I'm human. We are all. But I'm the kind of human that is known for "getting crap done". The kind that never quits. The kind that does what she says she's going to do. The kind everyone else looks to when the going gets rough, because I'm a survivor. The kind that has it together most days, at least to the outside world. The kind that hides emotions and know matter the circumstances finds a way to "make it work."
At least until I can't anymore, and then I wander, lost, and those around me are shocked: "How can something be wrong, you're always so strong?" "Just keep moving forward and it will all be okay." "Don't let the little things get you down." "I look to you when I'm having a hard time, you can't be having a hard time too."
Us strong ones, we struggle too. We just hide it better than the rest. We have better coping mechanisms, be it routines, stress relievers, crutches or just the ability to hide it better. But we feel things just as much as the next guy (or gal). We aren't always strong, and we often doubt ourselves. We just don't let it show.
My coping mechanism, my crutch is movement. Running, whenever and as much as I can, for starters. If that is temporarily taken away, then biking, swimming, hiking, walking, and whatever else I can do to keep my body moving. When that all is taken away, I spiral quickly.
I suffered a bout of depression many years ago and took the prescribed medication to get myself on track. My doctor told me that the key to getting off and staying off those drugs would be to stay active; and she was right. I've managed to avoid depression and anxiety for close to 20 years now and have adequately managed my stress levels, primarily by running. It's been 12 days since I was last able to run, and 5 since I found out I'm not even allowed to swim or bike, and the insomnia has already set in. My temper is bubbling near the surface. The tears flow freely and often, even in public. The negative thoughts swirl in my head non-stop. I don't want to go back to medications, the side effects are horrendous for me. But the stress and anxiety have escalated quickly and it's becoming more and more difficult to maintain even the appearance of being "okay".
This too shall pass, I know this in my head and in my heart. But in the meantime I am struggling, drowning, and there is no help in sight. Everyone just assumes I'll be okay, because I always am. I'm strong, I can deal with anything. I've already dealt with so much, and really this is just a small speed bump. And really it is, deep in my heart I know this. But I am not in a good place and this speed bump feels like a mountain. Being weak would suck, but right now being strong doesn't feel any easier.
Thursday, August 16, 2018
Friday, August 10, 2018
Low-lows, part 2
It is looking more and more like my goal race is going to be out of reach this year. I'm 8 days away, still limping, not really improving much and frankly I am to the point where I'd just be happy if I could walk without pain, regardless of whether I could run in a week or not. I'm trying not to lose hope, as a lot can happen in a week. But I also know not to expect miracles in that time frame either.
I started on this journey with the goal of enjoying every step of the training, of having fun with something I knew would be really hard. Since I currently have so much time to reflect on goal, I can honestly say that with the exception of two injuries (both being sudden, random and very, very painful), I have made the most of my 8 months of training. I have run many miles with my kids--in the Dome, on trails, on paved paths and road. I have run many miles with our one-year old lab--both on and off leash (often on trails and/or in the dark). I've enjoyed so many early mornings, and some evenings, with my dear friend Mandy--exploring new trails (often in the dark, see a theme here?) and enjoying old favorites, rising early (oh so very early some days to accommodate my schedule--even when she had the day off), in below zero temps, in heat and humidity and even in thunder and lightening. We've stopped to take pictures of incredible ice formations, rivers, waterfalls, wildlife, the moon, sunrises, Lake Superior, my kids, my dog, her dog, our shoes and any other random thing you might find interesting when running hundreds of miles together. I made a point to go back and look at the photos I've taken on my phone since the beginning of this year and I wasn't surprised to see that I've taken a lot of photos while running. I've experienced the seasons, first-hand, and the delight in the changing of the seasons as I gradually transitioned from needing two pairs of mittens and all the clothes, to no more than shorts and a tank top. I've enjoyed watching my puppy run free while we have the trails to ourselves as the sun rises through the trees. I spent 7 hours exploring new trails, including the summit of 5 peaks over 23 miles, and enjoyed being in awe of all the north woods have to offer. I ran my first trail half marathon and had more fun than I've had racing in a long time (despite coming in pretty close to last).
Even if I am able to run my race in 8 days, there's a part of me that wants to do this again next year. The training has been a ton of work, and very time consuming (I'm so much slower on trails than the road), but it has been a lot of fun. However, it feels very selfish to take so much time to myself. To take time away from Chad & the kids. Chad already knows I'll have to try again if I can't complete the race next week, and he's accepted that. He understand me, understands that I'm not a quitter and that this is something I have my heart set on finishing. He also understands disappointment in training and not being able to finish what you start as he has gotten injured leading up to races and not been able to toe the starting line. But I understand that while I have been out seeing the beauty of the north woods, running and training day after day after day, I have been giving up time with my kids, time with Chad, time to sleep, time to get chores done around the house that either get pushed off another week, not done at all or that Chad takes care of for me. I understand the selfishness of this, and the amount of love Chad has for me by allowing me this time and luxury of training for such a big goal.
And while I am really struggling with where I am right now, I also recognize how lucky I am. I have a husband and kids who love me and support me in these crazy goals. I have kids to run with at the end of long runs when I'm tired and want to quit. I have a crazy lab that is ready to go whenever I might hint that he can. I have an incredible friend and training partner, who is willing to get up at crazy hours on her days off and who is willing to run whatever pace I am able to run, even though it is much, much slower than her real training pace. I have the means to buy the clothes and gear I need to be able to train, and a job that offers flexibility to fit runs in when Chad is out of town. I live in a community that gives me safe running options, even at 5am in the dead of winter. I have a body that is generally strong enough to support my crazy dreams. I am damn lucky, despite how badly this setback hurts right now.
I may not be able to complete this goal this time around, but the journey has been incredible. I can only imagine what the journey to try again in a year might look like, but I suspect it will look a lot like my camera roll (both the one on my phone and in my mind) over the last 8 months. And despite my current misery, that actually makes me smile.
I started on this journey with the goal of enjoying every step of the training, of having fun with something I knew would be really hard. Since I currently have so much time to reflect on goal, I can honestly say that with the exception of two injuries (both being sudden, random and very, very painful), I have made the most of my 8 months of training. I have run many miles with my kids--in the Dome, on trails, on paved paths and road. I have run many miles with our one-year old lab--both on and off leash (often on trails and/or in the dark). I've enjoyed so many early mornings, and some evenings, with my dear friend Mandy--exploring new trails (often in the dark, see a theme here?) and enjoying old favorites, rising early (oh so very early some days to accommodate my schedule--even when she had the day off), in below zero temps, in heat and humidity and even in thunder and lightening. We've stopped to take pictures of incredible ice formations, rivers, waterfalls, wildlife, the moon, sunrises, Lake Superior, my kids, my dog, her dog, our shoes and any other random thing you might find interesting when running hundreds of miles together. I made a point to go back and look at the photos I've taken on my phone since the beginning of this year and I wasn't surprised to see that I've taken a lot of photos while running. I've experienced the seasons, first-hand, and the delight in the changing of the seasons as I gradually transitioned from needing two pairs of mittens and all the clothes, to no more than shorts and a tank top. I've enjoyed watching my puppy run free while we have the trails to ourselves as the sun rises through the trees. I spent 7 hours exploring new trails, including the summit of 5 peaks over 23 miles, and enjoyed being in awe of all the north woods have to offer. I ran my first trail half marathon and had more fun than I've had racing in a long time (despite coming in pretty close to last).
Even if I am able to run my race in 8 days, there's a part of me that wants to do this again next year. The training has been a ton of work, and very time consuming (I'm so much slower on trails than the road), but it has been a lot of fun. However, it feels very selfish to take so much time to myself. To take time away from Chad & the kids. Chad already knows I'll have to try again if I can't complete the race next week, and he's accepted that. He understand me, understands that I'm not a quitter and that this is something I have my heart set on finishing. He also understands disappointment in training and not being able to finish what you start as he has gotten injured leading up to races and not been able to toe the starting line. But I understand that while I have been out seeing the beauty of the north woods, running and training day after day after day, I have been giving up time with my kids, time with Chad, time to sleep, time to get chores done around the house that either get pushed off another week, not done at all or that Chad takes care of for me. I understand the selfishness of this, and the amount of love Chad has for me by allowing me this time and luxury of training for such a big goal.
And while I am really struggling with where I am right now, I also recognize how lucky I am. I have a husband and kids who love me and support me in these crazy goals. I have kids to run with at the end of long runs when I'm tired and want to quit. I have a crazy lab that is ready to go whenever I might hint that he can. I have an incredible friend and training partner, who is willing to get up at crazy hours on her days off and who is willing to run whatever pace I am able to run, even though it is much, much slower than her real training pace. I have the means to buy the clothes and gear I need to be able to train, and a job that offers flexibility to fit runs in when Chad is out of town. I live in a community that gives me safe running options, even at 5am in the dead of winter. I have a body that is generally strong enough to support my crazy dreams. I am damn lucky, despite how badly this setback hurts right now.
I may not be able to complete this goal this time around, but the journey has been incredible. I can only imagine what the journey to try again in a year might look like, but I suspect it will look a lot like my camera roll (both the one on my phone and in my mind) over the last 8 months. And despite my current misery, that actually makes me smile.
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
High-highs and low-lows
It's funny (not haha funny) how life works sometimes. I am a preparer. I am not a spontaneous, fly by the seat of my pants kind of gal. I like to know what I'm getting into, and then plan and prepare for it properly. I rarely decide last minute to race, making rare exceptions for 5ks and 10ks (usually because my kids are racing). I follow training plans to a "t". I don't skip workouts, unless I'm injured or really sick (and I mean really sick). I might move scheduled workouts around a bit, but at the end of each week I am typically less than a mile short of my training plan for the week. I practice race nutrition, I do long runs, I do back to back long runs when my coach tells me to. When I decided to run a difficult 50k, I trained on the gnarliest, rootiest, rockiest, hilliest, most nasty trail I could find, day after day after day. I trained with my headlamp in the dark, on those nasty trails, so that I'd be ready for the first hour of the race in the dark. I spent almost 7 hours navigating the 20 mile loop of the race course (with several wrong turns and a few extra miles thrown in), the day after running 13 miles on hilly trails, so that I would know what it felt like to summit the peaks on tired legs. I did everything I could to be successful at what I knew would be the hardest race of my life.
Three weeks from race day I had a big weekend, 39 miles in about 43 hours. All of them on trail, almost all of them with my always-willing adventure buddy, and some of them in the dark. I had the biggest week of elevation gain, and mileage of my life. I was riding high, feeling good about my months of hard work, feeling ready to go nail the race in 3 weeks and knowing I was officially tapering now. I couldn't stop thinking about how hard, but satisfying, it was going to be to finish the race after preparing, practicing and working consistently for 8 months toward this goal. I finally had the confidence of knowing "I can do this!"
And then, a mere 3 days later I stepped down wrong while running the same trail I've spent hundreds of miles on over the years. I rolled my ankle and it hurt. I was able to run home, and it was sore but didn't seem too bad. Then the swelling started, the bruise along the side of my foot appeared and the pain in the top of my foot gradually increased. And suddenly I could see all my hard work, and all my preparations going down the drain.
To say that I experienced despair would be an understatement. It's ridiculous, and the rational part of my brain knows this. I might be healed in time to run (after all, I've confirmed with x-rays that there are no broken bones, no stress fractures, and no or dislocated bones or joints). And if I'm not, there's always next year. And really, isn't this all a first world problem anyways? But still, the downward spiral of my emotions is real, and uncontrollable, and has left me feeling like I don't even want to get out of bed. It's ridiculous, I know, but the feelings are what they are.
And yet part of me wants to feel this pain, this despair, this overwhelming sadness for what I fear is now outside of my reach. Because isn't the pain and sadness of disappointment and sorrow what makes the good in life actually feel good? If we don't feel the pain and learn to deal with it, regardless of its source, don't we just take the successes and joys in life for granted?
I am reminded of Henrik, who worked very hard for months to take down a team swim record this past spring. He got to his last swim in his age group for that event at the state championships and was determined that he was going to beat it (he was very close, so it was reasonable to think he could). He finished the race, and did not break the record. He was devastated and found his way to my lap in the very crowded stands, soaking wet from the pool, sobbing about how it's not fair that he failed when he worked so hard and tried so hard to do his best. My heart broke for him, as I wanted to see him break the record and because I knew how heartbroken he was for having fallen short of his goal. But I also knew he had another event to swim in 10 minutes and that I had to get him back down to the pool with his emotions under control so he could do his best for his last event at his first state meet. He was able to do so, with what looked like an "ugly swim", but somehow managed to pull a slight PR. It didn't make up for his failure, but it did light a fire in his belly to work even harder for the next swim season (which he has done all summer long, resulting in some huge time drops in his only summer swim meet). And somehow in the end, I think that after a fairy-tail first swim season, this failure taught him more than he would have learned if he had succeeded.
The low-lows are always so very hard, but they are not what defines us. We are instead defined by how we handle them, how we rebound from them, and what we learn from them. I'm not sure yet, if this low-low is the end of this training cycle and the end of my dream of completing my first 50k this year. But I do know that I need to figure out what my rebound is going to look like, either way, so I can move forward and find new (or renewed) goals. And regardless, I need to move past the emotions so that I can be ready for race day in case I can run. When I am able to run this 50k (whether it is in 11 days or next year), the high-high of that success will be even higher than it would have been if I hadn't had this adversity thrown into the mix. I am not defined by a fluke injury a few weeks out from the race, but I am defined by my work ethic and my "never quit" approach to life. This is something a stupid sprained ankle/foot cannot take away from me.
Three weeks from race day I had a big weekend, 39 miles in about 43 hours. All of them on trail, almost all of them with my always-willing adventure buddy, and some of them in the dark. I had the biggest week of elevation gain, and mileage of my life. I was riding high, feeling good about my months of hard work, feeling ready to go nail the race in 3 weeks and knowing I was officially tapering now. I couldn't stop thinking about how hard, but satisfying, it was going to be to finish the race after preparing, practicing and working consistently for 8 months toward this goal. I finally had the confidence of knowing "I can do this!"
And then, a mere 3 days later I stepped down wrong while running the same trail I've spent hundreds of miles on over the years. I rolled my ankle and it hurt. I was able to run home, and it was sore but didn't seem too bad. Then the swelling started, the bruise along the side of my foot appeared and the pain in the top of my foot gradually increased. And suddenly I could see all my hard work, and all my preparations going down the drain.
To say that I experienced despair would be an understatement. It's ridiculous, and the rational part of my brain knows this. I might be healed in time to run (after all, I've confirmed with x-rays that there are no broken bones, no stress fractures, and no or dislocated bones or joints). And if I'm not, there's always next year. And really, isn't this all a first world problem anyways? But still, the downward spiral of my emotions is real, and uncontrollable, and has left me feeling like I don't even want to get out of bed. It's ridiculous, I know, but the feelings are what they are.
And yet part of me wants to feel this pain, this despair, this overwhelming sadness for what I fear is now outside of my reach. Because isn't the pain and sadness of disappointment and sorrow what makes the good in life actually feel good? If we don't feel the pain and learn to deal with it, regardless of its source, don't we just take the successes and joys in life for granted?
I am reminded of Henrik, who worked very hard for months to take down a team swim record this past spring. He got to his last swim in his age group for that event at the state championships and was determined that he was going to beat it (he was very close, so it was reasonable to think he could). He finished the race, and did not break the record. He was devastated and found his way to my lap in the very crowded stands, soaking wet from the pool, sobbing about how it's not fair that he failed when he worked so hard and tried so hard to do his best. My heart broke for him, as I wanted to see him break the record and because I knew how heartbroken he was for having fallen short of his goal. But I also knew he had another event to swim in 10 minutes and that I had to get him back down to the pool with his emotions under control so he could do his best for his last event at his first state meet. He was able to do so, with what looked like an "ugly swim", but somehow managed to pull a slight PR. It didn't make up for his failure, but it did light a fire in his belly to work even harder for the next swim season (which he has done all summer long, resulting in some huge time drops in his only summer swim meet). And somehow in the end, I think that after a fairy-tail first swim season, this failure taught him more than he would have learned if he had succeeded.
The low-lows are always so very hard, but they are not what defines us. We are instead defined by how we handle them, how we rebound from them, and what we learn from them. I'm not sure yet, if this low-low is the end of this training cycle and the end of my dream of completing my first 50k this year. But I do know that I need to figure out what my rebound is going to look like, either way, so I can move forward and find new (or renewed) goals. And regardless, I need to move past the emotions so that I can be ready for race day in case I can run. When I am able to run this 50k (whether it is in 11 days or next year), the high-high of that success will be even higher than it would have been if I hadn't had this adversity thrown into the mix. I am not defined by a fluke injury a few weeks out from the race, but I am defined by my work ethic and my "never quit" approach to life. This is something a stupid sprained ankle/foot cannot take away from me.
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