Running For My Life

Originally published September 9, 2019

“I said, ‘What you wanna be?’ She said, ‘Alive.'” – André 3000

TW: Suicide Ideation

I ran a 5K last Friday. It was the first time in eight years that I put on a race bib and ran with a crowd. It was a good run. Beautiful weather. Beach sunset views. Flat course. I couldn’t have asked for a better comeback run. Friends asked me what my goal for the race was. I said, “To not die.” And I meant it. I’d consider being alive at the end of the race a win. The last time I put on a race bib, I failed. And I almost didn’t survive. I wish that statement was an exaggeration but it isn’t.

Eight years ago I was a more serious distance runner. I use the term “runner” loosely. To say I was a more serious distance jogger is more accurate. I’m not exactly sure how I went from hating running to looking forward to a daily run. I think it was the fact that running was something I did for myself and myself alone. When worrisome thoughts came, they left quickly. It was an opportunity to focus on nothing but my breath and the next step. But also a time of goal setting and accomplishments. Mileage increases. Personal bests. Sweat that signified my hard work. Running was important to my self-care. Self-care is great but no substitute for mental health care.

Although I have experienced depression since childhood, it was particularly severe during and following my last pregnancy. In addition to hormonal changes, I experienced a sudden breakup, losses of close family members, sleep deprivation, financial insecurity, an unwarranted and expensive custody battle, and crippling migraines. I was misdiagnosed and given medication for bipolar disorder while my depression and undiagnosed anxiety increased. I needed to be seen by mental health professionals consistently. Being unable to work and without insurance made that an impossibility. And, when I did see a therapist, I often lied about the severity of my symptoms. I both needed medication and feared what I’d do if given a full bottle of pills. I was trying desperately to hold it together for my kids, but I know I was failing. Depression interferes with effective parenting. Running provided temporary relief. It gave me the ability to hold on; however tenuously. And then I failed.

After training for months, I attempted to run a marathon. I completed 19 of the 26.2 miles before I became ill and disoriented. Perhaps, I did not hydrate and fuel properly. I later learned that the medication I was prescribed can cause electrolyte levels to drop drastically. I suspect that the marathon training exacerbated that drop in electrolytes. Whatever the case, I did not complete the race. And I spent the next day or so dizzy, vomiting, and in bed with a migraine. Failing to complete the marathon was my final straw.

It feels so melodramatic to write that. I know I am not the first person to not complete their first marathon. I know my family was proud of the 19 miles I completed. I know, that with the right medical attention, I could have gotten back to training and tried again. But depression doesn’t deal with what you know. Depression is about how you feel. And I felt like a failure. I felt like I couldn’t do anything right. I felt like I couldn’t complete what I started. I felt like I was already failing as a parent, as a professional, as a daughter, and as an adult. I felt like my mind and emotions were unreliable and what I could do physically was all I had left. I felt tired of trying to get things right…anything right. I felt ready to check out. Not simply because I failed to complete the marathon, but because I felt like I failed at everything in life.

All of those feelings came rushing back as I stood at the starting line before last week’s 5K. My stomach churned. The crowd was barely audible over the sound of my heartbeat. My breath was unsteady. I seriously considered ducking out but couldn’t bear to see my son disappointed in me. I took some deep breaths and willed my protein shake to stay down and reminded myself that I was in a much better place than I was eight years ago. I’m not sure I would have been able to do that if I had not seen my therapist two days before the race. She helped me acknowledge how this race was triggering and how to reframe my thoughts about it. Pre-race therapy is a training strategy that I will definitely employ next time. And, yes, I said next time. I met my goal. I crossed the finish line alive in 41 minutes and 16 seconds. Before the night was over, I was online searching for another race. Runner’s high is real, y’all. And the high of wanting to be alive is now real to me too.

Categories: : Wellness