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.

Embracing the Mom Jeans

Tonight, after years of deluding myself into thinking that I can make low-rise jeans work, I finally gave up and bought what I suppose some people would call "Mom Jeans."

Yes. I did. Because I just can't deal with the muffin top anymore. More than that, I can't deal with the possibility of anyone else asking me whether I am pregnant. (As it turns out, that question really bothered me. I didn't think so at the time, but not a day has gone by since that I haven't looked at myself more critically in the mirror.)

I can't remember when it was that low-rise jeans became the go-to jean fit (seven years ago? More?) but let's face the fact that a good portion of the population, in shape or otherwise, can't really make these work. At least, not if they're buying cheap, mass-produced department-store brands like I do.

Here's the thing. I'm in the best shape ever, for me. I feel strong. I can see muscles in my arms now, and muscles in my legs that I didn't know existed before I started marathon training and ballet/Pilates. In Xtend Barre class, I can plie, releve, and squeeze a ball between my upper thighs multiple times without thinking twice about it (three months ago, that move almost made me collapse in a sweaty, shaking heap). Plank, times two? No problem. 20 mile run? Not easy, sort of painful, but I can do it.

Yet I have hips. I have stomach flab. I have extra skin that will never go away unless I get plastic surgery, which I would never do because even if I HAD the money, which I do not, I'd much rather pay for a fancy tropical vacation than go under a knife. No question.

But do I really want my I'll-never-leave-you muffin top doing all the representing? No thank you.

I hesitated to try on the dreaded "mom jeans," and even when I had them on I was sort of cringing at first... But then I looked in the dressing room mirror and was like, HEY! Look at that! I can work this cut. No fleshy waterfall, no pseudo-baby bump. No sucking in my gut. Butt looks fine. Do I sort of look like I belong in a JC Penny ad? Kind of. But I'd rather my muffin top can hang out behind the zipper instead of over my waistband.

Also, Public Service Announcement: be warned that walking into the women's wear section of Target this fall/winter is like walking back into 1989-1992. I SWEAR I wore some of the exact same bulky/long sweaters in 7th grade.

Exhibit A

Sweater skirt

I also saw sweater pants, but I can't find them on the Target website. Sad.

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

What NOT to ask a woman: a post about body image

I just returned to the U.S. from my week-long trip to Italy for a professional workshop/conference. In fact, I'm currently sitting at the airport, waiting for the last leg of my trip home. It's been a long 24 hours. When I've recovered from jet lag and uploaded and sifted through my pictures, I'll post some. Italy was a great experience on both personal and professional levels; I was expecting it to go well, but it far exceeded my expectations.

But I wanted to talk about something that happened while I was at the workshop, something that chipped away at what I thought was a solider-than-ever self-image.

The first day, I wore a dress. I've worn this dress various times in various settings, and I was under the impression that I look nice in it. I felt confident in it. But during dinner that evening, someone asked me whether I was pregnant. And then the next day, when I was wearing just my usual jeans and t-shirt combo, someone ELSE asked if I was pregnant! I'm not pregnant. At all. No chance. Awkward. I felt worse for the people who asked (both women, by the way) than for myself because I know how awful it feels to mess up like that. (Although come on. Is it not a well-known universal rule that you NEVER EVER EVER ask someone if she's pregnant?!?)

Now. Granted, I'd been eating a lot of delicious food without trying to limit myself, but a) it wasn't like I was gorging and b) even if I was, can a food baby grow THAT fast? I kept looking in the mirror to see whether I'd somehow expanded significantly within a timespan of 48 hours, but to me, I looked like... the same old me.

I have never had a flat stomach. I didn't have one before I was pregnant, and I don't have one now - especially because growing a human in my uterus resulted in some spectacular stretch marks and skin that will never re-learn how to bounce back. A good diet, lots of exercise - I see the difference when I work out and feed my body well, but I have come to the conclusion that I will never lose my curves or my soft belly. You could make me an island castaway, Tom Hanks style, and even on a diet of raw fish and coconut milk, my belly would still be there. (Maybe I could paint a little smiley face on it and make it my own personal Wilson...)

I don't resent the women who asked me (though I do question their social skills). I get that they weren't trying to insult me. After all, pregnant bodies are gorgeous. I DO resent the self-consciousness that has started to creep back in. Over the past few months I've started to feel really strong. I've started to feel more appreciative of my body, in spite of (and because of) its "flaws." And now I'm being critical of myself again. I also wonder how many other people have wondered whether I'm pregnant, thanks to my somewhat chubby middle. 

I think, too, that the incident recalls some bad memories. Like when I was 16 and a peer told me that I had "great legs and great hair," but that I "just needed to work on my stomach." Or, worse, when my (former) best friend told me that she'd always felt bad for me because I tried so hard to keep myself in shape but I couldn't lose the tummy. Or when my mom asked me, a few weeks (WEEKS) after the birth of my son whether I was pregnant again, whilst patting my middle. 

Oy.

I just have to keep reminding myself that:

-people come in lots of different shapes and sizes, and that diversity is beautiful.

-a strong body doesn't have to be a skinny body.

-a healthy body doesn't have to be a skinny body.

-there are soooooooo many other things to worry about - things that are more important by multiple orders of magnitude.

-sometimes people don't think before they speak, but that doesn't make them bad or rude people. I have a muffin top; they have foot-in-mouth disease.

Anyway, I'll share a couple links to articles along these lines:

"Half," by Julia Kozerski

If Lady Gaga is considered overweight, then our society has truly lost its marbles 

What makes you feel self-conscious about your body? And what do you like/love about it?

Parenting FAIL day

My husband is out of town, so it's just me and my son this weekend. So far, not so good.

It started when my son decided he wanted to do a craft project at 6:30 a.m.

Him: You have TWO choices: make glitter butterflies or build a LEGO house.
Me: I need coffee. I can't do anything until I've had breakfast and coffee.
Him: That isn't one of the choices.
Me: I'll help you with a craft after I've had breakfast and coffee.
Him: NOT ONE OF THE CHOICES.

At which point I retreated to the bedroom, put a pillow over my head, and said I was feeling sick. Then I stared at the ceiling and thought about how this "You have X choices" thing his teacher is using to get her students to do stuff is totally backfiring.

Then my friend (a former college golfer) texted me, offering to give my son the golf lessons he's been asking for. Great! I'm pumped, he's pumped, we have a cheap club from Goodwill, we're ready. We meet my friend at the park. My son takes his first aim at the tennis ball she's provided to help him get used to swinging. He misses.

Cue a temper tantrum that could put one of John McEnroe's rants to shame. He threw a golf club, marched around, screamed, said he was DONE. I suppose we should have gone home right then and there, but my friend had driven a ways to meet us, and we'd had to drive a decent distance, too, so we stuck around and I practiced hitting tennis balls while Cranky McGee wandered around muttering angrily to himself.

Later, we went to the bookstore. He asked for a cookie. Conversation:

Him: Mommy, I am really hungry. I need a snack.
Me: I brought grapes and Cheerios.
Him: But I don't want those! Here are your three choices. Points at three different cookies, each the size of his head if not larger.
Me: No cookies today.
Him: YOU AREN'T LISTENING TO THE CHOICES!!!
Me: This is causing too much drama. We're leaving.

At which point he REALLY let it rip, and the entire store and parking lot got an earful until I had him packed up into his carseat.

Five minutes from home, he fell asleep. He's still sleeping.

Maybe he misses my husband. Maybe he's exceptionally tired. I don't know, but he's not usually this volatile. He's a lot like I was when I was little, so I'm trying to be sensitive while still setting boundaries and expectations.

It's just hard sometimes. Parenting is not easy and a lot of times it's not particularly fun. I often feel like I have no idea what I'm doing, and that even though I'm trying my best, it isn't good enough.

Common courtesy, or lack thereof

An open letter to companies and institutions who solicit applications (for employment, fellowships, scholarships, etc.) yet never bother to respond to them:

To whom it may concern:

I noticed that you failed to offer any sort of response to the application that I submitted two months ago, though when I contacted you, you curtly assured me you'd received it. I would like to point out the following:

• Responding to email is actually not that hard. You click "reply" and type a few words. Might I suggest: "Thank you for your interest in this scholarship/job/unpaid-internship-slash-free-labor. We have decided to go in a different direction, but we appreciate the time you put into your application. We wish you all the best."

• Do you know how long it just took me to type those three sentences? Forty-seven seconds.

• I understand that you likely received numerous applications. There are several high-tech ways to approach this challenge. One is to learn a function widely known as "copy and paste." This function allows you to place the same sentence (see above) into multiple emails without having to type it again and again. Now all you have to do is modify the "Dear So-and-So" and the email address, and voila! 

• Perhaps that sounds too hard, or maybe you are too important to send individual replies to each application. No matter. There's a solution for that, too. Simply place the email addresses of all recipients in the little box labeled "bcc" (if you don't know what that means, try the Google). Avoid personal greetings altogether. Go for the blatantly canned rejection. Then type your response (see suggestion above) and press the little button that says "send." At this point, everyone who was included in the reply will receive the message, but they won't see the names of anyone else who received it. I know, it's like magic! It WILL take three minutes of your precious time, though. If that's too much for you, try...

• ...having your administrative assistant do the dirty work for you. If you are really that important, so important that you can't be bothered to contact your applicants, you will work with someone who actually knows what he/she is doing.

• If you're responsible for deciding who gets the scholarship/job/internship and you aren't aware of the techniques described in the previous three bullet points, then might I suggest you pass on your job to someone with some life skills.

• Keep in mind that people put a lot of time into their applications, especially now when the chances of actually getting the carrot are so slim. That's time these people could be spending with their families, with their children, researching other opportunities, etc. These individuals will understand that they might not receive an offer. Nevertheless, they do deserve some sort of response. You know... because they're human. They deserve respect, too.

• Karma's a bitch. Just FYI.

Best,

Stationary Runner

Habits

Lately I've been thinking a lot about habits - good ones, not-so-good ones, ones I have that work for me, ones I'd like to have, ones I'd like to get rid of. "Habits" has been a topic of conversation at home, in therapy, and on some of the blogs I read. One is the blog No Meat Athlete, where Matt has talked about some of the habits he's recently picked up and the potential power inherent in adopting new, beneficial habits - things like making your bed every day, doing a baseline amount of exercise daily, etc.

I can think of a few habits that at this point seem pretty ingrained in my daily routine and that I don't want to drop, ever, because they have made a big difference:

• Flossing my teeth. It sounds silly, but one time - in my pre-flossing days - I paid $7000 in dental bills and wiped out our entire savings account. My teeth seem prone to developing cavities no matter what I do, but a few minutes of flossing every night has definitely helped counteract that. My teeth were relatively problem-free at my last two cleanings.

• Bringing my lunch from home. I used to go out for lunch a lot more often, back in the days when I still ate things like sandwiches on wheat bread, pizza, and other inexpensive, gluten-y favorites. Getting rid of gluten from my diet drastically limited my restaurant options at that time and forced me to get cooking. And although it's gotten easier over the past few years to find GF items on most menus, those offerings often seem pretty halfhearted and thoughtless. I've gotten in the habit of eating leftovers for lunch the next day, plus an apple, an energy bar, some nuts and dried fruit, etc. Knowing what is in my food gives me peace of mind... and honestly, I think it tastes pretty decent, too. 

• Running at least five times a week. This doesn't even feel like a habit anymore. It feels more like a compulsion. When I don't run, I get antsy and worry about declining fitness. I do force myself to take rest weeks every now and then, but that's usually when I'm really busy/distracted and can't worry as much about exercising anyway.

Two habits I am currently trying to cultivate:

• Drinking 64 ounces of water every day. I've never been a big water drinker, even when I exercise. I think I get a lot of the fluids I need through the food I eat (fruits, veggies, etc.) However, my doctor recently pointed out that because colon cancer runs in my family, I need to do my best to... keep everything moving along. And drinking water is a very good way to do that.

• Avoiding one-use items. I try to take my Nalgene and my insulated coffee mug to school every day. Sometimes I forget, and then I end up buying coffee in a styrofoam cup from the cafe in my building. Coffee with a side of guilt just isn't that good. Same with grocery shopping: I feel bad when I forget my cloth bags and end up with a trunk full of plastic bags. (For a really great guilt trip about one-use items, see the documentary Trashed. You will look at plastic bags and bottles in a whole new way.)

Habits that I would like to have but don't, and probably won't anytime in the near future:

• Making my bed in the morning. If I can eat breakfast, get showered and dressed, put together my lunch, get my stuff together, and be in the car by 8 a.m., I feel highly accomplished. Adding bed-making to the list would be like purposely seeking out failure.

• Cleaning stuff on a regular basis, a la Flylady. I mean, we clean, but not on any regular schedule. I do my best cleaning when I am anxious and/or procrastinating or when I find myself tripping over Legos/cars/random crap that comes in birthday party goodie bags. Or when I can't see out the window because there are too many handprints on the glass.

• Meditating. I think this will happen at some point, but right now I seem to have a massive mental block when it comes to meditation. Yes, I believe that it can work wonders, but sitting still for five minutes makes me feel like punching a wall. And isn't that kind of NOT the point? I use running, walks outside, and cooking as time for meditation-like brain activity.

A habit I would like to get rid of: Negative thinking. Of course everyone thinks in a negative way sometimes, and perhaps it's occasionally necessary. But I am a glass-half-empty kind of person in pretty much every situation, even situations that are supposed to be fun, happy, lighthearted, etc. Doesn't do much for anxiety or depression. I'm working on replacing negative/useless thoughts with more positive/useful/pragmatic ones. This is such an ingrained habit, though, that I really have to be on top of it, especially on days that are tiring or stressful.

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.

Cracking

Last week, two days before my paper critique presentation (the last step in the comprehensive exam process), I lost it.

I could feel it coming on - the exhaustion, the muddled thinking, the panic, the inability to get to sleep or stay asleep, the obsessive studying and note-taking (did I really need to write and re-write and re-write the four characteristics of a geographic information system?) - and I knew there would be consequences, but I kept thinking that I just needed to shove all that aside, pull myself together, and get through the presentation. And I almost made it. I almost managed to plow through before I lost my mental cookies.

And then Tuesday came along, and someone said just the wrong thing, and I came to a screeching halt. I felt so low, so depressed, so anxious, and so very out of it. I can't really explain it - I felt utterly detached from reality and unable to ground myself. Everything seemed so loud and looked so dim. I came home from school that day and went straight to bed, where I cried for three hours. Then I wrote to my advisor and said that I was struggling. Then I proceeded to not fall asleep for a while, and then I woke up at 3 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. All the while knowing that I needed to have a polished written critique submitted to my committee by 5 p.m. Wednesday, and a polished 20-minute presentation ready to deliver by 1 p.m. on Thursday.

On Wednesday morning, I dragged myself to my old therapist's office. I had bags under my eyes and I wasn't thinking clearly. I was dizzy. I kept spacing out; he kept asking me how present I was and reminding me to stay with him. I told him that I felt like I was really, truly on the verge of a breakdown and that the thought of continuing to live with these mood swings - as I have for most of my life so far - was unbearable. I told him that sometimes the thought of death was so nice. Not that I would ever do anything to myself - I wouldn't, because I wouldn't do that to my son; I wouldn't ruin his life - but for as long as I can remember, when things get bad it's comforting to think of not being here. I remember being 13 years old and obsessively planning my funeral, just because it helped calm me down. But this time I was scared, because I was so very out of it and I had such a tenuous handle on... everything.

When the hour was up he did the typical "Well, it looks like we're out of time" therapist thing, but when I stood up to leave and fumbled through my wallet for the check, he hesitated and said we had a couple more minutes. I sat down again, and he gave me some suggestions - one of which was to go to the student counseling center and talk to them about medication. I have tried hard to avoid medication for reasons I don't totally understand. Perhaps it's a control thing. Perhaps it's a fear that the medicine won't work, and then what will I do? What will my options be? Perhaps it's the worry that the medicine will work for a while, and then it will stop.

But this time I think I'm ready to try it. What happened last week truly terrified me. It's not like comprehensive exams were the scariest thing in the world, nor should they have been as stressful as I managed to make them. I think they were just the straw that broke the camel's back... Between that, and my mom getting sick, and traveling last month, and having this cold that won't go away, plus all of the other things that are always running obsessively through my head anyway, plus what just may be chemical issues in my brain that I can't control, I shut down. I broke.

So in two weeks I have an appointment with a psychiatrist. I know that by then I may be feeling fine. I may have forgotten what I felt like a few days ago (and what I still feel like, a little - these episodes leave an emotional residue). But regardless, I'm doing it anyway, and I'm going to make sure the doctor understands that despite my placid and friendly-looking exterior, I need some help.

One of my friends sent me a link to a blog entry about a guy who was afraid to go on medication but found that it made a real difference for him. It's a Christian blog, and I'm not a Christian, but it was moving and helpful and comforting anyway:

http://www.air1.com/blog/brant/post/2012/01/10/Is-Jesus-Enough.aspx

I especially relate to this - this feeling that I can't rest, I can't make my mind stop, I'm a failure, life is rushing by and I can never quite catch it: "My life had been wasted. I'd accomplished nothing, and the sorrow of it all was descending on me. The vanished years! I've done nothing! Where did the time go? Life is too fast, rushing by like a freight train, and I couldn't get on it... I'd previously lie there and think about how I blew it on the air this morning; how I never should have quit talk radio; how I shouldn't have said that one awkward thing five, 10, or 25 years ago;  how I'd wasted whatever I'd been given; how I'd failed to provide a yard for my kids to play in; how the years were slipping by, and, though my wife said differently, I just knew I wasn't doing enough as a dad or a husband or a child of God."

In the two years that I have known my therapist, he has never recommended medication. I'm not sure that's really his thing. He has recommended talking, meditation, yoga, tai chi, and rest. He has recommended opening up to other people and taking some risks in order to develop friendships. He has recommended relying on my family when things get tough. He has recommended that I call him if I need to, even if it is 11 p.m. on a Saturday night (he doesn't mind and he will call me back, he says). But the other day, I think he could see that I have kind of hit my limit. I think he could see how scared I was and how tired I was - of myself.

I did get through the critique, by the way. After my therapy session I came home and slept for two hours. Then I hauled myself out of bed, somehow wrote something that my advisor said was thoughtful and comprehensive, and put together a presentation that, while not an oratory masterpiece, served its purpose. In all honesty, I have no idea how I did it. I really don't. I'm just glad it's over.

Aim for results, not accolades

The past two months have been relentless and exhausting, so much so that I could feel myself stumbling through life in a total daze, losing perspective, becoming ungrounded. First there was the conference in early December, then there was fieldwork, then there was the Christmas trip to see family, then there was a bout of bronchitis that hung on for weeks, and then there were my Ph.D. comprehensive exams.

Throughout the last six weeks the exams have been at the forefront of my mind, and I've been studying for at least a good five or six hours a day, if not more. Oftentimes my family would go to bed and I'd be up reading and taking notes. I'd get up in the morning, eat breakfast, and break out the books again. I took one day off - Christmas - but otherwise, I was loathe to give it a rest. In the short history of my department's Ph.D. program, no-one has failed their comps and only a couple of people have received conditional passes. I did not want to be the first person to totally bomb, especially because there were two other women in my program taking their comps at the same time, and we're all in the same subfield. That would be humiliating - to fail as they passed. All three of us worried about it. All three of us were freaked out about struggling through while the other two skated by. And all three of us were horrified at the thought of being compared to one another (we still are).

The exams started on Thursday of this past week. I knew they'd be tiring, but I felt ready. I guess I wasn't prepared for just how draining they would be. The question sets I received were doable, but they were also really long and challenging. I spent nine hours on the questions on Thursday, another three hours on a second batch of questions yesterday, and then had my oral exam yesterday afternoon. I did my best, but it's hard to maintain a high level of quality when you've been sitting there, thinking and writing, for an entire day. I know some of my responses were weaker than they could have been simply because clarity and concision fizzled away by the day's end.

I passed. My friends passed, too. I have mixed feelings about the entire experience. On one hand, I feel great that this is over (save for a critical paper review next week, but for some reason that seems less intimidating than the exam) and pleased that I got through it. I'm proud of the three of us as a group - three women in science, marching this long road together. The comprehensive exam is a big hurdle in the Ph.D. process - and we surmounted it.

On the other hand, I find myself ruminating on the things I missed or didn't explain well enough. They had told us that during the oral part, they'd focus on test answers that were fuzzy or incorrect and help us work through them. Of course all three of us had some fuzzy answers, but for some reason I felt really bad about mine. Why is it that I think I should be able to get all of the right answers, all the time? Why, after three decades, do I STILL believe that I need to be perfect? Why do I still want to be the best, the smartest? It's ridiculous, and I see that... The oral part actually went really well in many ways. They'd wanted me to get to a certain (and pretty obscure) conclusion on one of the written questions, but I hadn't, and so we addressed it step by step. Even though I showed them that I knew all of the concepts and equations needed to get there (even managing to remember some pretty complicated diagrams and drawing them on the board), and even though it led to a productive discussion about possible future research, and even though they seemed to enjoy the conversation and think I did well, all I could see was where I had failed.

There was even a part of me thinking, "They shouldn't have had to ask you ANY questions. They should have looked at you and said, 'We have nothing to say because you got it all right!'" Which is beyond ridiculous. It is a Ph.D. comprehensive exam. The point is to put you on the spot and test you and challenge you. And the question that I only "did okay" on was a tough one: the answer was elegantly simple but in all honesty I would have never, ever gotten there on my own - even if I'd studied for two more months - because I would have never been able to see the problem from the perspective my advisors wanted me to see it from. I needed their help to get there. I am trying to be okay with that - with not being able to get everywhere without help.

My only resolution for 2012 is the title of this post: Aim for results, not accolades. Or in the words of actress Helen Hayes, "My mother drew a distinction between achievement and success. She said that 'Achievement is the knowledge that you have studied and worked hard and done the best that is in you. Success is being praised by others, and that's nice, too, but not as important or satisfying. Always aim for achievement and forget about success.'"

I have spent so much time in my life worrying about what others think, trying to figure out how to gain their approval and be their "favorite." Looking back, that tactic hasn't gotten me anywhere. If anything it's held me back. How many times have I quit jobs or other endeavors because I wasn't the best, because I didn't win, because someone else did better?

Now I've found a field that I love. I get up in the morning excited to do the research I do. I could talk about it all day (fortunately for those around me, I hold back). Perfectionism will not be allowed to mess this up for me. I'm trying to forget about winning people's approval and focus on meeting the daily, weekly, and semester-long goals that I set for myself. I have high expectations and standards: if I meet my own goals, eventually I will get to where I want to go. Ultimately, that's what will allow me to achieve - not praise from other people.

At any rate, at this point I am relieved, tired, and - annoyingly - sick again. Antibiotics killed the bronchitis but they couldn't prevent this new cold virus that I seem to have picked up overnight. So now I'm going to spend the day resting, playing, and eating, and NOT looking at books, thank God.

Saturday morning

Saturday morning means...

...long, long runs for my husband (20 miles today).

...dark coffee with sugar and almond milk (often reheated a time or two in the microwave because I drink it so slowly)...

...a messy, messy family room, strewn with Legos and trains and books and balloons...

...sweatpants, sweatshirts, and warm socks...

...and me trying to relax, with varying degrees of success. It depends on the weekend. I always take Saturday off, but sometimes my mind continues to whirl even as I'm doing all of the things that supposedly constitute a lazy weekend.

I can tell my anxiety levels are higher than they were, say, a month ago. When I get anxious, I tend to fixate on things and become intensely self-critical. Right now, for instance, I can't seem to stop thinking about a big poster presentation I need to prepare in the next few weeks. Is there any point in sitting here for hours, visualizing where I might place various pictures on said poster? No, but I'm doing just that. I also can't stop thinking that maybe grad school was a big mistake, maybe I'm not smart enough, maybe my advisors have realized I'm an idiot, maybe I'll finish and graduate and nothing will come of it, job-wise. This is the first time in the entire year and a half that I've been in this program that I've had such strong self-doubts... and for seemingly no good direct reason. Thus, I can only assume that stress in my personal life is manifesting itself in my professional life. Emotions are getting distorted and displaced. At times like this I try to ignore what the critical voice in my head is saying. I remind myself that in all likelihood, it is wrong.

From an objective standpoint, I can see that yes, I am stressed out and overwhelmed, and perhaps I've been less patient with certain people - but in the past week I've finished every assignment that was due and attended every meeting that was scheduled. I've taught my class and written lessons. I've gotten up every morning and gone to school. It's true that I am distracted, and it's true that maybe I'm not powering along as I usually do, but I know that if I were an advisor, I would be understanding of that. I have to assume that my own advisors (who are aware that my mom was just diagnosed with cancer and is in the hospital recovering from surgery) can see where I'm coming from and aren't holding it against me.

Around my family, I've been tired. I often come home, eat dinner, and then lay in bed for a little while (a pre-bed nap, if you will). It's not ideal, but I need that time to myself. After a few minutes, I feel somewhat re-energized and can interact with my husband and son without being a complete zombie. Right now I am not being the best partner or mother. I am being a "good enough" partner and mother.

It's hard for a perfectionist to accept "good enough."

*     *
Yesterday morning, I got up at 5 a.m. and ran four miles at a 10:30- to 10-minute-per-mile pace. That's faster than what I've been running, and I felt good. Tomorrow I'm scheduled to run 7 miles at a comfortable pace. I'm glad for the running. I need it. It's distracting, it's comforting, it's predictable, and it's a challenge that I know I can actually meet. Running is solace.