Depression and the Fat Girl

Hi Friends and Web Friends,

I've been doing lots of thinking lately about why I'm falling in love with running and why it's happening to me now. Running is providing for me. It is helping me to cope with depression, but exercise alone was not enough to pull me out of the state I was in earlier this year. If I'm really honest with myself, I've been depressed a lot longer than a year, but this was the first time I've gotten the help I needed in many forms - mostly Love and Pharmaceuticals.

I have realized that at this point in my life I need medication to keep my brain chemistry balanced.  When my brain chemistry is balanced, I can do all of the normal human things - the things my healthier friends can do without medication. Like get good sleep so I can make it to work on time. Or eat regularly so I don't binge eat when I finally remember that my body needs food on day two or three. Or do my laundry so I don't have to buy underwear at Walgreen's on Sunday night. I'm learning to make lists (thanks, Carisse) and organize my thoughts and organize my house and organize my work life. It's hard. And I couldn't do it when I was not treating my depression. Weakened immune system, weight loss/gain, sleeplessnes, inability to focus. That shit is real.

My close friends have noticed this shift. They are seeing a healthier version of me and showing all the love to Healthier Dee they showed to Less Mentally Stable Dee. They are awesome people. But many of them were surprised to know I needed medication to get to that place. People without a mental or emotional imbalance can't imagine the way it feels. People say in the anti-depressant commercials, "I've been living under a cloud for years and now I'm me again".  It sounds cheesy. But it only sounds cheesy to people who haven't been there. I've been there and I know about the cloud. (They still need better TV ads, but that's a topic for another blog.)

We are good at using shame in awful ways in our society. I am learning not to be ashamed of my depression diagnosis at the same time I am learning not to be ashamed of my body. We need to get better at accepting mental and emotional illnesses. There is no shame in asking for the help you need. There is no shame in letting your friends love you. But I suffered so long because I was too arrogant to get help. You can be smart, capable, hold down a job, and still need help.

If you are feeling depressed, ask for help. Don't be arrogant as long as I was. Prozac is working for me now, along with exercise and eating cleaner and being with good friends more and talking to God more. You may not need medication. You may need a different treatment - talk therapy, a walking partner, more vegetables in your life. Let's all agree to pay more attention to what our bodies are asking of us and not be ashamed.

Don't ever be afraid to tell the people you love that you need help. You will get all the help you need if you just ask for it.

A special thanks to all of you for showing me love on this blog. You guys email me, text me, and tell me how much you can relate to what I am writing here, and that brings me a special kind of joy. I am a data nerd. I am a chubby girl. I am loved more than I deserve. And I want to add writer to that list eventually. Thank you for encouraging me along the way. Kim, your comments especially have encouraged me in ways you can't imagine. I admire you so much and your use of the word proud was so powerful.

I'm working on a post called "Sex and the Fat Girl" - that one will be less serious and more funny (I'm at my best when I get to be raunchy), so stay tuned...... :)

Also working on a post about not having enough food because I was raised by a single mom who did the best she could but couldn't provide for us financially. My food insecurities grew when Clinton was reforming Welfare As We Know It in the 90's and I accidentally got fat on a food stamp budget. Does anyone want to correspond about how poverty and fatness and shame intersect? I need to explore this idea some more with people smarter than me before I can write about it.

Thanks for helping me learn to write my feelings instead of eat them!!!
With Love,
Deanna

Let's Try This Again

I woke up this morning with an urge to continue this journey with more intention.  Another Sunburst came and went since the last time I’ve posted here.  Despite my promise to shave 10 minutes off my time over the 12 months in between the races, I didn’t even participate in the 2012 one.  I haven’t done much running (Okay, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve run) since the 5K in 2011.  So now I’m jumping back in with both feet and recommitting.

I don’t have all bad news to share about what’s been going on in my life since the last time we talked.  I’ve learned a lot of very personalized lessons about health and nutrition and fitness.  I’ve lost a little over 30 pounds since the first time I posted here.  Overall, I’m happy about that, but I can’t say it’s been an overall positive experience.  Every pound I lose puts me in a very scary place.  I’m both elated and terrified of gaining it back at the same time.  It’s some sort of punishment/reward game, and my body has been very good at keeping the rules of the game from my conscious parts. 

I think a lot of chronic dieters probably understand what I’m talking about right now.  I can only describe it with my background as a treatment aide at a drug rehab facility, which only confirms my suspicion that eating and weight loss/gain can be their very own addictions, or diseases.  There is a euphoric sort of high you experience along your fitness journey.  But it’s not like the kind of high some of my clients would get from heroin or cocaine; it’s not predictable like those drugs are.  With a narcotics addiction, you are excruciatingly familiar with the results of your high – you know exactly what it is going to feel like and the only thing that excites you more than anticipating that feeling is experiencing it.  People with addictions are most comfortable and feel most “at home” when they’re high.  I’m sure that’s for a lot of different reasons – maybe they’ve built that “home” for themselves as a place to escape to when the world seems unbearable, maybe the honestly believe that their altered state is the only state they feel they can be themselves in. 

But we (chronic dieters/overeaters/whatever you word(s) you choose) don’t experience a predictable kind of high.  There is no “home” for us as we work through our addiction.  Our addiction exists inside our minds and our bodies, both of which are ever-changing.  So we don’t know what is going to cause a high.  It can sometimes be the same thing that would trigger withdrawal symptoms.  Sometimes a high can come from a workout – you step out of the weight room or off of the treadmill, bike, elliptical, etc. and you feel on top of the world.  Other times, a workout can bring into sharp focus how much work you still have to do to get where you want to be.  Breathing hard can either make you feel like a warrior or like a fatso who’s making too much noise because she’s been abusing her body for far too long.  Sweating is a badge of honor sometimes and sometimes it's something we feel the need to hide or be ashamed of or apologize for.  Sore muscles can make you feel accomplished, or they can make you feel tired and defeated.  Binge eating can make you feel peace and fulfillment or it can convince you you’re worthless.  There is a constant ebb – up and down, back and down – but there’s no flow.  There’s no predictability.  We don’t know what actions will result in which feelings, which can be mentally, emotionally, physically exhausting.  We don’t know whether to anticipate our post-workout glory or fear our post-workout self-flagellation.  We don’t know whether indulging is going to lead to a binge or remain a small treat that encourages us to stay on the right track.  As exhausting as this can be, I think this is also what saves us.  Maybe this unpredictability is where the distinction is made between our addictions and others'.  Our recovery can’t be a steady progression away from the lifestyle that led to our addiction.  We can’t go cold turkey and avoid excessive eating or excessive exercise at all costs.  While we are in recovery, we are learning ways to love our body, we are learning ways to appreciate it for what it is capable of and teach it new ways to thrive. 

We are learning.  The learning process is one that never ends.  We don’t have a destination, we just have this awesome journey.  We don’t succeed.  We don’t fail.  We just move forward.  I’m excited about moving forward with the support of you all.  My hope is that by writing some of these feelings down, we get to feel them together and be encouraged by each other.  Jenn and I are going to run together this afternoon for the first time in over a year.

A Recap of My First 5K

Two great friends met me in the parking lot to see me off at 7:15 (they were running the 10K that started a little later). I was surprisingly calm, not even nervous enough to pee. I made my way toward the back of the pack - walked right past the 6 mile runners, the 9 mile runners, even the 13 mile runners. It was important that I have no illusions and stay out of peoples' way. So after they fired the gun 3 or 4 minutes passed before we even started moving. I stayed with the slow joggers for the first couple of city blocks, where all the crowds were. And then I stopped running and started walking. It was a shameful moment. I hadn't even run a whole 2 minutes. I'm sure no one was surprised but me, which is probably why I was so ashamed. I was really hoping that adrenaline would compensate for my lack of dedication to a training program. At that point, the runners were in front of me and the walkers were behind me and Tiffany's I Think We're Alone Now came on. I love that little music box. She talks about running just as fast as we can, so I figured I really should get moving - an eighties icon was demanding it of me.

I jogged very slowly for a while and in what seemed like no time at all I passed a sign that said 1 Mile. I couldn't believe it - I was a third of the way in! Then about 16 minutes and a few Britney Spears songs later I saw another sign that said 1 Mile - 5K. So the other sign was for one of the other races. Fuck you, first sign. I could have cried. There were actually a lot of points throughout the race and during the rest of the day where I had an overwhelming urge to cry. Maybe that's all the adrenaline did for me. What a gift. And my little music box was on shuffle, so the Mindy McCready songs that popped up made me think the universe was telling me it was okay to pull over to the side and cry for a while. Once I skipped over one of her songs and Mary J. Blige's Not Gonna Cry came on. Funny. There was a hydration stop after the real mile 1 marker. I took some gatorade, then vomited after I rounded the next curve. I've always wanted to vomit while working out because I thought it would make me feel like a real athlete. It didn't. Somewhere in the middle of mile 2 a man with a prosthetic leg rode by me on a bike with a little dog in the front basket. I really thought I was hallucinating.

I walked most of mile 2, which was a little disappointing. Eventually, I just became way too forgiving of myself. Someday I'll figure out that self-discipline thing. The finish line of the race was in Notre Dame's football stadium, so the running out through the tunnel part was neat. It was like I was Rudy and Fortune was saying to me: You're 5 foot nothin', 100 and nothin', and you have barely a speck of athletic ability. And you hung in there with the best college football players in the land for 2 years. And you're gonna walk outta here with a degree from the University of Notre Dame. In this life, you don't have to prove nothin' to nobody but yourself. And after what you've gone through, if you haven't done that by now, it ain't gonna never happen. Now go on back. I'm not exactly 100 pounds, but I am exactly 5 feet, so I've got that going for me. Plus the degree, but that thing has yet to prove its value.

The first time I hiked the Grand Canyon I had two thoughts when I got to the top: 1) I see people with ice cream cones, where's mine? and 2) I could do that again. Right now. When I crossed the finish line at the Sunburst I had two very similar thoughts: 1) I see people with popsicles, where's mine? and 2) I could do that again. Right now. But it was a little different than the euphoria of hiking 6 miles on a steep incline along canyon walls. I wanted to do it again because I knew I could have finished in a lot less time and wanted to prove it to myself. So my goal for my next 5K is to shave 10 minutes off my time, which shouldn't be all that difficult considering my official time was 52:42. They posted the professional photos of our finishes online today. I'm purple and flabby in them. I love them. There's even a 29 second video of me jiggling across the finish line. It makes me smile. I'm considering posting some of them on here, but I know that not all of you know who I am or what I look like and I'm not sure I want that to change. I almost forgot to tell you about my favorite music moment. The Rough Riders Anthem (you know, Stop, Drop, Roll) came on as I entered the stadium. It was awesome to have DMX tell me that this is how Rough Riders roll as I collapsed and remind me that Talk is cheap m............

First 5K is in the Mañana

Here are the things that are going through my mind about tomorrow:

- What should I eat for dinner tonight? Maybe I won’t eat anything so I’ll wake up hungry and have a big breakfast. If I throw up, people will probably have more sympathy on me when I slow down to walk and catch my breath on occasion.

- Most runners don’t have boobs. I do. Big ones. Even for a fat girl, they’re big. Where am I supposed to put this paper bib with my number on it? If I pin it to my upper chest it flaps up and down unless I put pins in the bottom too. But then you can only see the top half of the numbers. Plus it looks ridiculous, all curved around my breast shelf. I have about 5 inches of torso below the shelf, so there’s not really room for it there either. And I’m sure a sports bra and the uni-boob it gifts me with won’t make this issue any easier.

- What if I just...sleep through my alarm? It happens; people would understand. Jessica warned me that since I’ve already checked in it will say “no show” next to my name when they publicly report the times. Maybe I’d rather it say that in the newspaper than advertise my 18 minute miles.

- This should not be this big of a deal. There are plenty of people who run 3 miles or many more on a daily basis. If this is really hard for me, that’s my own fault and I have no reason to be worried or complain or think of this as some sort of accomplishment. Thanks for letting me unabashedly do all of the above.

- I’m really glad they gave me a t-shirt.

I'm baaack.

I have been missing for a while. Sorry about that. I got shin splints, was out of commission for two weeks, went on one run, and then jumped back on the lazy fat girl wagon. Or relapsed, depending on your perspective. This blog was supposed to be an accountability mechanism, and it didn't totally fail in that respect. Trust that I felt sufficiently guilty each time someone asked me why I hadn't posted in a while. For most of the last five weeks the answer to that question was laziness, but the shin splint thing functioned as a nice stand-in for the truth as time went on. Those incessant questions and the ensuing guilt and shame are probably the chief reasons I started running again two weeks ago and have decided to run this 5K on Saturday even though I am incredibly ill-prepared. I owe a big thank you to my avid fans/critics. Lack of preparation is not the primary source of my anxiety about this weekend. A map of the race route reveals that there is only one bathroom stop, about a third of the way into the course. This concerns me. The most annoying thing I've heard from my well-meaning friends who want me to like running and claim that they do is that it is relaxing. How in the world can you be relaxed while you're trying not to pee your pants or shit yourself? Just when I think I've "found my pace" (does running a total of maybe 18 miles in 8 weeks qualify me to use obnoxious runner terms like that?), something very terrible happens. I have to go. Right then and there. Sometimes it's pee, usually it's poo. This should not be a problem for someone my age. I empty all my systems out before I leave the house. And I'm still running 3 miles or less, which means I'm not gone for that long. Well, okay, I'm still averaging a 16 minute mile. But the point is I'm under 80 and should be able to control my bladder at least an hour. According to my google machine, running often triggers peristalsis, or the involuntary constriction and relaxation of the muscles of the intestine or another canal, creating wavelike movements that push the contents of the canal forward. Well, isn't that wonderful. I'll keep you posted on how this Saturday goes. Or maybe I've just written a post about unsavory bodily functions so people will stop checking this blog. Then I can quit this running thing altogether without getting harped on. Just kidding. Mostly.

Ouch.

Why am I doing this? This is so painful. But it feels so good at the same time. Well, not at the same time. Right now it feels good. Twenty minutes ago all I could think about was the sharp pain in my side, the dull ache in my shoulder, the fact that my fingers were so swollen they were about to burst, and the mean teenage boys that were laughing at me. I guess that part wasn't so painful. I don't blame them, actually. There is something hilarious about a girl galloping down the road, boobs a bouncing, sweat a pouring, breathing so hard she's squirting snot across her own face. But there's also something so encouraging and inspiring about it. Just like when someone runs a race with a prosthetic leg. Or when an old man gets visibly exciting by his nursing home aide. I can't be the only one that finds those things both touching and laughable. On top of making myself into fodder for other people's jokes, I think I've given myself shin splints. Or I've caught shin splints. I'm not entirely sure if it's a passive ailment or something someone does to their body - the research is vague. I'm not even entirely sure I have shin splints. All I know is that my tibia feels really close to the surface of my skin. And my skin feels like dried mud or paste, like it is cracking and crumbling every time I flex my calf or point my toes. My fancy Brooks running shoes finally came in, so hopefully they will make things a little better. I don't know if it's worth all this just to prove a fat chick can run. Haven't I defied enough fat girl stereotypes? Sometimes I order the veggie of the day instead of fries because it genuinely sounds like it will taste better. And I work out semi-regularly. And I actually like clothes shopping. I even date the occasional white guy. What I'm really worried about is that all of this turmoil will have been for nothing. I still can't run continuously for more than 2 minutes. For all the mind games I've successfully played with myself, I can't seem to convince myself that I don't need to stop and walk. Any suggestions for things I can tell myself while running? So far the most effective has been "You're not done until you've thrown up or passed out."

Campus

Tonight I was reminded of how good I am at manipulating myself into being lazy. I had a final paper/presentation due tonight, so I've gotten maybe four hours of sleep in two days. All day I kept telling myself no matter how excited I am to be done, I need to go running after class. After class I was even giddy (probably a combination of being done with that horrid class and being exhausted) about going running. I got home, sat down on the couch, and talked on the phone until it was dark outside. Even though I live in the ghetto, I normally wouldn't be that worried about running in my neighborhood after dark, but I'm still a little spooked from last week's break in (nothing too serious - just a couple of kids looking for a place to hang out at 3am and do what hoodlums do at 3am - once they realized I was home they slid back out the window and took off running). Really, running outside tonight was just not going to work. I secretly congratulated myself for coming up with an irrefutable excuse (can't beat the risk of bodily harm) and decided to reward my cunning ways by ordering a pizza. And then it hit me like a sack of potatoes. I live within spitting distance of the safest place on Earth. Well, maybe not spitting distance (Jenn is from West Virginia - perhaps her vernacular is contagious), but less than 2 miles from the University of Notre Dame. There, they spend billions of dollars a week maintaining the illusion of safety and perfection. Actually, I've been really disappointed in my alma mater lately to hear that they've been so complicit in keeping victims of sexual assualt on campus silent, but that's a topic for another blog. Generally, it really is the safest place on Earth. Nothing scares me less than 19-22 year olds in khakis and North Face fleeces with their Boston Red Sox hats cocked thoughtfully to the side. Our "Couch to 5K" training program has us running in 5 minute intervals this week. I maybe make it to minute two before I slow to a crawl and wonder what in the world I was thinking when I thought I could ever train for a 5K. Jenn convinced me that music would help me keep my mind off things, so I brought my MP3 player. The first song that came on when I started my run was Don't Stop Believing by Journey. ND peeps, you know what a Moment with a capital 'M' that was. Then came a moment I'm not so proud of. Two skinny girls ran past me toward the end of my warm-up walk. So I started running and before I knew it I was running very close behind them making noises that sounded somewhere between a grunt and a growl. They were terrified. They sped up, which I'm sure caused them to ruin their perfectly applied mascara. Normally, I wouldn't just go around terrorizing skinny people. But these are skinny, rich people, you see. I was totally lying earlier when I said that was a moment I'm not so proud of. It was hilarious. Aside from that inspired little sprint, the rest of the course was pretty uneventful. It turns out there are only two songs on that MP3 player, even though I spent several hours earlier in the week loading music on there. Guess that's what you get when you buy a gadget out of a vending machine. Well, not an actual vending machine - Jenn's husband won it for me out of The Claw that's tucked into the corner of our favorite bar. Two songs on repeat. In addition to Don't Stop Believing, I got to listen to Brick in the Wall - the version with the really long intro. At the end there is some dialogue about pudding. The perfect song for a fat girl to run to. I didn't end up ordering the pizza. Instead I ate some chicken and grapes and finished off a bag of baby carrots. I wasn't even "being good", I just didn't want to have to wait for the pizza to get here to eat.