What to Do When You Want to Eat All the Things

I just had to walk away from my desk. I had to physically remove myself from the environment where I store my snacks because I was in real danger of eating all of them.

It's been awhile since I've felt the urge to binge eat in the middle of the day (binge in broad daylight?! How uncouth!), but it's not an altogether unfamiliar experience.

On a recent trip to Target, I saw a t-shirt that read, "BINGE, SLEEP, REPEAT." I believe it was Netflix that introduced "binge" into the popular lexicon, and I have to assume that the shirt was using the term in the movie-watching sense. Because as popular and socially acceptable binge watching has become, eating disorders remain cloaked in secrecy and shame. But ironically enough, "Binge, Sleep, Repeat" was a pretty apt description of my existence at one point in my life, although I added an extra step between binge and sleep. And I certainly wouldn't have advertised that via commercially made apparel.

Self-induced vomiting just doesn't have the kind of Millennial charm that my generation has managed to ascribe to the combination of introversion, consumerism and laziness that binge-watching encompasses.

My eating disorder started when I was 14 or 15, and peaked somewhere between my first semester of college and falling in love for the first time. It's taken different forms over the years: calorie restriction and over-exercise (though not as extreme as you've seen on Lifetime), binging and purging (just as extreme and weird and gross as the Lifetime movies), a combination of the two, abstinence from eating disordered behavior in favor of alcohol and drug abuse, a combination of restriction, binging, purging, alcoholism and drug abuse, and lastly, gratefully, periods of what sort of resembles "recovery."

I use the term lightly because I don't know that I've ever felt fully recovered from my eating disorder. Even when I'm not engaging in behaviors, there has always been at least some degree of lingering obsession (what will I eat, how many calories are in this, if I eat the donut now will I be able to not eat the brownie tonight, how many miles do I need to run to eat both, etc). There is always at least the threat of compulsiveness to my eating and my appetite.

I consistently overeat, which I define as eating past the point or in the absence of true hunger, but I'm fairly certain this is typical (if not normal) behavior.

I feel guilty if I don't exercise frequently or intensely "enough."

I get anxious about eating at restaurants, where portion size and calories are out of my control, and when food is presented outside of my planned schedule.

I like to save my calories for the end of the day, so I can eat a lot at the end of the day. It's a practice that might be considered delayed gratification, except it has a tinge of the pathological.

I use food to numb my feelings and silence my thoughts. It's a reward at the end of the day, an indulgence in reckless abandon that feels amazing and justifiable when so much of my energy is spent trying to be good, to be perfect, to be in control.

Most days, I manage to eat "normally." I've learned to mostly ignore the urges to binge as well as the voices that tell me I'm fat and shameful and weak-willed. I let myself eat, and I know how to sit with the discomfort of overeating. I forgive myself for not working out every day, or for having the donut AND the brownie. I move on.

But sometimes it sneaks up on me. It starts with a preoccupation with my appearance, or a change in my routine, or a stressful week at work. This time it started with a visit to the doctor. The nurse weighed me and, not realizing why I stood facing away from the scale, read the number out loud. I don't weigh myself because it makes me crazy.

Or maybe it was that I skipped breakfast in some ill-advised (read: self-advised) attempt to restrict my eating to 8-hour windows because I read an article that said it will make my body burn fat more efficiently. It also makes my mood in the mornings somewhat...volatile. Go figure. Hell hath no fury like a woman deprived of food.

Possibly, too, it was the cumulative effect that working in an open environment has wrought on my mental health. Somehow bearing witness to my coworkers' habits, particularly their eating habits, has made me hyper sensitive to my own eating habits. I'm someone who snacks during the day, and occasionally eats lunch (sometimes breakfast) at my desk. Without walls to create at least the illusion of privacy, I feel exposed and anxious any time I attempt to eat at my desk. Normal people would either A. change their habits and eat elsewhere or B. not be so self-conscious in the first place. I, on the other hand, just set my anxieties to simmer and stew in them until I become so agitated that I act out in some way.

So yeah, maybe that's what happened. I let a number get into my head, tempted fate by restricting food, and then the presence of a coworker as I ate my lunch made me lose. my damn. mind. And the only solution my brain could fathom was to eat! Eat the popcorn! Eat the chocolate! Eat the strawberries! Eat until the inside screaming stops!

Luckily, I caught myself in time to intervene. I grabbed my laptop and water bottle, sat in another, less claustrophobic area, and documented my meltdown here. Was it helpful? To me, yes. To you, not likely, unless you, too, have an eating disorder. In which case I recommend headphones, hydration, a blog and/or a good therapist - and I send you sincere wishes for your own inside screaming to subside.

One Week Later: Lessons from a Former Social Media Addict (Who Has Already Relapsed)

I'm back on social media.

I didn't learn anything from my week-long sabbatical, except that I don't miss Facebook when it's not in my life. But I do miss Instagram - as a distraction, yes, but even more so as a quick, easy and creative way to share my thoughts, feelings and moods. Why I feel this is necessary is beyond me. Perhaps it's simply the result of living in a world where social media is a thing. Perhaps if this were 20 years ago, I'd just have to call my friends and tell them what's going on. Maybe I'd be better for it. I sure do hate talking on the phone.

I'm going to keep the shopping apps off my phone, though. Having just paid last month's credit card balance, I could use all the help I can get avoiding mindless, compulsive purchases.

Here are some of the things I've purchased, for which I choose to blame Buzzfeed and the spiritually oppressive environment of the cubicle and not an abysmal lack of self-control on my part:

1. Fabric dye - I was definitely going to dye my white blazer gray and get so much use out of it. It was a beautiful dream that died the minute I realized I had to visit a website to get the instructions.
2. Shoe liners - these were going to solve the age-old problem of "what the fuck kind of socks can I wear with my loafers/ballet flats/low-rise sneakers/any shoes that aren't sandals or boots?" I don't understand how people wear those stupid no-show socks that slip off your heel the minute you add shoes to the equation. Man, do I hate those socks. Almost as much as I hate underwear for its inability to stay put. Anyway, I ordered these miracle liners a month ago, and they finally shipped yesterday, and I'm already over it. I know this because I am currently wearing a new-ish pair of loafer-style shoes without any socks at all. I've surrendered. This is how I live.
3. A magnetic phone holder for my car - I often use Google Maps to navigate while driving, and I hate that I can't stand my phone upright in my car. This inexpensive solution was going to change everything. I still haven't remembered to bring it down to my car. It's been at least 2 months. 
4. A fabric de-fuzzer - it did not make my pill-ravaged sweaters or sheets feel brand new. I am beginning to lose faith in science's ability to solve life's biggest problems. 
5. Hem tape - my jeans are too long, and taking them to a tailor would require taking them to a tailor. So when I discovered this miracle tape that would alter the hem of my jeans without me having to leave the house, I was obviously thrilled. It's still sitting on my dresser. I haven't even bothered to read the directions. I'd probably screw it up anyway, so it's for the best, really. 

Those are just a few examples. I'm not proud. But if you need any useless gadgets (in Like New condition!), hit me up. I'd love to help.  

In other news, this morning I listened to a Fresh Air interview with Andrea Arnold, who wrote and directed the new film American Honey. She was talking about writing a particular scene about power and self-tanner and not knowing it would turn into that when she sat down to write. I envy that. I've heard other writers talk about not knowing what's going to come out of their brains when they sit down to write, and I covet that experience. I wish for an imagination, or easier access to my imagination. I wonder if it's something that comes with practice, or if some people are just naturally inclined toward fiction the way I'm naturally inclined to recording my thoughts, feelings and moods.

In other other news, my coffee tastes like plastic. So that's the kind of day I'm having. But it's still early, and there are K-cups in the office kitchen area. Because cliche is fundamental to corporate culture, and I'm really leaning into that cubicle life.

Distraction Detox

Last night I deleted all the social media apps from my phone. No more Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest or Snapchat. I also deleted the myriad apps that have been feeding my online shopping habit: Amazon, Birchbox, Modcloth, even the various food delivery apps I've somehow accumulated.

I unsubscribed from three of the four Buzzfeed newsletters to which I was subscribed. I'll allow myself Buzzfeed News, but the DIY, animals and food letters were only serving as frivolous distractions - quick hits of mindless consumption to pass the time and help me avoid feeling bored, anxious or depressed.

The lists of cute animals might be harmless enough (except for the deteriorating effect such listicles inevitably have on one's attention span), but the other two tend to lead to unnecessary purchases and/or feed my fixation on food.

Lastly, I unsubscribed from copious amounts of retailer emails. Most of these are fashion or beauty related, and they are very successful in getting me to purchase clothes, shoes, makeup and items for the home that I don't really need.

The issue isn't just the money I'm spending. It's my growing discomfort with the way I'm being manipulated by the evil geniuses of Silicon Valley, who have enabled savvy marketers everywhere to push the precise combination of buttons that make me, personally, want to consume all the things, all the time.

I detest being manipulated. In fact, I quit smoking when I was in my early twenties purely out of spite for the tobacco industry's ability to raise prices, knowing their addicted consumers would continue to buy. I hated that I was a puppet far more than I hated wasting money or harming my body.

I don't know if this is a permanent change. I'm starting with a goal of a week. I just want to feel better. I want a reprieve from the deluge of information, the competing bids for my attention, the chaos and noise of millions of voices that all add up to a feeling that I'm constantly missing out. I want peace. I want to regain some control over my impulses and some insight into my motivations. And lastly, I'm hoping the absence of short-form sharing platforms will prompt me to write more thoughtfully and thoroughly about my experiences.

Wish me luck. Damn the man. Save the empire, etc, etc.

Passed

I can't shake the feeling I'm getting passed by.

I went for a 12-mile run over the weekend, in preparation for a half marathon my friend convinced me to sign up for, even after I committed to stop racing after the mildly traumatic experience of my last half marathon. Honoring my commitments to myself is something I need to work on. It is one of many things I need to work on. Like focus.

So during my run, a number of people passed me. This isn't unusual. Chicago isn't the healthiest city, but we do have a considerable number of runners. So whether I'm running on the North Channel Trail, the Lakefront Trail, or even through the neighborhoods, I'm liable to meet some other runners along the way. Usually, there is a combination of slower and faster runners, but on this particular morning, it seemed like the latter far outnumbered the former. I passed one runner. At least 5 passed me, including a woman who somehow passed me twice, even though we were not running a loop. I suspect she was the universe's evil pawn, sent just to fuck with my confidence.

It shouldn't have mattered who or how many passed me. It wasn't a race. But the fact that I noticed this and was bothered by it tells me a lot about the mental space I'm occupying. It tells me that I'm feeling inferior. And I do. I feel painfully aware of my shortcomings in all areas of life.

I log onto social media and see friends and colleagues getting engaged, getting married, having kids, getting promotions, getting published, making art, taking fancy vacations and socializing prolifically. I see smiles and friends and confidence and pets that are way more famous than mine. I see success, and I know I'm not seeing the whole picture, but I feel more acutely than ever my own failures.

I'm doing okay, but I'm not excelling. I'm certainly not thriving. I'm stuck in a career that is a decent career and pays the bills (and more), but makes me feel like I'm suffocating. Quite literally sometimes. I'm not getting married anytime soon, because my boyfriend thinks planning a wedding would be too much stress for me. Meaning he knows I'm not in a good mental health place and fears I'd collapse under the absurd kinds of pressure and stress a wedding places on people these days. I'm not at all into having kids, mostly because I don't want to pass down the crazy genes I inherited in spades, and also because I'm not particularly well right now. I'm struggling to just be a functioning member of society. I'm an unwilling member, at the very least. Instead of celebrating milestones, I'm going through the motions, and it's all because of fear.

A volcano of fear, which I bury by performing manic rituals of consumption: Buzzfeed articles, sugary carbs, television and a steady diet of material consumerism. These are the things that keep me sane. And by sane, I mean in denial. Or at least in avoidance. I am avoiding the volcano, and the more stuff I pile on top of it, the longer I pretend it's not really there, the more dangerous it becomes. The more inscrutable it becomes.

At this point, it no longer feels like something I can chip away at. It feels like something that needs to explode, obliterating everything in its path. And as exciting and dramatic (read: appealing) as that sounds to me, I know it's not the responsible thing to do. The responsible thing to do is to keep going to work, keep meditating, exercising and eating (mostly) well, maintaining solid connections with my friends and family, and using my free time to do the homework my career counselor assigns to me. It sounds so straightforward. It sounds like a good plan. If you're a healthy, functioning human being. If, on the other hand, you're depressed and anxious, it sounds insurmountable. It sounds exhausting, and it feels like failure.

There are too many thoughts in my head to explain how and why I find it all so daunting. But when I'm not avoiding my feelings with the aforementioned rituals of consumption - or simply the demands of each day - I feel paralyzed. I watch the world passing by, and I despair of ever getting out from under this weight that has me pinned to the ground.

But I read books. A lot of books, especially the ones written by females who write, women who do comedy or make art and who also have struggled with crises of confidence and setbacks in their careers, if not full-blown mental illness. I feel less alone, and not entirely without hope. I feel a little courage, enough to write something down instead of burying it. So maybe the volcano won't have to explode. Or maybe it will, but if it does, it won't destroy me.

5 Things I Tried This Week (And You Can Too)

I've been trying a lot of new things lately. It's all part of my effort to be a "fun" person. I was a fun person once. It was about 5 years ago. But over the past couple years, I've experienced a steady decline in my mood and outlook, stemming mostly from a growing dissatisfaction with my career choices. Rather than taking positive action, I've allowed fear to take hold and nudge me deeper into depression. In the process, the sphere of my social, professional and even cultural interactions has shrunken. I go out less, I enjoy less, I take fewer risks. As a result, I've become more depressed. And the more depressed I become, the harder it is to do the things that help counteract depression (e.g. leaving the house, calling friends, journaling).

I've managed to maintain a modicum of sanity and a considerable amount of manageability by forcing myself to exercise regularly, eat relatively well, get enough sleep, stay in touch with my support network (albeit with minimal effort), attend counseling, and limiting my time on the couch. From time to time, I've even gathered my energies and directed them toward higher-level goals for the sake of more profound spiritual and emotional growth: meditation, volunteer work, a brief attempt to practice The Artist's Way. These efforts have been sporadic and therefore mostly ineffective, in fact leaving me feeling even more discouraged and down on myself for failing to follow through.

The trouble is, I've been avoiding the root of the problem: the despair with which I view my current career trajectory. I avoid it because I feel trapped, incapable of change, afraid to commit to any course of action lest I discover that all jobs, all careers, lead to the same place (misery). It's not rational, I know. But I recently - finally - saw a career counselor, and I'm feeling something I haven't felt in a long time: hope. I'm seeing possibilities that don't seem completely unattainable. Although maybe sensing is a more accurate description, since I'm wary of optimism and reluctant to examine said possibilities too closely for too long (baby steps). But reticence aside, it's progress in a positive direction.

So I'm leveraging that momentum to do something my therapist recommended after I told her I don't find joy in things, which is to take "opposite action." In other circles, it's called "faking it 'til you make it." If I feel like isolating, I should socialize. If I feel depressed, I should do things that give me (or once gave me) joy. The more I take these opposite actions, the theory is, they will eventually lead to positive feelings.

That's how I decided to be more fun. So for the past week, I've been saying yes to things. And I thought I'd share my experience, because one of the benefits of doing things is having things to write about. Even if I start writing about them by resorting to old habits of sharing my feelings for eight paragraphs (baby steps). So here they are, 5 things I tried this week that you can try, too:

1. Foie gras

I went to dinner with a friend in the industry, who expensed our Michelin-star-rated meal as market research. Because I was just grateful to be there, and because she's a master of the culinary arts and I am merely an enthusiastic consumer of them, I let her do the ordering. Foie gras is not something I would normally pursue, but when in Rome and your friend is paying, do what the French do and eat engorged duck liver with (among other eyebrow-raising accoutrement) chocolate covered cherries. And honestly, I wouldn't order it again.

Maybe it was the ethical qualms I harbored or just my unsophisticated palette - or maybe bittersweet chocolate and fatty liver don't actually go well together - but it was the kind of dish I could only eat by not thinking about what I was eating. Also it just didn't taste good. I think that was the main takeaway, actually. Chocolate foie gras doesn't taste good, even if it's free. Lesson learned. No regrets.

2. Seeing a Play Alone

This initiative was inspired by the aforementioned book, The Artist's Way, which suggests taking yourself on "artist's dates." The idea is to reconnect with one's creativity by spending an hour or two each week doing something fun/creative/spiritual/culturally enriching by yourself. Since I sometimes hesitate to invite people to plays, lest it turns out to be a terrible play (not altogether unlikely, in my experience) and they think I have bad taste or they just don't enjoy themselves, which would obviously result in a catastrophic end to our friendship. Seeing a play solo seemed like the perfect solution. And it was!

I happened to choose an excellent play: This, written by Melissa James Gibson and directed by Carl Menninger and performed at the Windy City Playhouse. The venue was delightful, offering comfortable seating, a full bar that included non-alcoholic options, and clean bathrooms. The acting was good, but it was the writing really stood out. Smart, funny, thoughtful and subtle, it explored the somewhat mundane topics of middle age, infidelity and relationships in general in a way I found honest and interesting.

I didn't feel awkward being alone, even during intermission. On the contrary, it was refreshing to simply absorb the production without worrying about my guest's experience. I found it relaxing to be in the company of others without any pressure to engage in conversation. The introvert in me found it a much more rewarding way to spend some quality alone time than my typical Netflix-and-overeat routine. I recommend it enthusiastically. 

3. Bollywood Dancing

An acquaintance of mine has written and is directing/producing her own web series, and I've been cast as her roommate. She's from India, and she wanted to have a Bollywood dance in the series. So this past weekend, I went to the first rehearsal to learn a short choreographed routine. Because the dancers are amateur actors and not professional dancers, the routine is simple and the instruction was slow-paced. Which was perfect for me, because despite my relative athleticism, I have the grace of a turkey rather than a swan.

As usual, the difficult part was showing up. Actually leaving my house is always the hard part, and I didn't really know the people who were going to be there very well. In fact, the first 15 minutes of rehearsal were pretty awkward, as we all had to wait for the choreographer and I'm not super into idle chit-chat with near-strangers. But once things got going, I had fun. With a task at hand, I'm much more comfortable and relaxed. I like learning new things and I like using my body and being both active and playful, and it helped that I wasn't out of my league. It helped even more that there were no mirrors. The whole thing lasted about an hour, which is the perfect amount of time for new things to last. I'd give it four stars (out of five).

4. Boxing

I've been taking a break from running lately because it's been so hot, so when a friend asked me on a fitness date, I suggested we try a new class. But since I've been doing this 90-day yoga challenge, I wanted to try something new. She mentioned a boxing club that had a first-one's-free policy, so we signed up. I'd never worn boxing gloves or punched a bag before, and let me tell you, it was amazing.

The class was mostly women, which made it less intimidating. I learned how to wrap my hands, which is a valuable skill that I will probably list on my resume from now on. Then I grabbed a pair of foul-smelling gloves and got laughed at by my friend, who told me that was the "dirty laundry" pile. So then I grabbed a pair of less foul-smelling gloves from the "clean laundry" rack and got to work.

The warmup was a full-on cardio workout, and I was glad I'd been doing so many FitnessBlender workouts so I could keep up and maintain the don't-fuck-with-me vibe I'd been projecting ever since learning to wrap my hands. Then we started punching, and things got real. Fun. Real fun.

To be honest, I couldn't really see the instructor and the audio was kind of terrible, so mostly I was just going to town without any real sense of what I was supposed to be doing. And I loved it! I really don't like witnessing violence, but apparently I'm a big fan of inflicting it on a large inanimate objects. It was invigorating, empowering and fully absorbing. It was the kind of workout that leaves you exhausted without seeming like you're working out anything other than a whole lot of pent-up aggression that you usually channel into embittered social media rants and emotional power-eating. Five stars!

5. Bone Marrow

My friend described it as meat butter, and I think that's a fair analogy as any. You scrape it out of a bone and spread it on toast. Maybe the taste was masked by the accoutrements (I believe one was apply chutney and the other was a pickled vegetable of some kind), but I didn't have any strong feelings about the actual marrow. As someone who isn't an avid eater of animal protein, this wasn't a surprise. I like toast and spreads, though, so I found it enjoyable and far superior to the foie gras.

So there you have it, 5 things to try or not try. If you have any suggestions of things you'd like me to try and then review, leave a comment. Otherwise, I'm just going to go take a nap because being fun is super hard!

"If you needed to write, you'd be doing it."

That's what the career counselor I saw today said to me. It stung. I hurriedly explained to him that not writing made me feel bad, which he dismissed, not knowing that what I meant was that not writing makes me feel awful. Guilty, maybe even ashamed, perhaps worthless. It feels as though I'm wasting my potential and cowardly avoiding a difficult but important task. It feels like I'm not doing the one thing I might be good at, lest I discover I might not be good at it, and therefore good at nothing.

I feel embarrassed about referring to my aptitude for writing as potential. Which is absurd, because it is potential. Even if it's just potential to be a really good personal blogger, which maybe isn't all that grand, but it's what I've got. I don't have aspirations to be a great novelist, but that's probably more a reflection of my fear that I don't have it in me to be a great novelist. Let's be honest, I'd love to be Stephen King-like in my prolificacy and success. But as much as I envy those two aspects of his career, the thing I really envy is the way he describes losing himself in a story. Channeling, rather than writing. Feeling words flow from one's fingertips. I know he also says that in order to write prolifically, one must write prolifically. Not novels, per se, but anything. My problem is not one of talent, but of avoidance. Which can also be called laziness, ambivalence, what the career counselor called "not needing to."

But I argue that I do "need to" write. The fact that I don't - at least not consistently - says more about my mental/emotional/psychological/moral fortitude than about my desire.  Call it depression or call it plain old fear, I don't write because I feel afraid to try. I am afraid to write badly, but in order to write well, I must first write badly. I must also learn to follow through, to write past the point of feeling inspired and through the inevitable ambivalence I start to feel after writing a first draft. Maybe it's not ambivalence. I'm really into labeling today, I feel a need to label the feeling of relief but also immediate avoidance that comes after writing something. I feel better after writing, but I don't want to look at what just came out of my mind. It's like vomiting. And while there's no value in examining one's regurgitated lunch, returning to a piece of writing is an essential part of the process. Or so I've heard.

But I want to say something and be done with it. Words are never easy to get it out, and I fear that examining them more closely will only counteract the positive benefits I got from writing in the first place. That is to say, I want to take the fleeting relief I get from pounding out an unedited blog entry and cling to it as long as possible. But in doing so, I am no doubt denying myself the opportunity to wring even greater satisfaction out of the writing process. By honing a pile of verbal vomit into a thoughtful and concise essay, I will create something instead of merely spewing something. There is real satisfaction in that, and pride. Those feelings are also fleeting, but at least I'll have something substantial to show for it.

Before I go ahead and publish this mostly unedited blog entry, I just want to say that the aforementioned career counselor isn't a jerk. Aside from that stinging comment (which inspired me to write, and thus ended up being productive), he had a lot of helpful things to say. I'm actually feeling hopeful about my career prospects for the first time in recent memory. I hope I didn't jinx it - I'm so wary of positive feelings, always preparing myself to be disillusioned. But it's nice to write something positive. Let's call it an affirmation. An experiment in conscious hoping. And I'll just let this moment, this day, be a hopeful one and let that not be a dangerous thing.

Avoidance and Agitation

Restless. That's how I described my mood to my boyfriend last night. I'm making an effort to use less dramatic speech, or I might have chosen a different word. Like "standing on the precipice of a spiritual and emotional breakdown, the only thing keeping me from plunging headlong into total chaos being the single-minded pursuit of buttery carbs* and Netflix."

While peach scones and Game of Thrones are delicious distractions, they do nothing to address the growing feelings of restlessness and discontent that on good days give me headaches, and on bad days (staring at the final credits, the last crumbs) fill me with an uncanny combination of dread and panic.

I know I need to write more. Scratch that, I need to write, period. When I'm not expressing myself, I feel crazy, trapped inside my own head. Why avoid it, then? It's painful, like working out after a long winter of complete idleness.

This doesn't feel good, this incomplete blog post. But it's something on the page instead of on my chest. Maybe it will help alleviate this morning's headache, or maybe it will make the next post easier. The problem is n absence of passion, and perhaps I'll broach that topic later.

*I cannot recommend Bang Bang Pie's honey pie enough. And Julius Meinl has surprisingly good scones.

Anxiety Marathon! Co-Starring Depression! Is This a Race or a Movie? Let's Just Hope It Ends in Puppies

I'm competitive. A perfectionist, like my Dad. I once got tossed out of a basketball game for spiking the ball at the ref in fifth grade. Another time, a judge gave me a 4.7 at a gymnastics meet and I threw a fit so violent I had to be taken home, and my Mom had to pull over on the way to let me literally kick and scream myself into exhaustion. I've never dealt well with losing, and though I've learned to behave more maturely over the years, the emotional response to under-performing still has the potential to temporarily devastate me.

The thing about those tantrums is that I wasn't just mad that I lost, I felt ashamed of myself. In the moment, the feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness are so intense, I can't see beyond them. Even if I know, in the back of my mind, I'm being dramatic and childish and absolutely absurd, the power of the emotional experience overrides logic. I've learned that I just need to wait it out, and eventually the darkness wanes.

It's embarrassing, to be this kind of person. I would love to be eternally gracious, even-keel and brimming with positivity and perspective. (I'd also love to have a longer torso, thicker hair and a brain that works without chemical assistance, in case anyone with magical powers is reading this) But I'm not a chill lady, and I have to deal with the cards I've been dealt.

Sometimes it's easy to focus on the qualities for which I'm grateful, but honestly, that hasn't been easy lately. Because my brain does not function correctly on its own, and evidently it's not working that great with the current support system in place. So until I get that fixed - a frustrating and slow process - I'm going to be living in the shadows a bit.

Here's what that looks like, in terms of the past 24 hours:

I've been training diligently for 12 weeks to run a half marathon. Two weeks ago, I ran 12.75 miles by myself at the fastest pace I've ever maintained for more than 8 miles. I felt proud. Today, I ran/walked 13.1 and felt terrible, not only after the race, not only during the race, but for 18 hours leading up to the race. Because no matter how much I tell myself, "it's just another run, there's no pressure, just enjoy the day," my body refuses to cooperate.

At about 1:00pm yesterday, a visit to the dentist spiked my adrenaline and sparked an anxious episode that lasted six and a half hours. I used the resources available to me: I meditated, I did yoga, I listened to relaxing music and distracted myself with chores. And the anxiety just wouldn't quit. It's a physical experience as much as it is emotional, dilated eyes, shallow breaths, rapid heart rate, unconscious muscle tension and a nervous stomach. Nothing makes it go away until the event I'm anticipating is over. So I slept fitfully, and woke up to find the anxiety still there, like a kid on Christmas morning, impatient and eager and too excited to sleep.

Usually the nerves last about a mile, and then my body starts to loosen up and I feel normal again. But the numbness in my legs, the racing pulse I'm just barely containing via racing thoughts (I'm going to die. No, you're not. My heart will explode. It's just nerves, you'll be fine in a few minutes. I'M GOING TO DIE. etc.), they don't go away. This time they assault me for 8 miles, long after I've told my friend to go on ahead of me, and though I manage to keep a very decent pace for 10 miles, I'm out of my mind with panic and dread and there's not a moment of enjoyment in it. I made an agreement with myself, that I would make it to 10 and then call it a day. I powered through until the anxiety started to wane, and exhaustion and depression picked right up where panic left off, like a demonic relay team. I kept chanting to myself things about outrunning the devil, that if I just kept running long enough, the devils would fall behind me. I told myself, it doesn't matter how fast you go, just keep going and the devils won't last.

The devils must have trained harder than me, because they had stamina. They ran like ... well, like the devil, and the only thing that kept me moving was the knowledge that I had to get to the finish line somehow and the race route was the fastest way there. So I walked some, and my heart rate finally got back to normal. So I jogged some, and the devils told me I was pathetic, I'd never make it and even if I did I'd already embarrassed myself and why can't I be more like my friend, oh that's right because I'm worthless and fail at everything and everyone knows it. So I chant some more and walk and run and eventually cross the finish line, and there's a small window of time in which the relief is louder than the devils.

I feel something like calm until I'm back in the car on the way home, my friend and her boyfriend happily chatting in the backseat, my boyfriend at the wheel knowing I'm holding in a real doozy. We drop them off and I let it out, all the misery and exhaustion and humiliation and anger and sick-and-tiredness that follow any good prolonged anxiety attack. My boyfriend comforts me, rubbing my back and letting me cry until I'm ready to hear that he loves me, that he's proud of me, that I'm brave not because I can run 13 miles, but because not matter how awful it feels, I keep trying and showing up and doing my best.

And even though my best didn't mean a personal record, it got me to the finish line. So maybe the devils didn't win. Maybe we tied. And maybe that's a win for today.

But next time I think about signing up for a race, someone please remind me that I have now run three half marathons and not a single has made me feel good. Hand me a just-for-the-hell-of-it training calendar and tell me to go for a run without anyone watching, without clocks or bibs or pressure to do anything but work out my body and get some endorphins. And then, if you're up to it, maybe give me a puppy.