Finding myself before the finish line

Saturday I finished my first marathon.

I finished almost a full hour slower than I was anticipating, but I crossed the finish line.  The course was intensely hillier than the elevation map implied, so my legs were done before I had even reached mile 10.  It was 80 or so degrees out, which kept me from running at my best pace, which is 8:30-9:30 minute miles, and kept me feeling dehydrated the entire run.  I walked at least 5 miles of the whole 26.2, but I crossed the finish line and learned so much about myself in the process.

I lost my training buddies before mile 2.  I thought we were keeping up with the pace group, so I got carried away on a downhill to catch up with the group.  When I turned around to look for my friends, they were lost in the sea of runners.  I kept with the pace group and felt good until the 6th mile when a narrow neighborhood street bottlenecked the thousands of runners, and my momentum was broken by being forced behind walkers.  After that, I never really recovered.  Then I made the mistake of thinking I should drink some gatorade, which immediately upset my stomach.  I had to take a bathroom break before mile 10, and almost died from the stench and heat in the port-a-potty.  At the split, I was ready to quit at the half.  I plugged on towards the marathon course anyway.

The next few miles were a rotation of ups and downs, walking and running, pushing my dead legs on towards the finish line.  I hit a wall around mile 19 and let my emotions get the best of me.  I let a tiny little insecurity take a grip of my emotionally stretched brain and body, and I just started crying.  Hysterically.  I was embarrassed and discouraged.  I wanted to stop at a medical tent and pick up a DNF.  But then I decided that if I did that, I would be validating the cause of my insecurity... so I decided to walk to the finish line.  I decided that a 6 hour finish would still be better than not finishing at all.

At mile 22, I got motivated to run again, but my lungs were not ready.  I ran about 10 yards before I almost had an asthma attack.  I started crying again. Then I decided that I could continue to be upset with this issue in my life that was probably never going to go away, or I could decide how to deal with it and accomplish the greatest thing I've ever done in my life.  I decided to take deep, yogic breaths all the way to mile 23, and when I got there I would start running and encourage every runner I passed until the finish line.  I realized that I am stronger than my insecurities.  They do not define who I am.  I am an amazing, strong, and powerful woman with my heart in the right place... focused on changing the world and the next generation of women.  I am not a disappointment.  I am a marathoner.

When I got to 23, I took off running at an average 11 mile pace and embraced the empowerment of passing runners and cheering them on and renewing their spirits and belief that they too could finish this thing.  Along the out and back, I met my training partners and gave them sweaty hugs.  Knowing they were still in it gave me the courage to press on.  The next few miles were a bit of a blur, except for the moment when I noticed a sign held by a spectator that said "You are no longer a runner, you are a marathoner".  I let out a few tears and kept moving.

Mr. Crowe caught me just before mile 26 and joined me on the journey to the chute.  I remember overwhelming joy that he was there for me.  When I crossed the finish line, I pulled him over to the side and almost collapsed in tears in his arms.  It was the most relief and pride in myself that I have ever felt in my life.  The road to my recovery has been much longer and harder than the 26.2 hilly miles in Nashville, but this part of the process has been the most rewarding.

"When you cross that finish line -- no matter how slow, no matter how fast -- it will change your life forever." -Dick Beardsley

Feeling nothing

I just saw this secret on Postsecret, and it made me so sad.  It's the exact medication I am taking, and it has helped me so much!  I've heard people say that you might not get the right anti-depressant on the first try.  I think this person just needs to talk to their psychiatrist about finding something different.  Numbness can't be worse than depression and anxiety.  Depression and anxiety were causing me to be numb.  Medication has dramatically changed my life for the better.

Source:  Postsecret

18 miles

Yesterday I went for my longest run yet:  18 miles.  There were a couple of stops and walk breaks, but my feet covered 18 miles.

It was not pretty.  It was not my strongest run, but I finished.  Just over 10 miles my stomach started to destroy my spirit.  I wanted to just quit and walk home.  Instead, I decided to leave my running partners to find a bathroom.  I forgot to restart my Garmin after I paused it to discuss getting back on route with my friend.  I covered about .25 of a mile without logging it on my watch.

After the bathroom stop, I had about 4 miles left to go and decided to cover that ground without walking.  I only walked once, when I was close to the top of a very steep hill.  Shortly after that, one of my running partners turned onto the street in front of me.  I was super encouraged that I had almost caught up.  I followed her back to our starting point, and my Garmin was just showing 17.75, so I decided I had to keep going until it beeped and showed 18.  So my 18 miler was really more of an 18.25, but I'm not going to call it that because it sounds like I'm so much prouder of myself than I am.

I am proud of myself, though.  I'm very excited about this accomplishment.  My longest run before that was 16 miles, and it was a great feeling after the 16th knowing that each step I took at that moment was one more step than I had taken before.  Marathon training is grueling, but it is most certainly empowering.  I am so thankful for all of my friends that keep me rooted in running and fitness and constantly support me with positive attitudes and honest advice.

The marathon is at the end of April, and I know now that I can do it.  When I got close to finishing I felt horrible, but I knew I could keep pushing myself if I needed to.  Which I will in Nashville, because a marathon is 8.2 miles farther than what I ran yesterday. 

source: happyfitness

The follow up

Today I met with a new psychiatrist.  I guess "normal" depressed people usually see an outpatient psychiatrist, so the nice people at Behavioral Health set me up with a follow up appointment with a doctor there.  My counselor hinted that he is a little difficult to talk to, so I was nervous.

I checked in at reception and they handed me some forms to fill out, as well as treatment information that was in comic sans font.  Why do psych offices keep exposing me to things that trigger rage?  I guess comic sans is supposed to be a happy font, even though it is never appropriate for anything professional, especially a hospital!  Anyways, I waited for a few minutes then a nurse took my weight and vitals.  I have already dropped 5 pounds of my "depression weight" so I was very excited about that.  She then talked about how she loves ghost hunting shows, and I told her they made me nervous.

After that, I returned to reception to wait for the doctor.  The Rachel Ray show was on the TV, so unfortunately I was exposed to more rage triggers.  (The Rachel Ray show was later stuck on the TV at the gym, because the universe hates me today.) 

The doctor called me into his office.  I sat down and immediately noticed the half empty bottle of sriracha sauce sitting on his desk without any food next to it.  He had picture frames filled with photos of him with a woman that appeared to be white but was painted like a geisha.  To most accurately describe how he looked and acted, picture Mickey Rooney's character in "Breakfast at Tiffany's", except he was actually Asian.

He asked me a couple questions.  After every reply, he said "OOOoooohhh!  That's good" and looked up and grinned.  It was all I could do not to giggle.  The only time he didn't make that reply in response to my answers was when I mentioned I wasn't sleeping since I started taking fluoxetine.  He quickly suggested I take trazadone at night to fix that.  Then he said he wanted to see me again in 3 weeks, and that was that.

I am so glad to be able to find humor in awkward situations now instead of having anxiety attacks.  The difference this medication has made in my life is incredible.  I went to yoga three times this week.  I tried CrossFit.  I have ran 16 miles so far and plan to run an 18 miler in the morning.  I hope this sleeping med works or that's going to be a long run.

An update, with progress

I apologize that it has been almost a week since my last post.  Some explanation is needed, but I just wasn't ready until now.  Shortly after I wrote this post, I drove with my husband to a fast food restaurant to drown my feelings in food.  On the way there, I realized that this was no way to go on living.  So I started driving to the hospital.  My husband took over driving since I was crying buckets, and it was snowing quite a bit.

I didn't know what I was expecting to happen at the hospital, I just knew that I needed help.  I am the type of person that if I don't do something when I decide to do it, it won't get done.  So I went to the emergency room at the local hospital at 8PM on the Monday night before Valentine's Day.

They placed me in triage, probably expecting me to talk it out and go home.  I insisted that I needed help.  They gave me a room, took vitals, put me in a gown and towel socks (what I nicknamed the odd, fuzzy slipper socks they asked me to wear), and had me talk to a nurse then a doctor.  The doctor was not a psychiatrist, so he called a crisis worker in to talk to me.  By the time the crisis worker arrived, I had told my entire story 4 times.  I tallied another with her. 

I was in the tricky position of considering suicide just enough to need help, but not considering it enough to get much serious attention or preference.  It just seemed like the rational alternative to me, but it wasn't something I considered myself being able to do and I had never made plans to do so.  So the crisis worker and I had a nice chat, and we agreed that I would need to be admitted in behavioral health in order to get the help I was expecting.

Then a nurse transported me by wheelchair, escorted by a security guard, to a secluded part of the hospital.  I said farewell to my husband and watched the door lock between us.  They gave me a room, and a nurse brought me a peanut butter sandwich that I had to fix with a spoon (no knives allowed in behavioral health) and a diet coke.  Then she brought in a cup.  I was counting on that to happen, so I had been holding my desire to go to the bathroom the entire 3 hours I had been at the hospital.  When I came out of the bathroom, another nurse came in to draw blood.  It was all I could do not to pass out.

I probably retold my story/situation/whatever you want to call it 10 more times before I finally saw a psychiatrist.  They told me in the ER that I would see him first thing in the morning, yet I didn't see him until almost 10AM.  I had an awkward breakfast in the TV room.  It was just like something out of the movie "It's Kind of a Funny Story".

The psychiatrist's office was disturbing.  It had a hunting theme wallpaper, a faux deer mount on the wall, as well as a quilt with photographs of the psychiatrist holding a gun and dead animals.  He looked like an older Zach Galifianakis.  I still trusted him.  He told me I had Major Depressive Disorder.  He prescribed fluoxetine for me (generic prozac).  Then he recommended that I participate in the group activities, even though he knew I didn't feel like it.

I started crying.  I was not comfortable there.  I was just depressed.  I didn't need to be wearing hospital gowns to breakfast and using a plastic spoon to spread peanut butter on bread.  I missed my husband.  It was Valentine's Day.  I was tired because I couldn't sleep in a room with a night light I can't turn off and a security camera pointed at my bed.  I was afraid nurses would keep asking me to talk about my problems every five minutes.  I had gotten help, and I needed to be at home.

So he discharged me.  Mr. Crowe & I filled my prescription and attempted to have a semi-normal Valentine's Day.  The next day was rough, but I pulled through.  The day after that was amazing.  I decided that if the rest of my days felt like Thursday, getting meds was the best decision of my life.  Since then, I have had trouble sleeping but my spirit is much higher.  I have more energy, and I have resumed working out and marathon training.  I saw my counselor today.  I will blog more about her later.

So right now I am trying to take one day at a time, appreciate myself and my life, and acknowledge the areas of my life that I can control and can't control.  There are some things I can do to improve my future, and other things I just have to learn to accept.  I'm so thrilled to be able to take this blog forward with a positive note now.

Go ask Alice

source: postsecret

The alternative

I can't imagine that death would be much better than depression, but I'm incredibly troubled that my brain is making me think that it would be.