disbelief.

I’m really not sure I believe myself some days. On my “down days”, sometimes I think I’ve done too much thinking and not enough doing. Perhaps that is really the source of my depression. Perhaps, it’s not even real. The grey veil or black dog or whatever I call it these days, is just a result of wasted talent and idle hands. 

For the longest time I lived for art (writing/music/visual), and it was all I was good at. Then I discovered I had talents in other areas that I hadn’t ever thought. People starting peppering me with these strange comments and suggestions as to what I should do with my life and why. They filled me with all these great expectations when my desires were really simple. All I wanted to do with my life was create. Whether it was creating novels or art or models, I just wanted to create something that would last. 

Then the expectations grew. It wasn’t good enough to be curious or creative. I had to be a lawyer, a legal assistant, a marketer, a business woman, a… something. All these expectations have grown into a beast of Self-Doubt that I can’t even contain. Most days this beast of Self-Doubt is so huge that it paralyzes me and prevents me from doing anything remotely useful or creative. It’s just there, sapping all the creative energy from me. All the energy from me in general, really. 

I just go through my day performing tasks for others, pleasing others, and rarely (if ever) doing anything for myself. Some people are perfectly happy living their lives for others. I can respect that. But when I wake up every morning wondering why I bother and why I haven’t just drank myself into a ditch somewhere… something’s amiss. 

I don’t think that’s depression. I think that’s dissatisfaction with life. I think that’s being misunderstood and filled with unrealistic expectations, and disappointment when those expectations are not met. 

I remember there was a time where curiosity about life and creativity kept my inner fires burning bright. Now I don’t know anymore. 

Call it depression. Call it whatever you want. But I don’t think it’s all in my head. Thank you for listening to my caffeine-fueled ramblings.

The Weakness

The Weakness visits my body at the most unexpected times. It is an unwelcome guest that I’ve tried to politely shoo away. He often visits along with the Black Dog who follows me nearly wherever I go, unless put him on a leash and leave him. When the weakness takes over, the world is bleak, every muscle aches, I can’t remember my goals, my dreams, or my aspirations. I begin to question my intelligence and the reason for my existence. I can only conclude that there is no real reason to my existence, but the Weakness ensures that I make no reasons for myself. This is when the Black Dog takes my side. He inadvertently brings painful memories and failure with him. The Black Dog is silent… all he needs to do is look into my eyes and all of the nasty, negative feelings are resurrected.

I forget how to do all things that I once loved. I forget that doing those things is vital to my existence, else I’ll quietly vanish into oblivion with no one attributing a single accomplishment or stroke of genius to my name.

The Weakness awakens a deep hatred. I being to list off all the things and people that I despise. I note all those that I think are better off dead.

But then… I’m too tired to care.

Even typing these very words is a burden to me. It’s taxing on my brain, my eyes and my physical fingers. All I wish to do is sleep. More than that, I just want to disappear… where no one will find me. At least for a little while.

This attitude is a step up from the past attitude. When I slipped, I usually wished for eternal slumber rather than a brief escape. Death is an attractive option when your body is in unbearable pain. One day I will escape… one day…

Running and centering.

I first encountered the concept of centering in my high school drama class. Since we were all hyperactive teenage students, our teacher liked to begin the class with a brief centering exercise. A couple of us were appointed to select music for the exercise, which usually resulted in listening to loud punk/metal music for 5 minutes…despite the teacher’s suggestion to select ‘softer music’. A foreign concept to hormonal, adrenaline-fueled drama kids.

Since then, I’ve actually learned what that concept means. Centering is basically the practice of mindfulness–just explained differently. In both exercises, you’re encouraged to bring your focus to the present moment and recognize fleeting sensations within your body and in your outer environment. You observe the rise and fall of your chest with every breath, the rhythm of your breath, any painful sensations in the body, and the minor noises in the environment.

When I run just for the sake of running, mindfulness is a natural state. I recognize those same bodily rhythms and sensations as I do when I sit and meditate. My body is occupied, so my mind is free to focus on what it will. There is no forced action, so I can push my body to whatever speed is comfortable. After a run where there is little resistance, I feel calm and happy. Often, those are the runs on which I run the fastest. It’s a natural flow. 

I also tend to be most creative and attentive after calming, focused runs. It’s vastly different from the forced runs I used to slog my way through. It seems three different runs, three times a week is my happy medium. More than that, I grow tired and more susceptible to injury/illness. Less than that and I fall back into the ‘crazy horse mind’. 

Life is all about balance and the elegant dance between two extremes.

Confessions.

I have a confession to make. I have an addiction. 

My addiction is not to any particular substance, or activity. I am addicted to a state of being. I am addicted to a particular unhealthy mindset. I am addicted to…

depression.

“How can someone be addicted to a mood disorder?”, you might ask. Depression is merely caused by an imbalance of brain chemicals so surely the sufferer is merely a victim to depression’s will. Yes and no. It can be helped. There are ways to alleviate those feelings of gloom, and ways to embrace things the way they are. I have accepted my condition as an unalterable, unchangeable part of me, rather than something that just happens.

I confess I am addicted to the sympathy I receive from others, and the sensation of being part of crowd. We are the stigmatized; we are the Depressed. I love to roll around in the negative sensations and hope that they inspire some sort of dramatic events, which I can use as fodder for my artistic ventures. I love that I can use the phrase “You just don’t understand” and feel validated, because I am suffering. People cannot see the extent of my suffering which is even more tragic. Paradoxically, this addiction stifles my creativity and breeds stagnancy. I don’t want to help my situation, because I would lose my excuse for self-pitying. 

It is time that I confess. It is time that I begin to take small steps in order to stop this addiction. I need to move on and grow. 

But I just can’t do it alone.

What Used to Be

What used to be is so different from what is now. What is now is a product of over-exertion, dissatisfaction, disillusionment, undernutrition, malnutrition, and disinterest. What is now is a tired, cynical, duller version of the sparkling human being that once was. What is now is the remnants of fallen dreams, unfulfilled goals, and drudgery. A caterpillar who became a whimsical butterfly, only to have its wings ruthlessly torn off. 

If only I could reach into the past and rescue those dreams, that spark, that energy… all that was before entering the world of self-medication and self-mutilation. Before burned bridges. Before trading my goals for someone else’s. 

My heart has turned to iron before your eyes. I know too much about human nature and science of “love” to damn well believe in it. Love is just a means to an end. We are, by nature, polygamous creatures who seek a way out at any moment. We are the same creatures who try to actively deny our impulses by buying into the idea of monogamy and wrapping it in an expensive package called “marriage”. If it weren’t for stubborn, illogical emotions or the prevalence of STDs, then perhaps I wouldn’t seek solace in the arms of just one. I’m cynical of happy couples, because I think they haven’t hit the breaking point yet, or maybe I’m jealous that they share interests or support each other because they generally care that their partner chases after their dreams. But…jealousy is an ugly word.

I used to have dreams, plans, goals and aspirations that would take up much of my time. Time that would be spent in solitude or in libraries with others who were also tumbling down their own path. Now I waste my time on social networking sites and hope that someone recognizes the artwork that I never produced, or the voice that I never let anyone hear aside from a few drunkards in obscure bars. I pray that someone will recognize the brilliant pieces I never wrote and songs I never sang. I hope that someone recognizes all the hard work I never put into researching or applying to various higher-education institutions. All of these things, I hope earnestly. 

Squirming and humming, I am the butterfly with torn wings. 

Praying to no god, I am the agnostic without an audience.

Why do I keep myself alive? 
Not a question I can answer. Not now.

Coming Clean…

Some of you may have visited this site because of my posts regarding running, and looked at my new title in confusion. I don’t blame you there.

It is my responsibility to be up front and honest with my readers, so here I am. I’m going to state this as plainly as possible: I will not be running a marathon. I will no longer be following a program. I will not track miles run, calories consumed, or macro/micronutrient values. I will no longer be subscribing to running magazines. If this offends you in any way, I suggest you unfollow me now.

Just because I will no longer be participating in a marathon, does not mean I will stop running. On the contrary. I will run when I feel like it, for as long as I would like. Most will be outside and likely without any watches or gadgetry.

The past month has been extremely triggering and draining for me, and I’m thinking perhaps I’m just not cut out for long-distance racing. While I admire others who run long distance races, I simply can’t stick to a strict activity and dietary program. It feels too… dogmatic.

I hope most of you understand and respect my decision to step down. If not, oh well.

When the going gets tough…just keep going.

I’ll be honest with you. I slugged through today’s awful tempo run. It wasn’t the run itself that was awful, but the mindset I was in. I was hella grumpy this morning, even after my morning coffee. I think my energy levels were at an all time low due to lack of sleep for the past three weeks of training (average: 4-6 hours per night).

I dreaded the run, but I did not allow myself to slack and skip the workout, even though I was feeling crappy. I forced myself to get on the dreadmill and run the full six miles. When I found myself trying to justify skipping the run, I threw the hammer down and told myself that it was non-negotiable. I may not be the fastest runner, but I am certainly ridiculously disciplined when it comes to staying on track. The only bad habit I can’t seem to break is not allowing myself enough rest.

I have a really difficult time allowing myself to take some downtime and recover. Though I know it’s inefficient and untrue, I have this idea stuck in my head that more training equals better results. I know this is flawed thinking, but I just can’t let it go. I have been consistently active for 21 days, and I think my body is telling me that I need real rest–not the half-assed rest I have given myself. Yesterday I was so tired after work that washing dishes tired me out. Not a good sign.

I also feel a case of the sniffles trying to sneak up on me and sabotage my marathon-training plans. Though I know I am human and humans get sick, I genuinely think these are warning signs from my body indicating that I need to: Get some rest, stupid. Le sigh.

While my first instinct is to think “Stop being a ninny, you’re still fairly slow compared to [insert elite athlete's name here]“, I now know that I’m being unfair and unrealistic. While training hard and committing to goals is well and good, it’s counterproductive if I don’t allow myself some recovery time. Strength is built while resting, after all. 

I just don’t know how many days of rest are appropriate. One? Two? How does one “rest”? What does one do during that time?