“I can’t believe I’m going to run 13 miles.”
“Calm down. You don’t have to do it today.”
“No, but still ... 13 miles!”
“When the time comes, you’ll be ready.”
“Yeah. I guess. Besides, it’s not like I have to do it. I mean, if race day comes and I really don’t want to run, I don’t have to.”
“But you’re going to.”
“Sure. Of course. But not today.”
By the time this initial inner-conflict is over, I’m almost at the top of my first hill. It’s a small, gradual one — perfect for starting out. It gets my legs moving, my heart pumping and my mind over the first of many mental blocks.
I’ve never considered myself a runner. I was a decent athlete in high school, but I was also the kid who cheated in gym class. Ten laps to warm up? Sure. Mind if I count by twos? Most of the time I’d just jog until the fastest kid, the one who had lapped me five times, was done, and I’d stop, too, holding my heart and pretending to wipe away sweat.
I could sprint both 30-minute halves of my varsity field hockey game without difficulty, but running just to run? With no ball to chase? Forget it. I rarely completed even one of the four laps we were supposed to do at the beginning of our practices. A runner’s heart I have never possessed.
And yet, last April when my boyfriend asked me if I wanted to run a half-marathon in October, I said, “yes,” and not just on a whim. I contemplated the question for a good three minutes before I answered. Maybe even five. I thought about how little I enjoy running and how many times I’ve insisted that I have no interest in marathons, half or otherwise. But mostly I thought about how much the idea of committing to such an endeavor scared me. And that was the clincher. Fear. When I realized that was the primary factor holding me back, I knew I had to do it.
While it’s true that a certain amount of half-marathon-aphobia is perfectly rational, this particular fear runs much deeper for me. It’s not jut a fear of running 13 miles — it’s a fear of breaking; a fear of pushing too hard and suffering a complete and total collapse. Because I’ve been there. I’ve done that.
When I was 25, the depression that I had been dodging for years finally caught up to me. It reached out for me like a monster wave breaking on the beach and held me under until I stopped struggling. Of course, I was one of the lucky ones who emerged from the psych-ward with at least half a will to live, and I was able to hold onto it long enough to heal myself through extensive therapy (thank you Nancy MacKay) and minimal meds. But still, I have these ... quirks, let’s say, one of them being a reluctance to take on anything that could overtax me and potentially lead to another breakdown.
Part of me knows that I’m beyond breakdowns and balanced enough to handle whatever comes my way, but there’s another part of me that lives in fear of a second episode. It was a frightening period in my life, and I never want to go back there again.
“And you won’t,” the dialogue continues as I tackle my last hill. “You’re healthier now.”
“Yeah, but people who experience one major depression have a greater chance of experiencing another one.”
“But you’ve worked hard to heal, and you continually challenge yourself to become stronger and smarter. You face your fears and tackle them head on. You’re going to run 13 miles!”
“Yeah, I guess I am,” I realize as I cruise toward my home, the finish line finally in sight. Thank God I don’t have to do it today.
Belinda Ray is a homeschooling mother and freelance writer who finds time to write when her children and their friends have lightsaber battles in the yoga room (but only if the laundry is already folded and everyone’s been fed).