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.
