Depression Hates a Moving Target. Nita Sweeney

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СКАЧАТЬ gasping dusty air. Then another day when, bone tired from long hours practicing law, I’d cut a run short because I couldn’t make it up one more hill. And finally, one day, my mind decided I was through.

      The dog stared up at me. He had no fear.

      “What do you think, Pink?” I asked, referring to the pink tinge of his almost brown nose.

      He cocked his head and perked his copper-colored ears.

      I hit the timer button and began to jog.

      It hurt.

      Pain spread through my chest as my boobs bounced ferociously in my ancient sports bra. Due in part to medications, a healthy portion of the weight I’d gained in the past sixteen years was in my breasts. I slowed and bent my knees. This reduced the bouncing and hurt less. I wondered if it was also easier on my joints. I would later learn this was true.

      In sixty seconds, the timer went off.

      When I yelled, “We did it!” Morgan looked confused. I’d been jogging so slowly he hadn’t needed to break stride.

      I didn’t care. I tasted victory. Pleasant memories from decades past surfaced. Running in the rain, happy and soaked, feeling tough as I plowed through puddles. Outrunning younger men. Feeling strong, young, and pretty.

      But as we walk/jogged our way out of the ravine to where the homes sit closer to the road, these images of running glory faded. The windows stared at me. I turned around and jogged back down the hill, out of view.

      In the safe, secluded ravine, I alternated walking and jogging for twenty minutes. The dog continued to walk no matter how fast I thought I was going. When I finished, I breathed heavily, while he barely panted. No matter. I was sweating. It had been a long time since I’d sweated from exertion and the sweat made me smile.

      The walk home felt like floating. I glowed inside from pride and outside from sweat. I had run. And, I couldn’t wait to run again. But first, I needed a nap. When I lay down, I dreamed I was flying.

      That evening, I emptied a can of green beans into a saucepan while Ed sautéed chicken. I said nothing about my accomplishment. I’d given up running so many times before. When the food was ready, I ate hungrily as we talked about whether to buy dogwood trees for the front yard.

      I spent the next day at a coffeehouse working on the novel I was revising. As I rewrote the same sentence, I renewed my resolve not to tell anyone. That night, when I talked on the phone to my sister Amy, I did not tell her either. Besides Ed, she’s my closest confidante. Amy is eight years older than me, and my brother, Jim, is two years older than her. They parented me as much as our mother and father did. I told none of them, because I didn’t want them to get their hopes up that I would lose more weight, have more energy, keep track of stuff I kept losing, be able to shop for groceries, remember where I was going when I left the house, or care more about anything. I didn’t want to let them down if I failed. I also didn’t want anyone to discourage me. It never occurred to me that people might cheer.

      In truth, I was guarding my own hopes. If I told no one, it wasn’t real. This small victory was my imaginary friend. I could cling to it regardless of where the jogging thing went.

      ***

      After my first successful day of jogging, I waited the suggested two days to pull on my trail shoes. I had long since discarded my old running shoes. I owned Velcro tennis shoes, but didn’t want to feel like the middle-aged grandmother I am, so I chose shoes that lace up. Despite my graying temples and upper lip lines, I have the heart of a curly-haired three-year-old. Perhaps running was a way back to her.

      The sweatpants had been too bulky, so I dug out the bell-bottom tights I used to wear at Nia, a dance class I’d taken in a previous attempt to lose weight and reduce mood swings. With spandex containing my thighs, at least my bottom half felt athletic. But no amount of ab work can tone away poor posture. My slouch embarrassed me even when I was at my smallest adult weight. I covered my midsection with two layers.

      When I accidentally hit the button on the timer, Morgan, who’d been sleeping calmly at the opposite end of the house, sprinted over. Grateful for his company, I leashed him and headed back to the secluded ravine.

      As we walked, I remembered my breathless gasps as I’d pounded my way around the track at a health club twenty years before. I stopped and looked down at the timer in my hand. That first jog had been a fluke. I’d never make it out of the ravine. Running was for younger, skinnier people.

      As if they’d heard me, Kim and Fiona’s comments filled my head and my eyes dampened.

      I’d stood in one spot long enough that the dog had wandered away to sniff a purple crocus. I pulled him back and got the stink eye.

      “I need you,” I said. He rolled his eyes as if to say, “I’m waiting!”

      We began, but I started too fast and was bouncing. Instinctively, I knew every part of my body should move forward rather than up and down. I tried to keep my feet and center of gravity close to the ground. This was more comfortable. Sixty seconds was almost enjoyable. The dog walking beside me paid no attention. When the timer went off, my breath was quick, but not so rapid that I thought I might have a heart attack. I imagined myself running more.

      ***

      At the end of the next run interval, I pulled the dog up short. We’d come to the top of the ravine hill. The gaping windows of the houses on the street glared at us. The dog faced me, then sat.

      Part of me knew no one was watching. What ought to have been an easy decision was, for me, an epic struggle. I’ve heard minds like mine described as a ghetto. You shouldn’t spend much time there without backup.

      From decades of facing various phobias, I knew that whatever I ran from would trap me, constricting my world. If I stayed in the ravine, I might never go beyond week one of the training plan. I wanted to give running a decent shot. The dog stood and turned to face the open neighborhood.

      Instead of heading back, we jogged up the street where, if they had been looking, which they probably weren’t, my neighbors might see me waddling slowly enough that the dog didn’t notice I’d changed my gait. I focused straight ahead so I wouldn’t see the neighbors not staring as we passed house after house. “Look at me jogging in public!” my inner three-year-old cried. When the timer signaled our walk break, you’d have thought I’d run a marathon. Breathing hard was fabulous. I held my head high. The dog sniffed a signpost and peed on it.

      ***

      Morgan and I completed the three identical workouts of week one. I wasn’t as breathless or tired as I’d been the first two days and considered a nap, but didn’t need one.

      Napping is a barometer of my mental health. My alcoholic mother was a well-practiced napper, a skill I didn’t appreciate until my own depression made it a necessity. When I don’t nap, I feel less like a drain on society, since at least I’m awake during daylight hours. I’m not usually physically tired. Rather, daily living exhausts me mentally. Worn down by the fight, when the bed calls, I succumb. While my newfound jogging wouldn’t have been a huge challenge by most athletes’ standards, I counted a victory when, after this first week, I didn’t nap.

      ***

      The second week of the training plan increased the “jogging” from sixty seconds to ninety. Since it was gradual, the increase didn’t freak СКАЧАТЬ