Depression Hates a Moving Target. Nita Sweeney

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      In my half-conscious state, I barely noticed Ed opening the bedroom door and leaning down to kiss me goodbye before he left for work. I only half felt Morgan jump onto the bed and curl behind my knees. I snuggled around him, careful not to move too much so he wouldn’t jump down.

      Five years before, when Mom met Morgan, she’d said, “You’d pay a hairdresser good money for those highlights,” referring to the beige and rust “angel wings” pattern on his back. Animal Control had found the one-year-old yellow Lab near a freeway interchange. His good looks, combined with kennel cough and excellent behavior, kept him out of the pound and possibly saved his life. They sent him to a veterinarian who fostered dogs. Enough time had passed since our golden retriever, Bodhi, had died that Ed and I were ready for another canine family member. Ed contacted the vet, who brought Morgan to our house for a test visit. While I feared someone was ugly-crying about losing him, after watching the handsome young dog chase a tennis ball in our fenced backyard for half an hour, Ed called the veterinarian and told her not to bother coming back. Mom believed Morgan had escaped when his owners were traveling. She might have been right. Unlike our previous dogs, Morgan whined and cried in the car. In every other respect, he was the consummate gentleman, even so young. He was housebroken, knew all his commands, only destroyed the occasional sofa pillow, and wove himself seamlessly into our lives and hearts.

      The warmth and pressure of Morgan’s body pushed away the unpleasant images that had haunted me when I’d first awakened. I peeked out from under the covers at the 1950s mirrored closet doors to see his brown eyes staring back. He stretched out to his full length and thwacked his tail against me, reminding me that some of us are still alive. I am loved and cared for by a good dog, a great man, loving family members, and friends. I rolled over and lifted the covers from my head.

      ***

      I headed to the bathroom. As I sat on the toilet, Mr. Dawg brushed his whiskers against my face. Some people insist that dogs smell your breath from times when wolf mothers returned to the den to throw up a bellyful of food for the puppies to eat. Not my Morgan. He put his snout just close enough to my mouth that I could feel his whiskers graze my lips in the softest gesture. No sloppy kisses or wet jowls from him. His touch was like being tickled for an instant. He may or may not have sniffed, but I doubt he expected me to vomit.

      With the snuffling complete, he rubbed against my knees then wiggled beneath my legs against the toilet. Once wedged there, he waited for me to scratch him. He preferred that I scratch between his shoulder blades, as if the identification microchip was working its way out. I worried about these things. My job was to scratch up and down his back with both hands, fingernails digging into his flat, stiff fur. When satisfied, he walked away and curled into a donut shape on the bathroom rug. That was my signal to get off the toilet. Since he had become my trainer and cheerleader, I needed to keep him happy, so I obeyed.

      Our “dog therapy” complete, I was ready to face week three. I dressed, picked up the timer, leashed the dog, and went outside.

      His comforting presence gave me enough courage to start on our street. I hit the timer. When it was time for double the amount of jogging (three full minutes!), I bent my knees, began slowly, and paced myself. After what I was sure was three minutes, winded, but not exhausted, I checked the timer. Two minutes and thirty seconds. I could do thirty more seconds.

      The intervals passed quickly. During the walking periods, I wished I were jogging. During the jogging, I wondered when it would be time to walk again. When we finished, I was sweatier and more tired than the week before. I needed a nap.

      We repeated this combination two more times to complete week three.

      Each day I grew stronger. I’d needed a nap after day one, but after day two, I thought about a nap, but didn’t take one. By day three, napping didn’t come to mind. The haranguing in my head continued, but I told the nasty voice, “Listen. You keep telling me I can’t, but I AM. Please shut up!” This silenced it for a while, then it returned with more lies. But now, I wasn’t believing them.

      ***

      I didn’t know running was in our genes. My father, a tall, thin, long-legged German, looked like a marathoner. As the anchor of his high school mile-relay team, he had won the state championship, and set a record that stood for many years. Eventually, my sister gave me his medals.

      My uncle on my mother’s side also ran, but he’s built with short legs and a long body. When we visit, he reminisces about his glory days as a runner. His favorite distance was the 10k (6.2 miles), which he said was, “long enough to get yourself warmed up, but not far enough to kill you.”

      I was a normal-sized child, despite feeling fat. I only gained

      considerable weight when, in my thirties, I went on antidepressants. I have my father’s long legs and arms, but a short body. If I had my uncle’s long torso as well, I would be six feet tall.

      ***

      The trail shoes I’d worn during my first three weeks of training were heavy and hot. I’d need something lighter soon.

      Two years before, in 2008, I’d tried to run in sandals. I’d just graduated from MFA school and had gained twenty pounds, eating over that stress combined with the deaths of my niece and mother. In the sandals, my ankle swelled to the size of a grapefruit. An urgent-care doctor said it was my weight. He echoed my self-deprecation. So, once again, I quit. But now, despite my previous swollen-ankle mishap and the fact that I still carried the weight, I thought I wanted “proper” running sandals.

      I drove to the same running store I’d gone to years before. My friend then had said, “You need the right equipment.” But I’d been a starving law student and had left empty-handed. Today, I entered the store determined to buy the right equipment.

      When I asked for running sandals, the young sales clerk screwed up her face. She showed me Vibram five fingers, essentially gloves for your feet. I screwed up my face. “It’s for minimalist runners,” she said.

      I didn’t know what a minimalist runner was, so I asked her to suggest something else. I mentioned my previously swollen ankle, but not my weight. I looked nothing like the thin employees or other customers.

      “Let me watch you walk without shoes,” she said. I walked and felt self-conscious as she studied my gait.

      She also measured my foot in the Brannock device they’ve been measuring feet with since the dawn of time. “Your feet will swell when you run. Go at least a half size larger,” she said. Her tone of expertise impressed me, even though she was young enough to be my dead niece.

      “Try them out in the parking lot,” she suggested. I hadn’t worn the sports bra, and, since I could barely tolerate being seen in my own neighborhood, I declined and just walked around the store.

      The large, cushioned shoes felt like walking in marshmallow clown boots. “Beginning runners need more support,” she said. I’d gone in looking for sandals. These were the opposite. Having done no research, I didn’t know the running shoe trend was toward more flexible, lower-heeled shoes as an alternative to the highly cushioned and immobilizing shoes she recommended. I said I’d take them.

      Form-fitting tops, stretch tights, and split shorts hung on racks around me. I hadn’t researched running clothes either, so I also didn’t know that “cotton kills,” and turned away from those and toward a wall of ankle socks in different fabrics, thicknesses, and colors. My tube socks had to go. I chose the same brand I’d used to try on the shoes. With pads under the toes and ball of the foot, and on the СКАЧАТЬ