Mr. Dawg by my side, I’d succeed.
Down in the ravine, two run/walk intervals left me gasping for air. There would be no third. I turned the dog for home once again. At the house, I crawled into bed. The dog hopped up and curled behind my knees.
Before I fell asleep, I remembered that a Penguin had said he’d repeated a few of the weeks. At the time when I’d read his comment, I hadn’t been able to start week five at all. The thought of repeating week five wasn’t helpful.
But wait. I could repeat week four! This wasn’t a sprint. It was its own marathon. I didn’t want to give up, the way I had in my previous attempts to run. I wanted to be a lifetime runner. If I ever chose to race, maybe I’d win my age group when I was in my nineties by being the only one to take part. Of course, I never intended to race, but…
The following day, I began again. Over the next three weeks, I repeated the week four intervals three times a week until the set was easy. Maybe week five would happen after all.
***
Once the week four workouts felt comfortable, I turned back to the three different workouts of week five. The third workout culminated in twenty minutes of continuous jogging. TWENTY MINUTES! I’d told the Penguins I was in for the long haul, but still felt confused at how to continue.
Morgan lay on the floor next to my desk joyfully ripping a scarlet and gray rope toy into pieces.
Pieces! That was it.
I’d break week five into three pieces (“week 5A,” “week 5B,” and “week 5C”), then repeat each one until it was easy. I hugged Morgan’s stiff fur, inhaling his doggy smell.
With Morgan smiling beside me, I set out to complete day one of week 5A. I huffed and puffed. This was difficult AND I was doing it.
When it was time for the final five-minute jog, I was back to the steep hill at the edge of the ravine. Burning bush glowed with the fresh green of spring. Dogwoods and redbuds would soon bloom. The world would be beautiful if I made it up this hill.
Even at a slow jog, my breath came in rasps. The dog pulled and the distance between us tugged at my heart. I slowed, caught my breath, and began to jog again, closing the distance between the dog and me. Never mind that he was walking; I wasn’t going to let him beat me to the top. I dug deep, and we crested the hill together. I looked at the timer. Three minutes still to go.
“Walking is not a failure,” I told the dog, and let my heart rate slow. The rest of the street was still uphill, but more gradual. At the stop sign, I resumed jogging. “We can do this,” I told Morgan. He nodded, or maybe shook a bug off his ear. Panting again, I slowed to what must have looked like a crawl to the people not watching from their houses. I passed one house, then another, turned a corner and passed more. Stucco house. Siding house. Brick house. Maple tree. Crabapple. Dogwood. Tiny buds would soon flower. One more minute. Eight more seconds. Then the sweet beep.
Day one of week 5A, done. “Whoop! Whoop!” I yelled, startling the dog. I patted him and gave myself a mental pat, too.
***
As a new runner, I’d been blissfully unaware that some faster runners resent slower people. But one night, as I scrolled through the Penguin Forums, I read, “You slow runners are pathetic. If I ran as slow as you did, I’d shoot myself.” The condescension turned my stomach. “I reported you to the moderators,” I replied.
The troll responded by using my account photo to clone my account by adding one letter to the end of my name. I’d naively used my real name, and a photo of me with Mr. Dawg as my avatar. The troll wrote critical posts about other members of the forum under this new account which, at a brief glance, looked like mine. He also looked up my Twitter account and website and criticized those. The forum moderators took down the troll’s comments and account, but the troll continued. From then on, I didn’t engage, but simply clicked the “report abuse” button. I also changed my username, password, and photo. But I didn’t leave.
The troll claimed that anyone not placing in their age groups shouldn’t race. He complained of having to dodge slow runners who mistakenly started too far in front. I hadn’t raced, so I didn’t know the norms, but these comments made me even more reluctant. Some Penguins talked about being asked to move to the sidewalk, being picked up in a vehicle because they were too slow, or finishing last. I doubled down on my intent to only run in private, with the dog, through the streets of our neighborhood.
***
Toward the end of July, in an email exchange, I finally told my sister about running. I qualified it with the fact that I was interspersing walking and hadn’t yet run an entire thirty minutes.
Since 2007, the year her daughter, our mother, my father-in-law, and her ex-husband died, Amy and I have texted each other every day. Like my husband, she has seen me through the trials of mental illness. I’ve seen her through divorce, her own depression, and the death of her only child. We cling to each other like survivors of an emotional shipwreck. Time passed, and I forgot I’d told her. She walks her dog and swims, but never expressed interest in sports beyond the Ohio State University Buckeyes.
Just when I had recommitted to never running in public, she emailed a link to the first annual Steps for Sarcoma 5k. It would raise money for research to combat osteosarcoma, the type of cancer that had killed my niece. Amy was walking the one-mile fun walk.
“Would you run the 5k?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” I wrote. “Running is a private thing.”
I didn’t think of this as a cop-out. I really didn’t think I could bear being seen running in public. Plus, my ankle still swelled intermittently.
But each time I went out to jog, thoughts of my niece’s death nearly suffocated me.
Jamey had been a runner. Until she was diagnosed with a cancerous tumor in her femur, she thought the pain in her leg was a running injury. If she were still alive, she would be running. Even after her leg was amputated, she tried to wear a prosthetic limb, hoping to run again.
I had told my sister I wouldn’t participate, but held it in the back of my mind.
My training and the Penguins forum buoyed my confidence. When my sister asked again, I reconsidered.
The Penguins posted race finish times in the signatures to their posts. I had not yet timed myself, so didn’t know my pace. I was afraid to know. But I kept reading about them collecting race bibs and crossing the finish line even if it was last. The trolls popped in from time to time, but as quickly disappeared. One race might not hurt.
Meanwhile, I asked my friend Krista more about races. She teased me for saying I’d never do one. The idea of supporting a cause I found important changed my perspective. She also found races fun. Raising money for a cause gave her a sense of purpose. She said I wouldn’t finish last and, even if I did, I would survive. I don’t know why I was so afraid of coming in last, but I was.
Then one day I noticed a 26.2 sticker on the back of a friend’s car. Now that I was running, even at my snail’s pace, these white, oval stickers appeared on my radar. To me, the 26.2 sticker was the equivalent of a Ph.D. diploma for running. I already had three college degrees (bachelor’s, master’s, and Juris Doctor) and several academic and license certificates. I wanted to add this achievement to my collection. My friend’s was the first 26.2 sticker I’d noticed on the car of someone I knew.
I caught my young friend and asked about his running. Tall and lean, he looked the way I thought a marathoner should. Standing outside the building where we both attended a recovery group, I confided, “I’d like to earn my own 26.2 sticker someday.” I looked at the ground, waiting for the, “You’ve got to be kidding” look. Instead, he smiled. “Keep running, and in time you’ll do it.” My throat closed. I was easily twice his age, much heavier, and hadn’t even run a 5k. I was probably manic. No matter. This kind man believed in me.
I didn’t tell my sister, but planned for the 5k.
