Homeless goodbyes

I’mma bout to have a panic ‘tack 

My members have gone gangsta on me. 

I’m feeling irritable tonight.  I can’t say for sure why.  I feel like I need to type the energy out through my nails.  I completed a major project for school that is worth 25% of my grade and decided to take the rest of the night off.  But nothing satisfies.  Not football.  Not music.  Not my dogs.  Not the letters from my students.  I think having nothing absolutely pressing to work on gives me a chance to be idle and to sit with myself.  And that just doesn’t do.  I can’t be alone with my head at all. 

My members have been out quite frequently.  Even at times when I didn’t think I was feeling stressed they were swirling in my head, staked out behind my eyes, watching and observing, sucking the energy from my body.  I went into my job today full of energy and hyper and high as a cat’s back, and soon I crashed.  I could feel them taking over me.  I started to get nervous.  I could feel them inside me.  I wasn’t feeling stressed.  I don’t know why they were out.

  Tonight I can’t settle down.  I’m watching the clock till I can take my sleep meds.  I really want to come off all my meds.  I’ve been down this road before where I wanted to take myself off my meds, but I was met with disastrous outcomes.  I know better, but I still play with the idea.

In ten minutes I can take my sleep meds.

This last month has been tumultuous, grand, exhilarating, and demoralizing.  I was interning as a student teacher and it was a very difficult placement in the public schools.  Every corner of my support failed me, except one of my favorite professors who thinks she understands me.    She does understand me, she just doesn’t know “what” she understands.  She doesn’t know I lose time, hear voices, see people, and feel people peering out behind my eyes.   But she does know how to alter my assignments in a way that I can understand and be successful, which goes a long, long way.

The placement in the public school was difficult.  And it brought out members that had been lying dormant for a while.  I think the last time (oh, hell) the last time I remember noticing them out was when I broke up with a guy about 15 years ago.  This man was abusive towards me.  These members had been feminists then, and as they have returned recently, they continue to hate men.  I’m noticing old fears creeping back up, old memories returning, old feelings of anger and hurt resurfacing.  We are much more reactive to movement and cognizant of escape routes.  We had a meeting with two of our professors, one whom I intensely dislike, and I had to sit in a pathway close to the door in case anything threatening happened. 

Part of what I am wondering, more especially as I type this out, is whether the return to middle school had anything to do with activating those members.   At first I thought my returning fears, time loss, and the general running around of the members had to do with my other professor for whom I have a strong dislike.  This bad seed professor has been unprofessionally abusive, harsh, and overly critical of me, which has set up a difficult teacher/student relationship.  So at first I thought he might have “tripped the wire” that brought out these other members.

Now I’m wondering if it was because I was interning in a middle school.  Middle school has extremely unpleasant memories for me; more specifically, I was bullied, endured parental turmoil, raised the birth mother, and was abused my by neighbor at the same time.  I hate middle school, so it is not a far stretch that some unpleasant memories and associations have been brought up for me. 

Memories of the old bedroom and certain landmarks of the neighbor’s house have been brought back to life for me.  I have felt myself shrinking back into a child that can’t handle things.  Back to “that” child.

I’ve come to know that those memories and feelings will NEVER go away.  There is always one waiting around the corner as soon as the current memory and association starts to fade.  There is always another memory waiting for me, waiting to hurt me and remind me I will always be a damaged child stuck in the body of a damaged adult.  I’ve come to learn there is no such thing as goodbye, because an old “hello” of a memory is always waiting for me.

Heroes needed. Apply here.

I’m decompensating.  I am fulfilling everything ever said about me.  

In my internship as a 6^th grade Language Arts teacher, my parts have been out and I’ve lost time.  My university supervisor has given me feedback regarding a comment he said I made to the students.  It was a very demeaning, destructive comment. I have no recollection of saying anything so hurtful to my students.

He said, along with my cooperating teacher, that I can not handle stress, and I break down emotionally.

I could have saved them the paperwork.  I already knew that.

It’s a hopeless situation.  I don’t know how to handle stress.  My reactions are reflexive.  Always has been.  Always will be..

And now, I’m facing my last semester of school.  I don’t want to fall short of graduation by just one semester, but I honestly think I don’t have the ability to be a teacher.   I don’t think there is any amount of cooperation I can establish among my parts to make teaching safe.  

What devastates us so much is that we try twice as hard as other people but are only half as successful.  We will never measure up.  We will always be deficient.  

I’m no longer a hero.  How pathetic.

There I am

There I am, found again.
Crouched in the corner letting no one in.

On my guard, keeping watch
against those memories that keep me caught

One final breath, and I will let go
No more hurts, you said I deserve so.

I just want to let go
please let me let go

I have a voice

 

Yesterday was my long run.  I ran 22 miles, and it was much better than last week when I hit the wall and became dizzy.  Still, I don’t think I’m training smart.  I did 11 miles on Saturday when I should have been resting; I could feel the fatigue in my legs yesterday.  They were tired, and I had to push through the run.  When I was finished the run my body was so sore and achy I was walking funny back to the car.  I immediately came home to stretch, but Sam, my dog, was feeling left out.  He decided to do some yoga, too.  How could I say no to him?

(Sorry for the blur.  My iPhone is broken.)

So what was I thinking on this long run?  More recovery analogies?  Actually, yes, but I will save those for another time.  I was reflecting on how I have several postings I’ve completed but haven’t published.  My reluctance in publishing them is that I feel no one would want to read them.  I feel the writing isn’t good, the content is crap, and readers would be disappointed.

I play the comparison game a lot with my blog.  I read a myriad of other blogs and see how large their readership is and how popular they are.  They’re funny, they’re interesting, they’re engaging.  I’m left feeling that nobody will care what I have to say, that my voice is unimportant, and my blog is boring. 

I realize that the other blogs I read appeal to a broader community than my blog on dissociation and an eating disorder.  The blogs I read, other than a handful of mental health blogs, are blogs on running and food.  That type of blog just attracts a wider audience.  In addition, they are professional bloggers.  But still, I feel what I have to say is lifeless, bland, and unworthy of reading.

I know this is my blog and I can say what I want and how I want.  But I feel it is your blog, too.  If I wanted to write just to express my feelings, I would do that in my private journal.  I write on this blog to share my life, my hopes, my successes/failures, and my story.  It is my hope that the reader will be able to take something away from reading my words and that they can relate to me and realize they are not alone.   

In writing this just now, I realized I am deciding for you, by  not publishing my posts, what you find useful and interesting, and that is unfair to you.  I do  have a voice, and I shouldn’t shut it off because I predict you won’t want to hear it.

So I may not have the blogging success of others I read, but that doesn’t mean the blog I do have is a failure, I hope. This blog may not be perfect.  It may lack style and a certain je ne sais quoi.  And  my thoughts definitely tumble over themselves, competing for attention, causing my writing to be frustrating and effortful.   But I have a voice and it should be heard.  And it is my wish that from my blog you will take what you need, find a little hope, and know you  have a friend,  crappy writing and all. 

Long Run Ramblings

This post is a couple of days late, but it’s still time for some long run ramblings on recovery.

To see other ways recovery is like running a marathon, look at 1/2 Marathon Musings and The Marathon of Recovery.

This past long run on Sunday, I was reflecting on how hitting a stride or pace in running is similar to hitting a stride in recovery.  When I go out for a long run, it takes me 3-5 miles before I actually hit my stride, get into a comfortable pace, and “sit” back and enjoy the run.  When I first start out running, it usually feels miserable.  My legs rebel, my lungs don’t want to cooperate, and everything inside of me is telling me to turn around and go to Dunkin Donuts go home. 

But I don’t give in or take the easy way out.   I push through.   I know that after my warm up and get into my run a few miles I will feel better and even enjoy the run.

I’ve found recovery to be similar. Sometimes you have to push through the uncomfortableness of the beginning of recovery to hit your stride. 

 I’ve been in varying stages and degrees of recovery before, and there’s one thing I’ve always noticed: taking that first step, getting help, and starting out is the hardest move. But once you’ve made step after step, mile after mile in recovery, it tends to get easier.  Once you start opening yourself up to the process of following a meal plan, restoring yourself to a healthy weight, and working on the issues that brought you to your eating disorder, recovery starts to get better.  After you’ve done your warm up and found your stride in recovery, the steps it takes to get healthy become second nature and less antagonistic.

Along the same lines, it’s true that in the marathon of recovery, we might tire out along the way, “hit the wall”, and stop, also known as relapse.  This “stop” in recovery reminds me of a real stop I make during my long runs.  There happens to be a McDonalds off the trail somewhere around the half way mark, and I stop in there to fill up my hydration belt and sneak a little free Coke Zero.  The stop feels great!  I’m out of the heat, I’m not pushing myself, I’m refreshing myself with ice water, and I have a brief rest period.  But when I start the second half of my running, my body again doesn’t want to listen to me and demands that I stop. Still, I push through, though it takes some time again before I find my groove in running. 

A relapse in recovery is no different. If we stop taking the steps and the miles we took in the beginning of recovery to start getting healthy, we are not going to want to start again.  It is going to be that much harder to take the first step and find our running legs again.  Our body, our ED, will rebel , making a run for recovery difficult.

 So give yourself a chance to hit your stride in recovery, to get better.  And once you do, don’t slow down, don’t stop.  Continue in your groove.  Keep going.  If you take it step by step, mile by mile, your marathon of recovery will be successful.  

Life in the stress lane

First things first, I didn’t post yesterday, but got in a tough 8.5 mile run, with a 1 mile warm-up.  When I finished my run, I decided to walk up the trail to the shopping center at the top of the hill where an Atlanta Bread Company lays waiting for me with an iced coffee.  It is a 2 mile walk round trip. 

The iced coffee wasn’t as good as Dunkin Donuts (sorry I cheated on you, DD), but I did find where they are putting in a new fro-yo store.  Score, big time!

Today before my run, Husband met me at the trail and we had a 30 minute walk.  I’m trying to get him more active and he agreed to do a run/walk 5k with me in October.  I’m hoping a little exercise will improve the deep depression that has kidnapped him right now.  Towards the beginning of the trail, we noticed a man flat on the ground with a pack of EMTs around him.  We heard the sirens of the ambulance on the way.  As everyone was giving the firefighters space to work on the downed man, we were all talking about how important hydrating ourselves is.  This occurrence happened at 8:30 in the morning when it was only 73 degrees out, but high humidity. 

So, my PSA today is to keep yourselves hydrated before, during, and after your run. 

After our walk, I had a 4 mile recovery run.  I wanted to get some mileage in today, but didn’t want to push it too much because my long run is tomorrow.  I’m really looking forward to it.

I haven’t written in a few days because things in my life are a little . . . um . . . anxiety filled.  I’ve not a shred of creativity and my brain feels depleted.  I have things to write about, but when I sit down to type it out, the words escape me.

One of the biggest struggles I perceive in my life right now is Husband.  He just finished his 12 rounds of ECT (Electro Convulsive Therapy).  While, for a time I noticed a slight improvement in his mood, the last couple of days he has been extremely depressed and anxious and fearful.  The effects of the ECT treatments have stressed not only him, but me as well, because I feel like I’m living with a child.  His short term memory is fried, and he can’t remember answers to questions he asked me just five minutes prior. I am taking care of affairs that normally would fall to him and that he previously coped with better. He says he doesn’t feel like himself.  He worries he will never be the same.  I feel helpless.

I don’t know how to help him.  We considered him returning to the hospital this weekend for inpatient treatment, but decided against it, since he sees his psychiatrist on Monday who can make a recommendation as to where to go from here with his treatment.  They’ve restarted him on his anti-depressant, but that takes weeks to kick in.  So it’s really hard to be positive right now.  I can’t handle my own anxiety, much less help him with his. 

On a better note, last night as I was running early to my appointment with Dietician (major epic fail session.), I noticed a sign for a bookstore in a shopping center.  I <3 books, so I HAD to stop!   When I walked in the bookstore, I saw that it was a new and USED bookstore, so my inner Book Snob immediately was judgmental at the thought of used books.    But we looked around anyway and found our way to the Young Adult section.  Surprisingly, most of the used books were in amazingly good condition and were 50% off the book price!  Major score!  Being tight on money, even in a used book store, we could only buy one book, so we found a book by Laurie Halse Anderson titled Prom.  Though it’s not War and Peace or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, it’s a really good, easy read and one I know my female students will like.  My collection of loaner books for my students is growing larger, and I’m really stoked about having so many choices to offer them. 

Lastly, as I was leaving the store, I noticed some chairs and tables lining the walkway outside the strip mall. They belonged to a store called Menchie’s, another fro-yo store!  I went inside and they had all the amazing flavors and toppings that will do my fro-yo addiction proud.  Score, again!

So, even though I’m living life in the stress lane, I’ve had some good runs, took Husband on a walk, found two new fro-yo stores, and an up-scale used bookstore. 

Not bad for someone hanging on by a thread.    

Thankful Thursday

I’ve had a rough couple of days, filled with missing the Peachtree Road Race, crying, burning the easiest banana bread recipe, and feeling dissociative.  So I’m proud to present for what I'm thankful:

• I’m thankful my 3 day crying binge regarding the Peachtree Road Race is over.
• I’m thankful my husband’s 12 ECT treatments were completed yesterday.
• I’m thankful for my amazing treatment team, sans a psychiatrist.
• I’m thankful for my dogs, who lick my proverbial wounds by curling up with me on the couch and making me feel safe and secure. 
• I’m thankful I’m going to visit my in-laws next week who will spoil me rotten.
• I’m thankful I have a body that will let me run, and run, and run.  “I just felt like running!” 
• I’m thankful that I just bought a book that I’m excited to read.  This is a BRAND NEW book, and I’m thankful I could honor my inner Book Snob.
• I’m thankful for you for reading my ramblings. 

Tie Game

It’s a tie game between me and the beast called the Peachtree Road Race.  I didn’t win, but I didn’t lose. 

It started this morning when I woke up at 5:00 to get myself ready for the Peachtree Road Race.  I was tired, but otherwise feeling fine.  I staggered got out of bed and stammered to the kitchen to make my pre-race breakfast.  As soon as I popped my bagel in the toaster oven I began to feel a little nauseous.  I figured it was pre-race jitters and would get better once I got down to the race; I wasn’t too concerned.  As I sat down in the living room to call my cheering posse to make sure they were awake and were running on time, my nausea increased to the point where I asked Husband to get me a carbonated beverage.  When he brought it to me, I was too ill to even drink it.  I got off the phone and went into the bathroom, where I was not only nauseous but also having GI issues.  As the next few minutes progressed, I grew worse.  I was dizzy and shaking uncontrollably.  I started feeling a tingling at the base of my scalp and my vision went black.  The next thing I know Husband is sitting beside me on the floor calling my name.  I had passed out.  He carried me to the bed since I was still shaking and couldn’t walk straight so I could lie down. 

As I lie in the bed, I wondered what could be wrong with me but came up with nothing.  I had hydrated and fueled myself properly the two days prior to the race.  I had received a good night’s sleep.  I didn’t take any medication that was out of the norm.  I had no idea what was wrong, but my symptoms weren’t getting any better.  I feared I would never make it to the race in the shape I was.  Normally I can run through anything, but when Husband asked me if would be able to go, I whimpered and tearfully told him no.  I couldn’t even dress myself, much less make the effort to get to the race and run.

As I heard Husband on the phone with my cheer team alerting them we were going nowhere, I started feeling better.  My nausea subsided and the room stopped spinning.  I started to wonder if my symptoms were due to anxiety since they were receding at the knowledge of not racing.  The visceral reaction I had experienced was retreating. 

I was able to fall back asleep, albeit fitful rest.  When I woke up around 7:00, I was a little wobbly, but otherwise okay.  No nausea.  No shaking.  No dizziness.  No tunnel vision.  I made myself my pre-run breakfast again and contemplated what had happened to me.  I had invested so much emotionally (not to mention financially) in running the PRR, that I was stunned and shocked not to be at the race.  I couldn’t believe I was missing the world’s largest 10k, the race that was going to define me, the race that was going to prove that I was getting better, the race that would prove that I could handle life on life’s terms.

I alternated between berating myself for not pushing through the symptoms (how do you push through fainting?) and trying to find the silver lining of one of the darkest clouds I’d experienced in a while.    Since insulting myself for symptoms beyond my control would only make me feel worse, I decided to do something positive.  I thought if I couldn’t run the Peachtree, I would go run my own 10k.  So I put on my Peachtree Road Race outfit, replete with my new socks and headband, and hit the trail running.  I ran 8 glorious, exhilarating miles.  No problems. 

Given my symptoms this morning and the fact that I was able to still run 8 miles without incident, I’ve concluded that my symptoms were psychosomatic.  Even though I was intellectually ready and prepped for the Peachtree, psychologically and subconsciously I perceived it to be too stressful and traumatic and so my fears manifested themselves somatically. 

So, sadly, I wasn’t part of the racing community today, and I’m left feeling defeated, broken, and damaged.  But I’m trying to look at the positives of the WHOLE Peachtree Road Race experience.    

• I took risks.  Just signing up for the race was allowing myself the possibility to dream that I could run a large race like a “normal” person.
• I went out of my element and drove myself to downtown Atlanta to join a group of runners to do a practice run of the course.
• I took MARTA down to the Peachtree Road Race Expo, where I was packed in, elbow to elbow, with thousands of other runners picking up their race number and playing with new products and treats.
• I am able to submit my race number to the Atlanta Track Club for a guaranteed spot in next year’s race.

I wrote in “More than just another race” that this race would prove that I can tolerate new, unfamiliar situations.  I wrote that the race would be either the beast that I tame or that would eat me alive.  Well, this year, I didn’t tame the beast, but it didn’t eat me alive either.    In my list of positives, I did prove I could handle new, unfamiliar situations.  Even though I didn’t have the success I wanted, there were moments of triumph along the way.  Now, my hopes are set on next year, when I’ll have the opportunity to toe the start line with the beast again.  Until then, I think the beast and I will just call it a tie for now.

More than just another race

Tomorrow I run the Peachtree Road Race, the world’s largest 10k, and, frankly, I am terrified. 

Wouldn’t you be?  Look at all those people!

I’m not scared of the 6.2 miles; I’m scared of the unknown.  Even though I’ve read all the Atlanta Track Club e-mails, studied the start and finish maps, examined photos of previous races, rode the MARTA system, and did a practice run on the course, I still have no idea what I’m doing or what to expect.   

Six months ago, my fear of the unknown would have precluded me from signing up for the race.  I never would have had the audacity to dream of running the Peachtree Road Race.  Me?  Driving the highways of Atlanta to a public rail station?  Navigating the underbelly of Atlanta’s rail system?  Fighting my way through a crowd of 60,000 runners, plus 150,000 family, friends, and onlookers?  Not me.  I run shy away from the unfamiliar.

So if I’m such a scaredy cat, why run this race?  What makes this race so special? 

• Is it because of the 42,500 ripe, refreshing, sweet Georgia peaches asking for me at the finish line? 

• Is it because of the highly coveted Peachtree Road Race t-shirt that runners would sell their children for?

Tempting, but no.

• ·       Or maybe it’s because I get to wait in line with tens of thousands of people who have to pee and take care of the common runner’s GI issues? 

• Maybe it's because of the unconscionable hot, humid, muggy, intense Georgia weather for which I want to risk heatstroke?

No. Not that either.  Although it certainly adds to the appeal.  But this race means more than that.

This race is a defining moment for me.

This race is either the beast that I will tame, or that will eat me alive. 

This race means more than my Reeboks plowing across the finish line. 

• It means breaking out of my comfort zone and putting me in an uncomfortable situation. 
• It means the unknown.
• It means surrounding me with a crowd I can’t control.
• It means “running” toward the healthy, fulfilling life I want to live; free of an eating disorder and dissociative symptoms.
• It means taking a risk, taking a chance, and not hiding from life anymore. 
• It means ripping me out of my comfort zone.
• It means all that and more.  

Mostly it means progress, and, even though I’m afraid of that too, these are risks I have to take to get better.

I’m ready for it.  So I’m putting it all on the start line tomorrow.  At 7:45, in Corral D, when the gun goes off, I’m proving to myself I can tolerate new, unfamiliar situations.  I’m proving I can succeed in places that normally I would run from.  I’m proving that my fears don’t have to dictate my life.  I’m proving I can do what “normal” people do. 

I saw a t-shirt at the Peachtree Expo from www.onemoremile.net that said (I paraphrase), It’s not that I finished the race, it’s that I started. 

Bring it on, beastie!

V.I.B.

V.I.B. = Very Important Blogger

So I came home recently and found a package in the mail for me.  Now anytime it’s not a bill, junk mail, or a letter from my parole officer (jk) I am all too excited.  And my cause of excitement this day was due to this package from Clif Bar, my favorite, mostly organic, pre and post-workout fuel.

Now I would like to snow myself into thinking that I am a V.I.B. and that Clif Bar has read my blog and heard of my running endeavors. Thus being so, naturally they would want to send me their products to rate and review so I could let my massive readership know how great they are, too.  Yeah, right.  I know better.  I’m sure that one of the races or running groups to which I belong sold my information to Clif Bar, and I am one of many consumers that was mass marketed to promote their product and up their sales.  But if Clif Bar only knew how I subsist on their products, they wouldn’t have wasted their product or postage to preach to the choir about how great their products are. 

(Just a small sampling of my Clif products.)

But many of you are V.I.B’s to me, such as Ivory, Castorgirl, and Lisa.  You read my rampant ramblings, send virtual hugs when I need them, send words of encouragement for my recovery, and in general offer your support.  And for that, you make me a V.I.B. (very indebted blogger).  Many thanks to all those who read this insanity.

 

You're worth the effort. You're worth the battle.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” ~ Oscar Wilde

“You’re worth the effort. You’re worth the battle.” Keep reading to find out who said that and why.

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Needing some inspiration today after having such a bad day yesterday, I looked up the definition of hope and this is what I found:

• To wish for something with expectation of its fulfillment. (http://www.thefreedictionary.com/Hope)
• To cherish a desire with anticipation; trust (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/hope)
• The feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best. (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/hope)

Lately, even when I've been at my darkest and most desperate, I know that it doesn't have to last forever. I know that, as Julia Roberts says in Steel Magnolias, “There are still good times to be had.” And I always remind myself of what Colleen Dewhurst says in Anne of Green Gables, “Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it.” Each tomorrow can be a do over of today. And that is what I HOPED for yesterday: that today had the potential to be better.

And I can say as of this moment I haven’t struggled as much as I did yesterday. And that is for what I had hoped.

I’m still under the weather with the flu. No more fever, but my glands and throat still hurt, and whatever has invaded my body has decided to journey to my chest, causing me to wake the dead with my hacking. I’m still taking the Emergen-C and Benadryl and am impatiently waiting for the bug to run its course.

To add to the fun, I had an epidural this morning for my reoccurring back pain that I briefly mention here and here. It took the doctor several tries to get the needle in my back because I couldn’t stop coughing and sneezing. Good times.

Because of the epidural, I can’t run or work out today, not that I feel like it anyway. But being this inactive makes me feel so icky and gross. I feel very unhealthy right now, and I’m not used to that feeling. Without exercise and running, I feel psychologically dirty and unclean. In addition, I feel I’ve gained five pounds from lounging on the couch all day. Some would argue these are just mental distortions, and maybe they are, but they seem so real to me it’s extremely painful.

But I’ve had time to finish Catcher in the Rye (hope I never have to teach that to my students. The book has excellent literary devices, but I hate Holden Caufield) and started Water for Elephants.

Of special note, No More Bacon posted a blog today that really filled me with hope and positivity again. His words augmented me with motivation to know that I will get over the flu, I will run again, I will run a marathon, I will conquer my demons, I will . . . etc. He relates one of his personal struggles and how he overcame it. I suggest everyone run and read it. It made me cry, and I really wasn’t expecting that from a blog.

And with that I know I may be in the gutter right now, but his post made me want to look at the stars. . . again.