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.

Resolutions for the new year, and a treadmill workout

Happy 2013! Our New Year's celebration was quiet. We got the little man down to bed at a decent time and then we watched a documentary on Netflix called Deep Water. It's about a weekend sailor who decided to compete in a first-of-its-kind round-the-world sailing competition in the late 1960s. The ending was totally not what I expected; I couldn't believe I'd never heard of this guy before now.

We made it to midnight, but barely. Apparently we were not alone. As I checked Facebook, I saw a lot of "It's only 9 p.m. but I can't stay up any longer and by the way I'm officially old"-type posts. 

Resolutions: Do you have any? Or anything you want to do/change in 2013? My only resolution at this point is to keep up the activities and habits I took up in the last part of 2012:

• Continue going to Xtend Barre classes 4 times a week (I continue to love, love, love this class... Who knew I'd grow so fond of ballet and Pilates?)
• Find my next race. 5K? Half marathon? Trail run? Not sure yet, but I'm hoping that I'll decide on something close to home, and relatively soon.
• Finish up my 30-day vegan challenge! I'm on Day 16 (I think), and so far, so good. My only slip-up was when I ordered a salad at Panera and discovered too late that it had feta cheese on it. My least favorite cheese! Argh. I hate wasting food so I ate it anyway. More on the Vegan Challenge in the next few days.
• And lose a few pounds. I guess that one's new, but I don't want to get too caught up in thinking about it. I'm using the Lose It! app on my iPhone to track my calories and workouts. More on that in the coming weeks, too.

*  *  *

I'm one of those runners who is not too keen on running in supercold weather (and by "supercold," I mean anything less than 30 degrees F - since moving to the South, I've become a winter wimp). I ran on my treadmill instead and made up my own interval workout as I went along. I was pretty happy with it. There was enough variation to keep me from getting too bored. This would be easy to modify based on your own moderate baseline pace:

Easy Does It 60 Minute Workout:

* 5 minutes walking (moderate effort)

* 5 minutes 5.5 mph, 2 minutes walking

* 5 minutes 5.6 mph, 2 minutes walking

*5 minutes 5.7 mph, 2 minutes walking

* 5 minutes 5.8 mph, 2 minutes walking

* 5 minutes 5.9 mph, 2 minutes walking

* 5 minutes 6.0 mph, 2 minutes walking

* 1.5 minutes each of 6.0 down to 5.5 mph (9 minutes total)

* 4 minutes walking

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.

Daydreaming, Part 2: Adventure

One time, I sailed as a deckhand from England to the Canary Islands on a tall ship. It took about a month, and we had to cross the Bay of Biscay, otherwise known as the "Bay of Sickbay" because of its stomach-lurching effects.

It was a really amazing trip - one of the biggest adventures I'll ever have, I'm sure. Things I best remember: drinking hot chocolate on the deck at midnight when I wasn't on watch, the brightness and density of the stars over the pitch black ocean, getting chased down the hall by a misplaced vacuum cleaner during a gale-force storm (one of two we experienced), getting hit so hard by a wave during the middle of the night that the water rushed into my Wellies and soaked everything I was wearing, learning to tie knots and stow rope, climbing up to the top of the main mast (terrifying), the weird things the British cook made us for breakfast and dinner.

It was pretty fantastic. I think I was happy and focused for 99.99% of that trip. Except that one time when the first mate yelled at me for not tying up a tarp as taut as it needed to be. Oh, and the time the cook made us eat hard-boiled eggs wrapped in stuffing and cornflakes. That was weird.

I love what I am doing now because I still get to have adventures. I get to spend time in the middle of nowhere and hike around for days on end. I get to travel. Sometimes I get to see places that I couldn't see as a tourist, simply because my studies give me a kind of "all access pass." I get to eat food cooked over a campfire. Every now and then I do things that don't seem very safe at all, which I both hate and love. Usually, at least one odd and unsettling (but ultimately harmless) thing happens on every adventure, and it makes for a good story later on.

And then I get to come home, be a mom, hang out with my kid and husband, go to school, work out, clean my house, go to the grocery store, fret over the balance in the checking account, and make dinner. All that is an adventure, too.

What are some of the adventurous things you do, either in your everyday life or once in a blue moon? What are the things that make your life awesome, that give you meaning, purpose, memories, adrenaline?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Finally, a break

I've been on the move since the beginning of December, first in San Francisco for a conference, and then in Arizona for fieldwork. I'm finally home. I'm so glad. It's 10 a.m. on Saturday and I'm snuggled up under the covers, uploading pictures to the computer and discussing Lego airplanes with my son. Best place on earth right now (unfortunately I have to get up in a few minutes, make myself presentable, and go to school to proctor a final exam).

Union Square, San Francisco (don't know who these people are... I was just trying to get the tree)

 John Muir Woods north of SF

Sign at Muir Woods

Excursion to Santa Cruz (~70 minutes south of SF)

After the conference, I spent two days at home before heading off to Middle-of-Nowhere, Arizona for fieldwork:

Canyon near Sitgreaves Pass along Route 66... These bouldery landscapes always make me a little nervous. Who knows when another giant rock is going to tumble downslope?

My field area is beautiful at this time of year. The nights are cold, but the days are perfect for hiking - cool and sunny. 

Campfire food (we camped... I slept in the car because I'm always freezing when I tent-camp in the winter)

Joshua Trees south of Las Vegas

It's been a whirlwind. I've done a pretty good job of maintaining my energy levels; in fact, when we were hiking around my field area, I felt absolutely great. I think ramping up my running in the past couple of months prepared me well for stomping around the desert. On the other hand, my body is definitely waving a white flag and begging for some downtime. As soon as we got to AZ, I came down with a rather clingy cold. Usually I can shake those things in a couple of days, but this time it's still going strong nearly a week in.

I need some rest.

Unfortunately I won't get much of a mental break until the end of January, after my comprehensive exams are over. That's right - over Christmas I'll be hitting the books. I hope I can make myself focus (and I really hope I pass!). Right now all I want to do is lounge around on the couch, drink hot chocolate, and make paper chains for the Christmas tree.

Seven miles, students, and Steve Jobs

Yesterday I ran seven miles, the farthest I've run in at least a year or two. My lungs felt good throughout; my legs got kind of rusty at the end. But I finished feeling more refreshed than tired. It helped that I was running outside. The weather was perfect - sunny, cool, breezy - and the falling/blowing leaves made it all the more invigorating. Today I kept it simple and followed up with a three-mile walk on the treadmill.

As I walked, I thought about my students. I've been teaching college students in some capacity for the better part of 10 years. When I started out, I was only a year or two older than the seniors. It didn't take much to intimidate me. I worried about whether they liked me, whether they thought I was lame, whether my classes were "fun" enough.

This is the first year where I look at my students and think, "They're so young." When I'm around them, I don't feel old, per se, but I see how I have changed in the last decade as an instructor. I feel more comfortable in the role, more capable. If they act out, I don't take it personally. I see their insecurities, their worries, and their frustrations. I see their creativity and their unique way of approaching problems. I think they are all incredibly smart and talented, though in different ways. And I really like each and every one of them. This semester I got lucky with my class: no-one whines (or if they do, they're smart enough to whine out of earshot of me), and they work hard enough.

I thought of them, and me, and life in general, when I read part of Steve Jobs' 2005 commencement address to Stanford graduates (I know he talks a lot about death here, but this quote is really about life): "Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything - all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart... Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."

To myself on my 33rd birthday

Dear Self,

You had a pretty awesome day today. You got a free latte at Starbucks (and an impromptu birthday greeting from the stranger standing in line behind you) and an awesome artsy-craftsy present from your favorite friend/coworker. You had a surprisingly helpful session with your new therapist at the school counseling center and learned a new calming technique* (one that actually works instead of exacerbating your anxiety). And then you had dinner with your family, followed by homemade cake and cookies that your son was so proud to show off. You capped off the day with a 50-minute speedwork session on the treadmill.

Things have not always been easy for you, and sometimes they still aren't. Sometimes it's hard to remember that the past really is in the past and that yes, this IS your life now, no-one else's, and it's pretty darn good. Not only that, but it is a life you deserve (you still don't totally believe that, but maybe one day soon you will).

Getting older is a little bit freaky, especially when events that happened nearly 15 years ago (like, say, high school graduation) are still vividly clear in your mind, still seemingly close enough to touch. But getting older is also something of a relief. Finally, you are starting to respect yourself; you are starting to commend yourself for the things you've accomplished (mostly personal triumphs that most others will never know about) instead of constantly berating yourself for your shortcomings. You are beginning to see that you are tougher, more resilient, and more capable than you have given yourself credit for. And you are starting to see yourself through your own eyes instead of assessing yourself through the eyes of others.

When you blew out your birthday candles tonight, you tried to think of something to wish for, but nothing immediately came to mind. You have everything you absolutely need and many things you want. There are no pressing voids in your life right now. So you wished for things to stay largely the same - except maybe your 5K time.

Happy birthday.

Sincerely,
Self

*Calming technique: Sit quietly and, one by one, identify the sounds close by and far away: the sound of a fan, traffic outside, birds chirping, footsteps on the floor above, etc. This calmed me almost immediately. It really worked!