An article, and a trip down memory lane

This article - a great read - was in today's New York Times Magazine:

The Boy with a Thorn in His Joints

It's about a little kid who was diagnosed with juvenile idiopathic arthritis and assigned a battery of prescription drugs as treatment. When the pharmaceuticals didn't work, the boy's mom (who penned the piece) decided to take a more holistic approach and sought a supplemental, diet-based treatment. Six weeks after the little boy stopped consuming gluten and dairy products, his illness became inactive, and he was able to ditch the medication.

Of course, it's one kid. It's not proof that going GF cures autoimmune diseases. The author fully accepts this. But as she also points out, "Data on diet and supplements are lacking, at least partly because they are hard to get. It’s hard to design a great study around something with so many variables, like the food we eat. Pharmaceuticals, on the other hand, lend themselves easily to randomized, double-blind, placebo-controlled clinical trials."

With the exception of some brief and regrettable forays back into the world of wheat, I've been gluten free for three years now. To a significant extent, I'd forgotten why, exactly, I decided to alter my diet in the first place. So I went back and reviewed my journal entries from around that time. They helped me remember just how sick I felt (headaches, chest pain, acid reflux, sinus infections), and just how quickly relief followed the dietary modifications I made.

A few examples:

Dec. 15, 2009:

I told A. [a naturopathic physician] about my acid reflux issues and how I sometimes feel like my sinuses and throat get all swollen after I eat. She thinks I have a food allergy (maybe several food allergies). Apparently, GERD and food allergies are often related - though did my stupid doctor bother to tell me this during our 15 minute follow-up session this summer? No. (Not real happy with the general practitioners I've seen lately...) A. recommended that I try eliminating soy, wheat, dairy, eggs, and nuts for several weeks, then introducing them one by one. Blurrrrgh. She's right; I need to do it. But it's difficult, especially around the holidays.

I haven't been eating much wheat or soy recently, so I think I'll start with those. The food plan I was following at the end of November didn't include any wheat products, and I can easily substitute my soy milk with rice milk.

I'm pretty sure it IS an allergy, but it's so weird that it developed recently. I never had this issue when I was a kid.

Dec. 17, 2009:

I'm pretty sure I'm allergic or at least intolerant to wheat. I've been keeping track of what happens after I eat it, and usually my body responds in the following way (within 30 minutes or so of consuming wheat products):

-Sinus congestion

-Lump in throat/swelling of throat (isn't too bad, but of course this is a problem and I need to get it checked out!)

-Wheezing

-Headache

-Chest pain

I looked it up and - surprise! - wheat allergies CAN cause chest pain, which was the reason I went to the doc last summer in the first place.

You would think this would have been more obvious to me before now, but... nope. Once I was diagnosed with acid reflux, I just figured all of the above symptoms made sense.

I guess it could also be a dairy allergy (because I often consume cheese with wheat), so I need to experiment more. However, I've been eating cheese for breakfast on many days, and it doesn't seem to affect me.

I know I can give up wheat, so I'm kind of hoping I've pinpointed the problem. I'd rather change my diet than continue taking medicine that isn't helping. I guess I should contact my doctor and ask for a referral so that I can see an allergist in the new year.

Dec 20, 2009:

Eating has been a little tricky. I don't know what my deal is. I seem to be having weird reactions after I eat, but pinpointing what is causing them is tricky. T. made me an omelet yesterday morning before we left, and I felt HORRIBLE after eating it. I basically had an asthma attack. WTF. I've eaten eggs all my life and never had any problems with them. So... yeah. I'm limiting myself to fruits, veggies, and non-processed meat. And Enjoy Life snacks, which don't contain eggs, dairy, etc. I also tried some soy milk today to see if it affected me (didn't seem to, so maybe that's okay?). I don't understand why my body is freaking out on me. I know I need to see my doctor again - because what if it's not allergies? What if it's something else? - but she was such a butthead the last time that I don't really feel like giving her my business. She doesn't listen.

Jan 14, 2010:

Since right before Christmas, I've been avoiding wheat, corn, soy, and eggs. I'm almost certain I have a wheat intolerance. It's known to cause headaches and chest pain, both of which I often had before I changed my diet (I was diagnosed with GERD specifically because I had inexplicable chest pains). I haven't experienced either in the last few weeks. The post-meal throat inflammation is also gone. I had a really strange reaction after eating a couple of scrambled eggs right before we went to Chattanooga, so I'm off those, too. As for soy and corn, they're in so many processed foods that I decided to dump them as well. So far, I don't miss them - or any of them, really.

I am shocked at how easy it's been to give up pastries, cookies (well - except for the Enjoy Life gluten-free cookies, but they're kind of pricey so I can't eat a ton of them anyway), bread, waffles, cereal, etc. It's amazing. Keep in mind that I am not a very patient person. I don't do well with cravings. If I crave something, I eventually end up eating it. But I honestly have absolutely no desire to scarf down processed carbs.

We're doing a lot more of our own cooking using whole, natural ingredients. What I've been eating:

Breakfast: Rice grits cooked with apples, bananas, or other fruit and drizzled with honey. That might sound gross, but OMG, it is so good! I've always had trouble stomaching oatmeal, but rice grits are easy. Sometimes I have a piece of cheese, too.

Lunch: Usually dinner leftovers.

Dinner: Meat and veggies or rice and veggies. We have had homemade beef stew (which was actually really good, though so filling that I felt stuffed for hours afterward), rice pasta and sauce (rice pasta is awesome - it doesn't get as mushy as regular pasta), soup, and chicken and veggies. Tonight, we made baked chicken with potatoes, celery, carrots, and red onion. SO DELICIOUS - one of the best meals I've made in a long time, and the only extra ingredients I used were salt, pepper, and a daub of A-1 steak sauce (which, yes, does have some corn starch in it, but which otherwise has a straightforward ingredients list).

Dessert: I'm eating less dessert than I used to simply because the meals really fill me up. When I do need a snack, I go for the afore-mentioned gluten-free cookies, Enjoy Life chocolate, or dried papaya.

Oh, and? I haven't taken my GERD medicine in a week. I have had a little reflux, but that might be because I can eat like a linebacker. I should be able to quell that by going a bit easier at the dinner table. Since the chest pains and throat inflammation are gone, I just don't see a point in relying on a prescription.

*  *  *
Incidentally, as I was trawling for GF-related posts, I ended up digging through all my other journal entries, too. Just reading them exhausted me. I was an emotional wreck back then. Of course, sometimes I still am - but not the way I used to be. Now I have more good days than bad days. Three years ago? I didn't know what a good day really entailed.

Update: Low, tired, vegan-on-the-road, diet. Pause.

1. Low. In the past week, a couple of situations with my advisor have left me feeling crushed, frustrated, and stupid. Based on what I've heard from other people about the final years of a Ph.D. program, this is par for the course. But it sucks.

I love what I do so much, and yet it feels like such an uphill battle because subtle sexism is rampant. Moreover, many of these men don't even know they're doing it, so it's tough for them to recognize the problem, much less change their communication tactics.

I don't want to be treated like a little girl. I don't want condescending lectures about stuff I already know and know well. I am GOOD at what I do - in the field, in the lab, AND in the classroom. I have something to offer! All I want is to be able to contribute to my scientific community and share my passion for science with my student collaborators. I don't want to live in fear that I won't be able to do what I love simply because I don't speak in the same "language" as many of my counterparts. As stated in a Scientific American article published late last year:

"Scientific inquiry is surely at stake, said Mary Anne Holmes, a mineralogist at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and former president of the Association for Women Geoscientists. "Women may have a different way of asking questions about the science and communicating the consequences," Holmes said.

Studies have shown that groups make better choices when group members have diverse experiences and points of view, Holmes noted. It's not that women look at the data and see some big feminine question that's not being asked or that men don't ask good questions, she added. Men "just don't ask all the questions."

And it's funny how, when I start talking about this stuff around my male colleagues, I see a lot of eye rolling. Their perspective on this is different, and I end up feeling like a whiner.

2. Tired. I slept all day. This last work trip was an exhausting one: we were pulling long shifts, some of which went through the night. I felt fine while I was there, but as soon as I took my seat on the flight home yesterday, I felt like I'd been hit with a brick. I still do.

3. I'm going to write a post about my attempts at vegan living on the road. The upshot of it is that although I could have done it, I broke down when I discovered a well-stocked candy drawer during my midnight lab sessions. Fun-size Milky Ways taste so. damn. good. when you're exhausted and bored. And once the sugar hit my system, it was allllll over. I singlehandedly decimated that candy supply.

4. Diet. I tracked my calories until right around the time I started inhaling chocolate. Then I decided to "take a break." I'm confident I can get back on track now that I'm home.

5. Press pause. Can I do that right now? Press pause on life and take a time out? Preferably on a sunny beach with an alcoholic beverage? I'd like to.

Using the Lose It! App

When I adopted a gluten free diet/lifestyle/whatever you want to call it three years ago, I lost 10 pounds without trying. It took me a while to figure out what I could actually eat, and in the interim I spent more time hemming and hawing over food labels than actually eating. (Not really, but that's how I felt.) For my height and body type, that weight loss was healthy. I felt great. I thought I'd found my "new normal."

But as I discovered when I made a first-time-in-months trip to the scale over the holidays, I've regained most of that weight. Part of it is possibly due to Zoloft: weight gain is a common side effect of it and many other antidepressants. Part of it is more likely due to the fact that I have more food options now than I used to (including processed foods, thanks to the uptick in gluten free snack production). School has become less stressful in the last few months, meaning that I no longer forget to eat on a regular basis. And I consume quite a bit of rice and rice products. Rice is a calorie-dense food; a little goes a long way. It's also possible that I've gained some muscle mass via the Xtend Barre workouts. That's fine - I'll take that muscle - but given that my jeans have become tighter, too, I'm guessing it's not all muscle.

So I decided to pay closer attention to what I eat - and more importantly, how much I eat - and lose those 10 pounds. To do that, I enlisted the help of a free phone app called Lose It!

Basically, the Lose It! app allows you to track your food consumption, exercise, and weight loss on your phone. You start by setting a goal. I decided on a goal of 1/2 a pound per week for a total of 11 pounds. The program calculates a daily calorie goal:

Then you just log your food every day. You can either use the search engine, OR you can use your phone to scan the bar codes on food packaging. The program will automatically pull the nutritional information from the bar code and save it! Isn't that cool?

You can label each food as breakfast, lunch, dinner, or snack. The program tallies the calories for each of those categories.

Assuming that all of the nutritional information is logged correctly, you can get a daily breakdown of fats, carbs, and protein:

And then you can track your weight. I've been weighing in every day, just as a motivational tool:

You can also download summaries and reports to Excel:

What I like about this app:

1. It's helped me realize (or re-realize) the importance of serving size. Because I eat foods that are generally healthy, I've gotten into the habit of assuming that if it's healthy, I can have as much of it as I want. But three servings of rice at dinner is about 600 calories, which is a huge chunk of my daily caloric needs. Moderation? What?

2. The bar code scanner is easy to use, and the food search engine is pretty robust. That's nice because I haven't had to spend much time inputting nutritional/calorie information piece by piece. That said, I've noticed that sometimes the scanned nutritional info isn't exactly the same as what's on the packaging, so I double check. Also, the exercise list needs a little fleshing out. Running choices are limited to very specific paces, meaning that I have to round up or down in my estimate of energy burned.

3. The program saves your food choices to a handy personal food library. For instance, I've been eating oatmeal and almond milk for breakfast. My selected serving size is saved along with all of the other information for these foods, so I just have to tap on those selections and press save. No adjustments necessary unless I change the serving size.

4. It's visual. I like being able to go to the "Goals" tab and see the graph. It helps me resist the urge to dive into a bag of chips.

5. It's encouraged me to plan ahead a little more, especially for lunch. I've been assembling my lunch the night before and logging it the morning of. That way, I don't have to stop and do it while at school, and I can make sure I leave enough wiggle room for dinner and snacks.

Overall, I really like it! It feels weird to be focused on my weight in this way, but I think I needed a bit of a wake up call.

One of the best decisions I made in 2012: antidepressants

I wish that eating well, running, and staying busy were enough to keep depression and anxiety at bay for me, but they aren't. Those are all things I've been doing for years, and still - for years - I had this constant, nagging feeling of Something is wrong with me. I planned my own funeral for fun. I wrote depressing entries in my diary. I made friends and lost them, over and over again. Something is wrong with me. I got angry and threw things. I cried while lying on the floor of the bathroom, light off, door locked. I quit things, changed jobs, viewed moving once every year or two as a perfectly logical approach to dealing with social discomfort. Something is wrong with me.

And yet throughout that time, I looked totally functional to most people. I went to school or work. I excelled in classes and in my jobs. I smiled, bantered, was personable. I maintained my relationship with my husband. I had a kid.

Few people outside my immediate family knew how much I was struggling. I didn't know how much I was struggling. Periodic bouts of exhaustion, near-constant irritability, and daily anxiety attacks were, from my perspective, just part of the fabric of my personality. And to a certain degree, one gets used to feeling bad when one has felt that way since her early teens. I had enough coping strategies in place (like working really hard, eating well, running, sleeping, zoning out, distancing myself from others if I might go all Jekyll-and-Hyde on them, etc.) that I got by, for the most part. As the years went on I also became adept at hiding what was really going on.

That's a common theme in mental health: hiding. Which is partly why so many of us who struggle with difficult mental experiences feel so isolated and alone. We don't want to embarrass ourselves, so we compensate by striving to look normal (or better yet, GREAT!); when we do furtively glance over the wall to see if there's anyone else out there, the place looks empty. In reality the mental health landscape is full of people struggling with similar things, all hiding from one another, afraid (often understandably so) to stand up and put it all out there. I think that's slowly changing. Finally.

I started therapy long before I started taking an antidepressant, a strategy that now seems somewhat backwards. Don't get me wrong: therapy has been invaluable in that it's offered a place where I can dig through my life and identify where, how, and why ineffective habits developed. It's given me tools: I've learned how to set boundaries, be nice to myself, combat negative thoughts, handle conflict, and be more assertive. I needed the therapy; it was one of the best decisions I have ever made. The problem was, implementing these strategies while dealing with full-on depression and anxiety was like trying to build a life raft while in the active process of drowning. 

Only after I got in touch with a psychiatrist, received a diagnosis (major depression and PTSD), and started on Zoloft (a relatively reliable, long-studied antidepressant used specifically to treat PTSD, among other conditions) did I realize just how long I'd been on the verge of being pulled under permanently. I'd gotten so used to treading water that I didn't know life's not supposed to be a constant day-to-day, year-to-year struggle. I did recognize that the bad times were growing progressively worse. By last January I was having the conversation with my therapist of, "I won't end my life. But I think about it. But I won't do it. But sometimes I want to just not exist," and him saying, "What you're holding onto is an emergency exit option. As long as that door is open, even just a little, you are in danger."

It's hard to describe how different my life is now that I am taking that little white pill every morning. Maybe it looks the same from the outside. I'm still doing what I've always done: working hard, running, putting time and effort into my relationships, challenging myself. But from the inside, it's like Extreme Makeover: Headspace Edition. My anxiety is still there, but I'm mostly able to manage it. I still get depressed, but I recognize the warning signs and know to take action before things get really bad. And all the techniques from therapy? Now I can actually put them into practice on a consistent basis. (Turns out, positive self-talk really works, if you can make yourself do it!)

Sometimes it's hard to remember what it used to be like. I do find myself wondering why I couldn't pull it together, why I made things so hard for myself. But then I'll read an old journal entry or think back to one of my earlier sessions in therapy, and I'll remember that I didn't do this to myself, that I was working as hard as I possibly could to fix my brain. I couldn't save myself no matter how much CBT, EMDR, or western meditation I did. A person with two broken arms might know everything about what it takes to construct a house; she might have all the tools, all the blueprints. But unless her broken arms are set and have a chance to heal, there's no way she's going to be able to actively use her arms to build it.

That's what medicine has done for me: it's put me in a place where my brain can rest long enough to (hopefully) get better. Sometimes I do wonder whether I will ever be able to stop taking Zoloft. Part of me believes it's just a temporary support beam, and that if I can just use this time to reconstruct and galvanize my way of thinking, I'll eventually be able to remove that support. Another part of me worries that if I ever stop, the whole thing will collapse. At any rate, I'm not ready to quit medication just yet. It's working for me; if it's working, why stop? The statistics also give me pause. Depression is one of those things where if you experience it a couple of times, you're likely to experience it again in the future, and it might be worse the next time.

Of course, every person's experiences are unique, and that's certainly true when it comes to antidepressants. I've read that for some people, they don't work; some people have side effects that negate the positive outcomes; other people do well on them for awhile, and then the medication loses its effectiveness. For all I know, Zoloft might lose its oomph for me, too. But for now, I'm just grateful that it's working. It's one of the best - perhaps the best - decision I made this year.

Things I love about running: continuity

One thing I love about running is that it keeps me centered when I travel. Running gives me a sense of continuity when everything else - the climate, the food, the atmosphere, the people I'm around - is different from what I experience in my everyday life.  

I've been traveling a lot lately: several days per month on average. The trips are necessary and beneficial from a professional point of view, but they can be difficult because sometimes being away from home makes me feel like I'm losing my connection to myself. My brain starts getting kind of fragmented. The worst case of that occurred during a work trip last June; when I came home, I felt so depressed and out of it that I spent a week in bed. I don't want that to happen again.

Running helps. Wherever I am, I can put on my Asics, head out the door, and physically/mentally feel just as I do when I run at home or anywhere else. I am so grateful for that. I do not know what I'd do on these trips if I weren't a runner.

Here in Berkeley, I ran 6 miles yesterday and 7 miles today. I loved how the damp, drizzly air felt as I breathed it in, and how the bay looked from the hills above the university. I loved how the leaves on some of the maple trees are still a brilliant red. I loved seeing so many people out walking, biking, and running on a weekend morning. Running has been one of my favorite things to do here and a great way to see the city.

 Berkeley Hills

I love the neighborhoods here. I love how the houses are all so unique and how the trees are so grown.

Depression, etc.: How important is a diagnosis?

At my second therapy session three-ish years ago - right after Therapy Guy finished my intake questionnaire - I asked him what was wrong with me. I wanted a diagnosis. I'd already done my research and had narrowed down the possibilities, so I was quite prepared to handle whatever answer he gave.

"There is nothing wrong with you," he responded. 

Except that answer.

It pissed me off. A lot. How did he know? Had he lived inside my head for the past two decades? Nope. I knew something was not right. He simply didn't know me well enough. Because if he did, he would surely see that there was something very, very, very wrong.

Now that I am familiar with him and his compassionate, kind nature, I know that what he didn't mean was, You're making all this up. You're just some thirtysomething suburbanite with too much time on her hands, and you don't need to be here. Instead, what he meant was, You are perfectly fine and worthy just as you are - you just don't believe it yet. You may be struggling but you can make your life better. 

For a long time, he would give some version of the "There's nothing wrong with you" statement every time I asked him what my problem was. Even when I brought in journal entries that made me sound insane. Even when I cut myself. Even when I called him really late at night from two time zones away, crying into his voicemail. He always insisted that I was an acceptable person, deserving of concern and care, and that there was nothing innately wrong or bad about me.

Therapy Guy is not a big fan of the psychiatric diagnostic manual. He views it as a collection of symptoms ("experiences," he calls them) packaged in a variety of convenient ways. Patients in the mental health system are typically labeled with one of these "experience packages," even though everyone's set of experiences is unique, and even though the labels are often given for the primary purpose of appeasing insurance providers. That is why Therapy Guy doesn't deal with insurance companies, and why he treats the individual, not a diagnosis. I see what he means: looking at the diagnostic manual, I could probably give myself a whole slew of labels, and yet none of them would really fit exactly what I deal with.

On the other hand, his reluctance to offer a diagnosis has always bothered me a little, and when I finally did receive one from my psychiatrist early this year, it was kind of a relief. I deal with symptoms of depression. I deal with symptoms of PTSD. And while that doesn't mean I equate them with who I am or the change I am capable of, yes, it's really nice to have a framework of reference from which to work. (I now realize that Therapy Guy was already working within that general framework, so it's not as if I was totally off track in terms of trying to get better.) My psychiatrist's choice of antidepressant - Zoloft - was based on research indicating that it is effective for PTSD. That's why she picked it as a starting point for me. Pharmaceutically, it gave us a place to begin.

Moreover, it's nice to feel that I am not alone. When I hear someone say that they struggle with depression or PTSD, I know that even though our experiences aren't exactly the same, we share some common ground. I can relate to the challenge. It's comforting. The label - while limiting in some ways, and inadequate - creates a sense of community, and for people like me who often feel isolated and different, that sense of community is meaningful to me.

The important thing to realize about mental health diagnoses (as with many physical health diagnoses) is that they aren't necessarily permanent. Mental health is a fluid thing, and our personal choices play a big role in it. Most psychiatric conditions are treatable. Doesn't mean treatment is easy, but it's possible. So even though I was diagnosed with PTSD in February, I may not always have PTSD (there are many, many excellent treatments for PTSD; with enough time and support, people do recover). And even though I may have a genetic predisposition to depression, I may be able - with help and vigilance - to avoid the worst relapses. 

As Therapy Guy likes to say, People have an immense capacity for change.

So I kiss goodbye to every little ounce of pain

Today I saw my therapist for the first time in several weeks. His wife just had a baby, so he's been taking a paternity leave.

Two years ago, a year ago, even six months ago, his absence would have been very difficult for me to cope with. The inability to reach him by phone, to set up an emergency appointment, would have made me feel panicked and abandoned.

(I know that might sound weird to some of you. All I can tell you is that when you have grown up feeling like you can't really depend on or trust anyone because they will eventually screw you over, and when you have so many relational hangups that are so ingrained in you that for the longest time you don't even realize they are there, when someone trustworthy and parental finally does come along and sticks with you, the bond is very strong. And age does not matter.)

But this time, I just felt happy for him. I was so busy with running, working, traveling, parenting, having fun with friends and my husband, and - dare I say it? - thoroughly enjoying my life that when my therapist finally did call me back to set up a new appointment, I didn't get around to calling him back for nearly a week. I was just in my zone, and I wasn't in a hurry to see him again. As it was, I felt like I had little to discuss.

Fast forward to my session with him today. We talked about recent goings-on, how being nice to myself by "talking" to myself in a positive way is actually working, about how even though circumstances haven't really changed (including the common presence of difficult emotions), my way of handling them has. I have worked very hard to change the way I treat myself, to be more self-aware, and to give myself space and encouragement. What I've recently realized is that little by little, I have established an internal "new normal." 

These are all very good things, but I ended up crying quite a bit during the session . I don't quite understand why, but I think part of it is the sense that this very difficult part of my journey is coming to an end. And although this journey to deal with the past and rewire old behavioral patterns has been hard, it has also been intensely profound. One amazing thing about it is the bond I have developed with my therapist. It is a deep and meaningful relationship, as is any relationship in which individuals overcome an exceptionally difficult challenge together. 

But I don't need my therapist the way I used to. Even if I do feel depressed again, even if difficult situations arise (as they surely will), I am simply less dependent on him now, and that likely won't change even if circumstances should nosedive. It's a good thing, but it makes me feel sad, too, because it means that our paths are starting to diverge.

It's not just about him. It's also about the hard things I have realized, the difficult memories I've had to look full in the face, the struggle to take responsibility for my own life now. I'm not the same as I used to be. And even though I like my life now, I guess there is some sadness in realizing that there are certain things I am moving on from.

This post sounds sappier than I intended it to be. I heard this song on the way home and was struck by how it mirrors the mood in my head right now:

Two Fingers - Jake Bugg

"So I kiss goodbye to every little ounce of pain

Light a cigarette and wish the world away
I got out, I got out, I'm alive and I'm here to stay
So I hold two fingers up to yesterday
Light a cigarette and smoke it all away
I got out, I got out, I'm alive and I'm here to stay

There's a story for every corner of this place
Running so hard you got out but your knees got grazed
I'm an old dog but I learned some new tricks yeah"

Reasons to Run: Breaking Down Barriers

Running has done so much for me - physically, mentally, even spiritually, depending on your definition of spirituality. It's helped me get, and stay, in reasonably good shape. It's been a lifeline when I'm depressed; sometimes it's the only thing that gets me up and on my feet. And it's connected me to a larger community, an inclusive, welcoming community with common values and objectives. It's made me feel less alone.

One goal I have for this blog (assuming I don't fall of the blogging wagon again) is to share the "gospel of running," so to speak. ;-) That may sound a little silly, but I think running is one of many potential catalysts for personal change and growth; it's also one that happens to be relatively inexpensive and doesn't require much equipment. I realize that not everyone wants to run, and that other people use other activities - yoga, climbing, religion, therapy, etc. - as catalysts for change. But it's worth touting running as an option.

One reason I love running is because it breaks down so many internal and external barriers, allowing people to be more real and vulnerable with themselves and one another, and more accepting of differences. For instance:

1) In running, race, religion, sexual orientation, age, country of origin, political beliefs, etc. do not matter. They just don't. None of these factors have anything to do with the act of running. Running bypasses, if not destroys, superficial barriers that seem to cause so many problems in our world and that blind us to our common human experiences.

2) In running, weight and appearance do not matter. When I started running, I was embarrassed to run on city streets because I felt fat and thought people were laughing at me. Granted, it is possible that someone may have made fun of me - but certainly no other runner has ever taunted me. That is simply not the running way. True runners respect and encourage other runners - regardless of how they look or what their pace is - simply because they are challenging themselves. As for bystanders who make fun of a runner's appearance? ...Well, they're the ones just standing there, or sitting in their cars in morning traffic. Who are they to cast judgment?

If you're afraid to start running because you're worried about how you look, try to find a place where you feel at least a little safe from the eyes of others, like a quiet park. Better yet, migrate to where the experienced, dedicated runners work out, like a local track, because even if they're in better shape, there's at least a 99.9% chance that they're going to support you and respect you just for getting out there and putting one foot in front of the other.

3) In running, people understand that everybody poops! Run for a while and you will quickly discover that the usual societal taboos regarding bodily functions don't really apply in the running world. Pooping, passing gas, puking, intestinal distress, figuring out where to pee when there's no bathroom available - these are all topics that runners tend to discuss with enthusiasm. Most runners have their fair share of stories involving said topics, and most runners don't blink twice when their running buddies have issues with bodily functions during races or training runs. It goes with the territory. Run for a while and you are sure to encounter a situation where you regret last night's dinner or have to duck behind a tree.

Poop levels the playing field. Again, it's about shared human experiences.

4) In running, pace does not matter. Well, it does matter a little in that if you run with other people, you have to figure out a way to accommodate different speeds. Either you have to split up (which is fine - you're still running together in spirit), or someone has to run faster while someone else runs more slowly (also fine, as modifying your pace will offer an additional challenge to the workout). But generally speaking, runners recognize that it's about the personal challenge. For some, moving from a 10-minute-per-mile pace to a 9-minute pace is a huge accomplishment; for others, running 20 miles at a 9-minute pace is a relaxing run. The important thing is that people meet their own personal goals and, if they so choose, set their own personal records.

5) In running, there's not much room for faking it. Especially if you're pushing yourself. When you run, you're breathing harder, you're focusing on how your body feels and on how far (or how long) you've been running, and there's less room for worrying about what other people think of you. And that is a really good thing, especially when you run with other people. As I've mentioned before, I've had a tough time making and keeping friends because I'm very self-conscious. But with the people I run with, I have little choice but to be myself - even when that means I'm frustrated or tired or grouchy. They see me when I'm not at my best, and that vulnerability provides more fertile ground for these relationships to develop.

6) Running breaks down mental barriers and perceived limitations. This is one of my favorite things about running. When I started, I thought I couldn't run for 10 minutes without stopping. Then one day I did. I thought I couldn't run for 30 minutes without stopping. After a while, I could. I was sure I wouldn't be able to run a marathon. It was a struggle, but I crossed that finish line. Running gives me an opportunity to surpass my own expectations for myself, and that in turn gives me hope/confidence that maybe, just maybe, I can surpass my own expectations in other areas of my life. In this way, it's helped me see that I am capable of change and growth, even when I feel stuck.

Running as a way to mitigate depression and anxiety?

I've been away - not at the loony bin (though sometimes it's certainly a distinct possibility), but at a professional conference. Actually, wait. This professional conference IS like a loony bin, except that few of the people there actually recognize they have issues and the majority of them don't see psychiatrists. Same issues, less recognition. Always interesting.

Anyway, so first I was preparing for this conference (in the form of putting together a talk, which took a ridiculous amount of time and which put a spotlight on my poor graphic design/PowerPoint skills), and then I was at the conference, and then I was drinking and eating and giving my talk and reuiniting with people I hadn't seen in a while. And drinking more. 

Very little running was involved, unfortunately. I mean, I DID run, but they were relatively short workouts on the hotel treadmill. I should have run 18 miles on Sunday and it just didn't happen. Good thing I am in taper mode, since the marathon is in only 2.5 weeks away. I'm thinking of doing 18 miles this Sunday even though I suppose Hal Higdon would not approve. But would it really pose that much of a problem? I have two weeks after that to rest.

Speaking of running...

The last conference I went to was last June, and for whatever reason, it left me reeling and depressed. I don't know whether it was the stress of traveling, dealing with huge crowds of people, being away from my family, or what, but all of a sudden I went from feeling really stable (for the previous 4-5 months) to hitting bottom again. The situation was not good. At one point I wondered whether I might need to check myself into a hospital. The trigger seemed to be this academic conference experience. Thus, I was concerned that this very recent conference - which involved just as many people, almost as much traveling, and a strong dose of stress - might send me reeling down the same path.

Thankfully, it did not. I've been trying to figure out what the difference was between now and last June.

Things that are the same: I'm still taking an antidepressant, same dose. I'm still seeing my therapist every other week or so (actually less these days). Actually, if anything, the summer conference should have been less stressful: I wasn't teaching any classes at that point. I had to present at both meetings.

So what is different? The only major difference is that I'm now training for a marathon and attending butt-kicking barre classes on a regular basis. So could the extra exercise be at the root of this newfound stability (relatively speaking)? In a way, it seems counterintuitive. Marathon training itself takes a lot of dedication and a certain amount of sacrifice. It cuts into work time, family time, and rest time. Then add to that the barre workouts - if I do them 4 times a week, that's another 6 hours where I'm not really attending to my responsibilities. And yes, on a day-to-day basis, it does feel like a lot. I do feel the strain.

On the other hand, my immersion in these activities means that:

(1) I have more energy during the day and I sleep better at night.

(2) I have less time to worry/stress, because when I'm working out I'm very focused on the task at hand.

(3) I'm forced to make transitions more quickly. For instance, even if my mind WANTS to stay in work mode all evening, when I get to barre class, it simply can't. There's not enough energy for that.

(4) I have a better social life. I'm opening up more to RF, getting to know her friends, and starting to get to know the people at Xtend Barre.

Ultimately, I keep myself so occupied that I do not leave as much room for ruminating, worrying, planning, obsessing. I think that's a big part of it. Maybe I've been underestimating the positive long-term effects of exercise on my mental state. Maybe it's kind of like the antidepressants themselves: one pill here and there won't make much long-term difference; you have to take them every day if you want them to work, and they don't work right away. If you miss a day, it won't hurt you much so long as you get back on track the following day. Perhaps the influence of exercise on the brain is similar: the long-term consistency is key.

34

My birthday's tomorrow. I will be 34. I'm cool with that, and I'm starting to understand what people mean when they say that your 30s are in many ways (not every way) "better" than your 20s.

Tomorrow I will be 34, and I will have more gray hair, cellulite, and spider veins than ever before. I will still have my pizza-dough stomach and my tiger-stripe stretch marks. I will still be in school. I will still be struggling to help maintain a savings account. I will still not know how to ski. My child will still be saying "Mommy? Mommy? Mommy. MOMMMMY. Mommy. Mommy (ad infinitum)" just as he is right now as I type this.

Tomorrow I will be 34, and I will be in the best physical shape of my life so far. I have more resources than I've ever had for coping with difficult emotions and my sometimes-erratic brain. I have more self-awareness than I did at this time last year. My life hasn't changed much since then, but I have a greater appreciation for my life. Same situations, same circumstances, different outlook.

I bought myself two birthday presents:

1) Fancy (for me) shampoo and conditioner

2) This book, which I am really enjoying so far and hope will be helpful: The Mindful Way Through Depression... Because at some point, it would be nice to stop taking Zoloft (though I'm not counting on it).

Tomorrow should be really low-key. I'm doing an early-morning 8-mile run with RF, taking some treats in to share with my class, and maybe grabbing some takeout with my family.

Difficult long runs and depression: How to keep going

What I have learned through marathon training so far is that running long distances is a true mind/body experience. As in, at a certain point both your mind and body (especially the legs) are screaming at you to STOP THIS NONSENSE IT IS INSANE. Then you have to somehow find the one small part of you (the David to your Goliath) that is willing to ignore both of them and carry on in the hope that at some point it will get better.

That's the other thing I've learned: you can be feeling completely trashed at mile 16, yet by mile 18 you'll feel like you're flitting weightlessly along on puffy clouds and rainbows. It doesn't seem possible, and yet it happens sometimes - that complete, rapid shift to feeling 100 times better than you did just a few minutes prior. Of course, sometimes it doesn't happen, but with the help of gels, water, mini goals (run to the mailbox... now run to the telephone pole...), and your running buddy, you get through it anyway.

Basically it's taken me approximately two months of marathon training to learn with respect to physical endurance what it's taken 2.5 years of therapy to learn with respect to dealing with depression/mental endurance: you keep moving forward knowing that it is going to get better. You don't know when - be it a mile down the road or 24 miles down the road - but at some point it won't be so hard. You just keep going. It sucks, you keep going. You puke, you keep going. You think bitter, evil thoughts about the drivers who don't understand crosswalk signals, but you keep going.

A difficult long run and depression are obviously not the same thing. If I had to choose between horrible, painful, 20-mile daily runs and daily depression, I would choose the running. No question. And while I *might* wish those horrible running workouts on my worst enemy under the right circumstances, I wouldn't wish depression on anyone. Ever. Because depression is like being in the solitary confinement ward of hell.

But. Sometimes now when I get depressed - and it does happen, frustratingly enough, even with the antidepressants and the running and the decent diet and 6-8 hours of sleep every night and the therapy - I try to treat my mind the way I treat it when I am struggling during a run. Which is basically to ignore the protests while giving it as much meager encouragement and positivity as I can muster, and by trying to distract it.*

It's not that simple, really, or at least it doesn't feel simple when things get bad. But I think this approach - ignoring the negative, saying nice things to myself (even when I protest), clinging to the belief that it won't always be so hard - is helping. I'm not saying it makes me feel good. Honestly, it doesn't. Depression is a deep pit. It's not like you can just launch into a standing jump and hop out of it. But treating depression like a difficult yet surmountable obstacle - as opposed to an insurmountable and permanent fate over which I have absolutely no control or any way to deal with - helps get me through, which at certain points is all I can ask of myself.

“Listen to the people who love you. Believe that they are worth living for even when you don't believe it. Seek out the memories depression takes away and project them into the future. Be brave; be strong; take your pills. Exercise because it's good for you even if every step weighs a thousand pounds. Eat when food itself disgusts you. Reason with yourself when you have lost your reason.” - Andrew Solomon, The Noonday Demon

Tuesday Four (I couldn't think of a fifth)

1. I would like a vacation. Something involving skiing, a beach (not sure it's possible to have both, but that's what I'd like), a massage (or several), good but unpretentious food, sleeping in under a light down comforter, and no work. This will not happen unless a fairy godmother or Oprah ("YOU get a car and YOU get a car and YOU get a car...!") steps in.

2. I'm feeling low. Hopefully it's because a) I'm tired from the long run this past weekend, b) I have PMS, and/or c) I've been too busy for my own good, and not because depression is sneaking its way back in. I'm keeping my guard up, just in case. I suspect some of it has to do with the shorter days. I LOVE summer, when daylight lasts past 8 p.m. I feel suffocated when it gets dark at 5 or 6 p.m.

3. Did I mention that I would like a vacation?

Oprah? Can you hear me?

(Anyone else with me on this?)

4. Ever since I started doing Xtend Barre, I find myself releve-ing and plie-ing when no-one is looking. And pointing my toes.

Change

I grew up in an environment that touted change - or important, life-altering change at any rate - as something that happens in an instant. You are given a choice, you make the right choice, that moment stands as The Moment When It All Changed Forever, and that was that. Change involves a single epiphany that then stands as sort of a North Star for life.

So I guess I've always had it in my head that I should be able to change immediately. It should be something I can will to happen right away, if I just try and believe hard enough. Mind over matter.

What I have come to understand is that change can be painfully, glacially slow, so slow that you can't see it happening in the moment. Rather, you can most easily see it when you reflect how you handle multiple instances of a particular situation or problem over many months or years or maybe decades. I spent a lot of time doing that last week while traveling: for instance, considering how I handled meeting new people three years ago (panic, self-consciousness, dissociation) versus how I handle meeting new people now (still shy and self-conscious, but I try to look people in the eye, smile, and hope that they will give me time to be myself, and I try very very hard to avoid spacing out). How I dealt with travel delays/cancellations three years ago (panic panic RED ALERT OMG I AM NOT IN CONTROL) versus how I handle them now (this sucks, but hey, did you say I get an upgrade to first class???) How I handled self doubt then (wow, you're such a moron, how can you even show your face) versus now (you're doubting yourself, and that's normal, but you have a lot to offer... Hang in there, you can do this).

I'm not saying I'm a whole new me or that my reactions to problems/dilemmas are always ideal, but... yeah, I see a change, and that change seems largely permanent. I have modified my habits and way of thinking to the point where I feel like I can live with myself. I even like myself a lot of the time. But again, it took a lot of time. And talking. And ugly emotional crises. And depressions. And cutting. And digging through unpleasant memories. And learning to trust certain people. And stepping back from the ledge (figuratively, but kind of literally, too) when I needed to.

I realize that life and experience are fluid, and that things won't always go as well as they are going now. But just knowing that change happens - albeit slowly - helps.

"Thanks to impermanence, everything is possible." - Thich Nhat Hanh

*  *  *

In other news, marathon training continues. Yesterday I ran 5 miles on my own, and today I ran 8 miles with my training buddies. Tomorrow it's another five miles, followed by several miles on Saturday and (GULP) 18 miles on Sunday. Wow.

Friday Five: Prepping for Italy edition!

1. I'm going to Italy tomorrow! I'll be there for a week, participating in a conference/workshop a couple hours north of Rome. I'm nervous about traveling, not knowing the language (though I can count from zero to twenty in Italian!), and the potential for coming across as a total dunce at this workshop, but mostly I'm just excited. September in Italy is supposed to be beautiful, and made all the more beautiful by Italian wine and Italian coffee.

2. This week's mileage:

Sunday: 15 miles (see previous post)

Tuesday: 5 miles

Wednesday: Xtend Barre class

Thursday: 4 miles

Friday (today!): 13 miles! I stayed home, packed, and went on the 13-miler with my husband. The weather was sunny and cool, and my legs felt good for most of it. I'm bringing my running attire to Italy and will go out for a jog if I have time. But if not, at least I completed this week's long run, and hopefully I can get right back into the swing of my marathon-prep schedule when I return.

I'm not sure I've ever run 37 miles in less than 6 days before!

3. I went shopping today for travel snacks, and I found THESE. At TARGET! 

Nutritionally-complete (well, mostly), gluten-free, vegan travel snacks. I never thought I'd see the day. True, I don't like the amount of packaging these require, but there's some measure of comfort in knowing that even though I'll be spending a total of >15 hours in flying metal sardine cans, at least I'll have snacks that I can eat and that taste good.

4. I hate packing. I do it a lot and it never gets any easier. I'm trying to stuff everything into a backpack and a small suitcase. Should be totally doable, but somehow I'm struggling.

5. I am grateful for:

-awesome family

-awesome friends

-awesome therapy guy

-awesome advisor

-health - especially that I am healthy enough to run

-pharmaceuticals that work, and that I have been feeling like a normal, relatively happy person lately (knock on wood)

-the ability to grow and to gain new insights, even from familiar experiences

-wine

-hummus

-travel opportunities

-blogs (I love reading blogs! My guilty pleasure.)

-Blue jeans

-New episodes of Guiliana and Bill on Netflix

Personal history of depression

These are thoughts after having read Going Public with Depression. It's a worthwhile article, as are the readings listed at the end of it.

"It is that absence of being able to envisage that you will ever be cheerful again. The absence of hope. That very deadened feeling, which is so very different from feeling sad. Sad hurts but it's a healthy feeling. It is a necessary thing to feel. Depression is very different.” - J.K. Rowling

The first time I experienced full-blown depression, I was 12 years old. I didn't know it was depression; I thought every preteen who'd just moved to a different state and started at a new school must feel that empty and catatonic. I figured it was part of the territory.

Problem was, it didn't go away. The events of my 6th through 8th grade years range from being nonexistent to fuzzy in my memory, but I can still remember the relentless hopelessness. Even now, I prefer to cast that feeling a peripheral glance; looking at it straight on is still like accidentally stepping into an open manhole.

I slept a lot after school, and when I wasn't sleeping, I was still exhausted. I cried, not that it did much in the way of dissipating my despair. I walked in the rain without an umbrella and didn't care about my wet clothes. I mesmerized and numbed myself by staring at chipped paint in the wall, knots in the wood of my closet door, and patterns in the linoleum of my bedroom floor. I ate and ate and gained weight. I threw things: Books. Clothes. Glass bowls. Whatever was handy. Using stress and work as welcome distractions, I focused on homework, youth group, art, and orchestra practice.  I threatened to kill myself, multiple times, though I couldn't figure out a foolproof way to do it. And I wrote. I saved all of those journals. They're now in a box in the upstairs closet. Sometimes I think about looking at them but, again, it's simply too difficult.

I hated the feeling, and I hated myself for not being able to get rid of it. I hated that no-one was helping me and that I didn't know how to ask for help. I hated myself for not being able to deal with it on my own, which I thought was the only way. I thought it was my problem, my responsibility, alone.

I grew up. I met my husband. We got married. We moved, and moved, and moved again. My life felt okay as long as we kept forging on. I was irritable a lot.  When things got bad, I'd comfort myself by selecting songs to play at my funeral. It always made me feel better somehow, and then life would swing upwards again.

Fast forward to pregnancy. I cried every day, usually in the afternoon. Every morning I'd wake up, hopeful that today will be different, and by 2 p.m. I was curled up on the bed. Sobbing. Hopeless. Losing myself. Not knowing why I was so sad.

Fast forward to two days after my son was born. I should have asked for help. I didn't. The midwife asked me how I was doing, emotionally. My son's pediatrician asked me how I was doing, emotionally. They told me about postpartum depression, how common it is, how treatable. But in my head I was thinking, "If I tell them the truth, they'll take my baby away. They'll see what I already know: I was not meant to be a mother." I was convinced of this. So I lied and said I was fine.

My son was small at birth to begin with, but because we couldn't get the breastfeeding thing down, he lost more than a full pound in his first week. We had to put him in preemie clothes. I still can't look at photos from that time: he was practically emaciated. The doctor told me I needed to supplement with formula. We did, and he gained a pound in two days. I felt like a failure anyway. I thought about leaving. My husband did a lot of the parenting those first two years. I did what I could, but mainly I concentrated on not drowning.

Then my son turned two, and started to talk and walk and display his personality, and things got better. I forced myself to control my emotions in front of him. But I was still angry a lot, and I swung wildly from sad to mad to happy to peaceful on a daily basis. So I found a therapist in an online directory and emailed him. I still vividly remember the reply in his voicemail message: "It sounds like you're stuck. I think I can help."

Fast forward to several months after I started graduate school. I loved school. I loved what I was doing. My son was healthy. Through therapy, I was developing an understanding of myself and coping skills. Yet I found myself self-harming. Killing myself was on my mind a lot. I didn't understand how I could look so normal, successful, and composed to everyone around me, and even to parts of myself, and yet have these horrible thoughts.

Finally, I started seeing a psychiatrist and taking anti-depressant medication. I was skeptical. I was terrified that nothing would work. But miraculously, within a few weeks, it did work. My life opened up. Nothing was different, and yet everything was different, and I knew that I couldn't have gotten to that point on my own.

If I had to place a bet, I'd bet a lot of money that I've not heard the last of Depression. I know from experience that even with the strong mental defenses I've built through a combination of exercise, therapy, meds, a great family, kind friends, and rewarding work, I am not immune. And yes, that scares me.

What I do know now is that I have support, and an action plan. I can tell my husband how I feel, and he will give me space or comfort, whatever I need. I can tell my psychiatrist, and she will tell me what my medical options are. I can tell my therapist, and he will see me - even at the last minute - and listen in the kind, nonjudgmental way that he does. He will remind me that the feeling won't last forever.

If all that fails, if I am still not safe, I know these people will do for me what I might not be able to do for myself and get me to a place where I can focus 100 percent on recuperating. It's not something I want to do, ever, but I've learned that there's no shame in being hospitalized for depression any more than there's shame for being hospitalized for a heart attack.

I don't focus on being "cured." I focus on managing these experiences, and preparing myself for when those experiences are particularly overwhelming. I am trying to let go on the good days and just bask in them.

One thing my therapist keeps reminding me of is that I am not alone. Other people experience this. A lot of other people. "But we don't talk about it. People hide it. No-one knows," I reply. "That's true," he'll say.

Why don't we talk about it? Is it because of the stigma attached? Maybe, though I truly think that's changing. Is it because other people might use that knowledge as a weapon? Perhaps. For me, though, I don't talk about it because I don't really have the words to explain what it's like. Depression is a lot like love in that words fail to describe its depth and nuances. It's as if we need something more than words to convey the experience. We use words to build bridges to one another. And because words fail me when I am depressed, I feel alone.

Looking back at 12-year-old me, I don't know how I survived that depression. I really don't. No episode since then has been as bad, maybe because that was the first time and I wasn't used to it, maybe because at no other time have I had so little support. I might feel like I don't have support, but in reality I do, and so long as the rational part of my brain can speak up long enough to shout "HELP," I know I have a way forward.

Mini-Vacation (Days 3 and 4): Feeling Off

My emotions are so roller coaster-like, even now that I am on an antidepressant and my moods don't fluctuate as wildly as they used to.

Yesterday and today, I struggled. I felt (feel) irritable, distant, spacey, annoyed at silly things, frustrated, unable to snap out of it... I want to be able to enjoy this getaway, but it's hard to do that when I'm overwhelmed.

I'm pretty sure that what has triggered these feelings is the book I've been reading. I thought maybe it could just be a fun, silly, frivolous, tantalizing thing to read. I should know better. Those topics and the explicit nature in which they are described are too close to home. Way too close. I knew I should put it down and walk away, and I didn't.

It's a lot like the times when I have self-harmed (something that's a bit hard to admit, and something I am working to avoid, but there it is). When I do it, it seems necessary. I think about it compulsively until I do it, and at that point it either feels good or I'm so blank that I feel nothing. At first it doesn't seem like a big deal. It's later - usually days later - that I start feeling like crap. At that point it's like a suffocating weight settles over my mind, and I have to ride it out until one day I wake up and it's no longer there.

So anyway. Reading this book was not a good idea. I'm trying to distract myself, and I'm hoping this panicked, strangling sensation will dissipate soon.

Petals on wet, blotchy concrete

Ever since freshman poetry, one of my favorite poems is "In a Station at the Metro" by Ezra Pound:

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough

Now whenever I see pink petals, I automatically think of that second line.

It rained this evening, unexpectedly, and the rain brought down a hail of blooms from the tree next door. For a couple of minutes, it looked like it was snowing. Pink snow.

*  *  *
I feel better today, which should come as no surprise because I always eventually feel better. But whenever I'm feeling depressed - even if it's for a very short time - there's part of me that is utterly convinced that I will always be stuck in that heavy, dark place. It's like an emotional nausea. I think I'm finally getting to the point where I can tell myself that it's going to get better soon, even if I don't entirely believe it.

Tomorrow my little family is going on a mini-vacation. Nothing fancy, but I'm really looking forward to it. I got my work done today and mentally checked out the second I left the building.

Caramelizing

This morning I felt perfectly fine. I felt normal. I felt composed, calm, and focused. Now I feel awful: spaced out, tired, sad. Depressed. Unsure of myself, of my identity. The shift happened sometime during therapy today. I could feel it happening, but I still don't know why. It was basically 50 minutes of silence and staring at the carpet punctuated by the occasional attempt to say something and making no sense whatsoever. It's frustrating to be drowning in these incredible, breathtaking waves of deep emotion and have no idea where they're coming from.

There is absolutely nothing in my life right now to feel sad about. I feel guilty for letting myself get this way; other people have far more reasons than I do to feel down. But trying to badger myself into pulling it together never works.

I have learned that the healthiest way for me to deal with this - because it happens a lot - is to just hang on tight and ride it out, and try to find some sort of non-self-destructive distraction.

Right now my distraction is fennel and onions. I'm caramelizing them. For some reason, that's always comforting. I watch them slowly, slowly, slowly turn brown and sticky and sweet. I occasionally stir them around, but not too often. Caramelizing is about patience and walking away for a while and trusting that if you simply keep going, what's supposed to happen will eventually happen.

In some ways, nothing has changed since I last posted in January:

• I'm still in grad school and I still love it.
• I'm still running. In fact, in the past few months I have ramped up my mileage and my pace significantly. That's because I started running with a group of people who are faster than me. Every workout is hard, but I definitely see the results. And that makes me happy.
• I'm still cooking a lot - because I enjoy the smells and tastes and sounds associated with food, and because that comforts me.
• I still have my awesomely amazing little family around me. I love them.

Some things, however, have changed:

• I passed my comprehensive exams, wrote my dissertation proposal, passed my qualifying exams, and am now a full-fledged Ph.D. candidate. This all happened within a span of ~5 months, which is a little hard to believe. But I did it.
• I went vegan. So now I'm a gluten-free vegan. It's actually been really easy. The only tricky moments are when I am traveling, particularly within the US. We are still a country highly dependent on processed foods. I hope that will change.
• I started taking medication. The psychiatrist at the student counseling center diagnosed me with PTSD and major depression and then put me on Zoloft. It worked fabulously for about three months. I felt like a new person. I felt like I had come back to myself. I wasn't overly happy, I still got overwhelmed and irritated, but I felt like ME and I was able to let go of things more easily. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt that way. 
• I re-started regular therapy sessions with my old therapist. He is charging me an abominably low fee for each session, which I appreciate so much. Now I know why good therapy is so expensive; I wish I could pay him more.

Last week, I had another episode of depression/detachment that lasted for days. I spent the majority of time in bed. I'm not sure what's worse: feeling really, really low, like you are the scum of the universe; or feeling like you are watching life from a distance and can't get yourself integrated into it. For me, I think I struggle more with the latter. Depression is so awful, but I can kind of muddle through it knowing that it will get better. I can usually make myself do things like run, make dinner, and communicate with my son. The detachment, however, is scary because it affects my ability to think rationally, feel secure, or communicate with pretty much anyone. When I am detached, I struggle to put words together. I have a hard time remembering stuff. And I feel like I have little control over anything. Honestly, I feel really stupid when I am that detached. I WANT to get back to myself, but it's not something that I can do just by sheer will.

This episode occurred after I'd attended a pretty big conference in another city. It was weird because from the outside - and even somewhat from the inside - I looked I was doing well. I talked to people, gave a presentation I was proud of, socialized, went for runs with my friend, ate healthy and delicious food... But all the while I could feel the mental seams straining and then suddenly pulling apart. And then I had to rely on the thing I do where part of me is getting things done and looking normal, while another part of me is just trying to survive. It is a weird contrast. It seems like that sort of thing shouldn't be possible, but because I have been doing it for the majority of my life, I'm pretty good at it. Sometimes I hate myself for it. People think I'm fine, and I'm not, and I resent them for not knowing, but I don't WANT them to know, but I want help, but I don't want to appear weak, so I continue on in robot mode... The crazy thing is that I manage to get things done in robot mode, and often I do them well. I don't quite understand how that happens.

I feel like I'm slowly coming out of it now (finally). I've had a lot of support from my family, therapist, and psychiatrist. We increased the antidepressant dosage a bit, which may help (though I guess now I know that medication alone isn't going to fix everything). I told my advisor about the PTSD, which at the time seemed like a good idea but which I am now kind of regretting. (Why is it that when you have pneumonia, or cancer, or some other physical illness/condition, no-one blames you for it, but when you have a mental illness, they think you just aren't trying hard enough to get better? I don't want to be treated any differently, and I don't want him to assume that I can't handle things... I just want him to know that sometimes I might need to take a day off, the way people do when they have chronic migraines or something else along those lines.)

I want to change. I want to believe that I CAN change, that I don't have to live my life feeling like I am in a bubble, separated from everyone else. I've been working on that for more than 2 years now, and sometimes I feel so discouraged that I haven't managed to "fix" myself.

Drained

I am drained. Finding out that someone you care about has cancer totally flips your world upside down. Everything looks and feels different.

If I were to give myself grades for my current performance at school, in helping keep the house in order, and with parenting, I'd award myself a solid C in every category. I'm not really failing, but by no means am I excelling. I'm just sort of floating along. Getting up every day, getting dressed, making lunch, going to school, and giving my kid as many hugs as he wants is pretty much all I can muster. Whatever I manage to accomplish outside of that is just a bonus. What I really want to do is stay in bed for a week. And I'm not even the one who's sick.

Maybe I don't look particularly sad, angry, or worried, but I feel all of those things, and they're manifesting themselves emotionally as well as physically.

I went to see my old therapist today because I needed to talk to someone who really knows me and my history. He told me my feelings are normal and that it isn't selfish to feel the way I do. We talked about my mom, my family, and the potential repercussions for the future. He reminded me that in a week or two, I will have adjusted to this "new normal" - kind of the way your body adjusts when you increase running mileage. After a while, it won't feel as taxing as it does now.

It was so good to talk to him. He listened. He pointed out the healthy, positive choices I've made and am making. He showed that he cares. But the session made me feel sad, too. I wish I had good friends - or just one good friend - to share these things with whenever I need to. I wish someone would call me up or email me and be like, "This sucks, and it's hard. How are you doing? Do you want to talk about it?" But for whatever reason, I haven't made good friends in my adult life, and I feel alone a lot (which definitely doesn't do much for depression or anxiety).

Mostly I'm sad and worried.

I've been doing well with running, though: 3 miles on Monday, six sets of 400 meters on Tuesday, and another 3 miles today. Tomorrow is a rest day, and then I'll run four miles on Friday.