Depression Hates a Moving Target. Nita Sweeney

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СКАЧАТЬ just spent more money on running gear in one hour than I’d spent on any clothing in the last few years. When I was younger and thinner (and possibly hypomanic), I easily dropped hundreds of dollars on work clothes, but weight gain, lack of energy, and practically nonexistent self-worth had driven me out of the stores. Now, I peeked into the bag and smiled at the small bit of color on the socks. I was a serious jogger!

      ***

      A few days later, after jogging, I had coffee with my friend Krista.

      As I slid into a booth, she pointed to my workout pants and asked if I’d been exercising. While I was still depressed enough not to shower regularly, another measurement of my mental health, I hadn’t sweated enough to warrant the effort.

      Krista was a few years older than me and exercised regularly. In the past, when she suggested exercise might improve my emotional well-being, I gave her the responses I used to ward off such recommendations. “I’m tired. It’s cold. I’m fat. It will ruin my knees. I don’t like exercise. I don’t have the energy.” I didn’t think of these as excuses. I thought myself incapable. There had been a day when I exercised, and that day had passed.

      My attitude was changing.

      “I’m jealous,” she said. She had run races and now walked her Jack Russell terrier and bicycled. Running, she said, hurt her knees.

      Every story about how hard running was on the knees made me wonder if there wasn’t a better way to run. In the unlikely event that I ran longer distances, I might research it.

      “You should do Race for the Cure,” Krista suggested.

      “Um, no,” I said, nearly knocking over my coffee. “I’m not leaving the neighborhood.”

      She added, “Races are like parties for people who exercise. Plus, you raise money for charity.”

      “I’m not even sure I’ll stick with it,” I said, trying to derail her.

      “I waddle,” I said. I hadn’t yet stumbled onto John Bingham’s “waddling penguin” society, but that’s how I thought I looked.

      She did not understand how I’d struggled just to jog where the neighbors might look out their windows. I had friends who dressed in pink clothes and wigs to run or walk 3.1 miles to raise money for breast cancer research with twenty thousand others. I wasn’t one of them.

      “I’m a private runner,” I said, remembering the pleasant intervals in the neighborhood with the dog. I’d begun to think of it as therapy.

      Undeterred, Krista told me about her son’s training schedule when he’d run the Akron Marathon. He did three or four short runs during the week and a longer run on the weekend. Each week, the long run distance increased, until he was running about twenty miles. Before the race, he “tapered,” cutting back his mileage “to rest up.”

      While it sounded grueling, his marathon training intrigued me. I was following my own training plan. With a plan, I don’t have to think. I just follow the schedule. This might be why I like meditation and writing practice so much. You set the timer and sit or write. No second-guessing. Hearing about her son’s training plan made my schedule more legitimate.

      When I explained that I didn’t know how far I was walking and jogging, Krista also told me about a tracking website. Years ago, I used my car’s odometer to calculate how far I ran. Now, using Google Maps, the site tells how far you ran. You enter how long it took, and it calculates the pace. This seemed like more information than I needed, but I couldn’t wait to go home and try.

Chapter 3

Fellowship

      My 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. СКАЧАТЬ