Well, What The Hell Happened There…Huh?

It’s been three months. Three effing months. And what does this prove? That mental illness does, indeed, mess up my day to day life. After keeping up this blog pretty regularly since January, my brain sort of fell apart. Why? Partly because I lowered my medication, I suspect. I did this because Zoloft is known to cause problems with breast feeding and I suspected that it also had something to do with my lowered libido. Another factor was probably stress. The family that I provide child care for has seen its own challenges this year and it has certainly made my job more complicated. I’ve always got my finger in many metaphorical pies (mmmm, pie) and many of them seemed to come to a head all at once. Add to that a freaky oil spill in a hunk of water I’m rather fond of and KERBLAM! The return of the crazy lady is in full swing. Daily panic attacks, sometimes hours long, a sense of constant desolation and the strongly held belief that we are doomed as a people. I’m not say we aren’t, I’m just saying that it had become a certainty to me. No reprieve, no growth, just death and destruction and pain. Am I fun at a party or what?

Howie Knew There Was SOMETHING Wrong With Her Brain

So that’s where I lived for a few months. Somewhere in there I decided that it was so not effing worth it. I re-upped my serotonin re-uptake inhibitor. I know when I’m licked. Okay, maybe not right away, but soon thereafter. Well, within a few months.

So after my mini vacation in brain hell, is there anything at all that I took away from it, besides a lingering sense of ennui? Glad you asked (or at least that I pretended you asked…)

Sure. In an attempt to fight off the illness that was overtaking my brain, I did something I’ve never done before. I ran. Like, moving my body with speed across the pavement ran. Why did I think this would help? The idea first occurred to me when I read this article at  work. It talked about a program run out of Victoria that encouraged folks with mental illness, homeless people and those fighting addiction to take up running. It cited both individual anecdotal results and research based evidence from reputable sources like Duke University. It planted a seed, I suppose.

I wasn’t certain how to start. So I bought a 99¢ iPod app called Get Running (’cause what else is a nerdy girl to do?) What it did was provide audio cues over my music as to when to start to run, walk, break, stretch, etc. The first day I ran for less than a minute, three times over, with breaks in between each one. I could barely do it. I’ve never been very sporty, and my former fat kid status made participation equal humiliation. I’m large chested – I usually wear an F-cup, no kidding – which made running seem like a painful, impossible task. Still, I’m scrappy, so I figured if it had a chance of working, I was gonna damn well do it. I have one sports bra, a super constructed bit of magic created by Enell. I had a pair of hand me down runners from my big sis. I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I just did it. Three times a week. And very slowly I’ve been upping my times. Now I can run for ten minutes straight. Throw in walk breaks and I’m up to twenty. That might not sound like much to the super-marathoners out there, but it means a heckuva lot to me.

And the real twist? I love it. I mean it. I look forward to it. I feel amazing when I do it. I believe it’s helping me be well. It’s odd, coming from someone who frequently mocked runners as crazy, that running makes me less crazy.

So after my hiatus, I’m back. Actively trying to be well and actively trying to conceive. Wish me the best for both, ’cause the ennui is a hard enemy.

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Tags: depression, exercise, mental health, mental illness, pregnancy, running, stress