Читать книгу Depression Hates a Moving Target - Nita Sweeney - Страница 8

Prologue

My mind was trying to kill me again.

“Who do you think you are?” it growled as I squatted in a green porta potty four and a half miles into the Columbus Marathon. The sun shining on the white top bathed me in gray light.

The running partners I’d begun the race with that morning, and trained with for the past four months, had gone ahead without me. They would have stayed. I’d spent a mile convincing them to leave after I could no longer ignore my bowels.

Alone in the fiberglass cubicle, trying to avoid sitting down, I shivered with loneliness as I finished my task.

Mom. Dad. Jamey. All dead.

My ever-faithful husband, my sister, and friends, all still very much alive, were on the course, but miles away. Even the dog, my other regular running companion, was absent—at home—probably asleep.

This left me in treacherous company—with only my mind—forever critical.

Someone in the line outside knocked. I would have to carry my heavy heart across the pavement solo.

“I’m a runner,” I whispered to my mind. Then I pulled up my panties, opened the door, and ran.