Depression Hates a Moving Target. Nita Sweeney

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СКАЧАТЬ would take me seriously too, but that wasn’t as important as me remembering a competence I thought I lacked. In my slow, middle-aged way, I was good at running. Sharing my limited experience kept the dangerously dull mood at bay, at least while I was on the Penguin Forums.

      ***

      My joy was short-lived. The last week of April, as I completed week four, my ankle swelled the way it had so many years before. When it remained swollen a few days later, it scared me enough to stop.

      Over the next two weeks, the dog and I took many long walks, but it broke my heart to think I would lose the fitness and fun. My friends Kim and Fiona continued to post and email about their running. The Penguin Forums just made me sad. I talked to my psychiatrist about a med change, but we held off to see if the darkness would pass.

      ***

      My current psychiatrist and I are vigilant about not letting the darkness linger. We know how bad it can get. In 1994, after I took a disability leave of absence from work, my motivation and joy for life, including the intense running I was doing, faded. Even breathing was difficult.

      On a September day, I took the dogs for a run. Weak, worn down, and empty inside, I only managed a block. Running had become a chore, one more thing depression had stolen. I turned the dogs for home. Inside, I took off my running shoes and put them in the back of the closet.

      A few days later, stone cold sober, I lay on the family room floor, my heavy head resting on the Berber carpet while Ed was at work. Astro and Maxine, the two dogs I had before Ed and I married, curled around me. My arms, legs, and head felt like they had weights attached, and my mind was thick with sludge. The smallest tasks made me feel as if I were drowning. Outside the family room window, even the blue sky looked bleak.

      As I lay there, I imagined loading Maxine, a black Labrador, and Astro, an American Eskimo Dog, into my station wagon, turning on the engine without opening the garage door, and crawling in the back with them. Permanent “sleep” seemed the only reasonable solution. Despite Ed’s love, I believed he would be better off without us.

      Before I could carry out my fatal plan, the phone rang. I’d forgotten about my psychologist appointment. Still in my pajamas, I went, told her of my plan, and was admitted to the locked ward of a psychiatric hospital until the suicidal thoughts passed. I spent the next six months in various outpatient mental health treatment programs.

      With that nervous breakdown, I left the legal profession permanently after ten years of practice. I haven’t held a regular job since. I began to write and found homes for a few articles and essays, but low energy and perfectionism kept me from finishing anything longer. I posted occasional articles to my writing blog, Bum Glue (“Apply to seat of pants. Sit. Write.”), taught a few writing classes, and published a monthly email of Ohio writing events, the Write Now Newsletter, working those around my inability to get out of bed and the voices in my head that told me everything I wrote was horrible. I also wrote drafts of three novels, four memoirs, a book about writing, and a book of daily mindfulness meditations. But I couldn’t channel the energy to complete those. After several revisions, I decided each book was too flawed and started a new one—nine times. When people asked about work, I said I was retired.

      In much the same way that the ex-problem drinkers have kept me on the sober path and various groups of meditators supported my mindfulness practice, the writing community helped me keep pen to page despite my challenges. The Buddhists call their community the “Sangha.” Sitting in a quiet room with others provided structure as I attempted to focus on my breath. Discussing the writings of Buddhist teachers brought us together. In writing, critique groups, writing groups (both in person and online), and workshops and conferences allowed me to mingle with other “scribblers.” With the recovering people, I learned how to live without alcohol. Beyond mere camaraderie, group synergy made any journey more pleasant, and provided friendly peer pressure and support in tough times. I found these same virtues among the running “Penguins.”

      ***

      After two weeks of rest from running, my ankle returned to normal. Perhaps I was ready for week five after all. I mulled that for a few more days before pulling out the schedule. The first day simply increased the amount of jogging and decreased the walk breaks. But the second day required eight minutes of jogging, and the third day jumped to a steady twenty minutes straight with, get this, no walking! I panicked. If I couldn’t do the second or third day, why bother with the first?

      No, this thinking does not make sense, but that’s how my mind works. For fifteen minutes, I tried to convince myself to just do the first day. I tried to recall the increased energy and happy mood the workouts produced. I tried to imagine myself succeeding, but the panic would not subside. I’d expected each week to follow the same format, with an increased challenge to be repeated three times. I sulked, unable to make myself put on exercise clothes, leash up the dog, or do anything productive. Blue and mildly nauseous, I called a friend, but she didn’t answer. I called Ed, but he was busy with work. I surfed the internet and played many games of computer solitaire. The day passed, and I did not even try.

      ***

      The next day, I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed. I trust someone’s experience more than their opinion, so I logged into the Penguin Forum to ask about week five. “It’s a big shift,” one person who had also found it daunting said. She encouraged me to just try day one and see how it went.

      Two weeks had passed since I’d completed the week four workouts. My ankle had swollen. I’d concluded jogging wasn’t for me.

      Her suggestion reminded me of how much better I’d felt after the previous workouts—almost like an athlete. Maybe I should attempt it. When I remembered I was supposed to be talking myself out of it, I laughed.

      The dog found no humor in it. If I walked near the table on which sat the little timer, his ears perked up. When I didn’t touch it, his ears fell and my heart broke. Maybe, with Mr. Dawg by my side, I’d succeed.

      Down in the ravine, two run/walk intervals left me gasping for air. There would be no third. I turned the dog for home once again. At the house, I crawled into bed. The dog hopped up and curled behind my knees.

      Before I fell asleep, I remembered that a Penguin had said he’d repeated a few of the weeks. At the time when I’d read his comment, I hadn’t been able to start week five at all. The thought of repeating week five wasn’t helpful.

      But wait. I could repeat week four! This wasn’t a sprint. It was its own marathon. I didn’t want to give up, the way I had in my previous attempts to run. I wanted to be a lifetime runner. If I ever chose to race, maybe I’d win my age group when I was in my nineties by being the only one to take part. Of course, I never intended to race, but…

      The following day, I began again. Over the next three weeks, I repeated the week four intervals three times a week until the set was easy. Maybe week five would happen after all.

      ***

      Once the week four workouts felt comfortable, I turned back to the three different workouts of week five. The third workout culminated in twenty minutes of continuous jogging. TWENTY MINUTES! I’d told the Penguins I was in for the long haul, but still felt confused at how to continue.

      Morgan lay on the floor next to my desk joyfully ripping a scarlet and gray rope toy into pieces.

      Pieces! That was it.

      I’d break week five into three pieces (“week 5A,” “week 5B,” and “week 5C”), then repeat each one until it was easy. I hugged Morgan’s stiff fur, inhaling his СКАЧАТЬ