And So, It Begins

Today I ran like Forrest. I was trailed by a bike stalker for two miles until he ran into the back of a UPS truck while fixating his eyes on me. I was tired at the conclusion. I ate soybeans and water for a recovery meal.

* * *

No, this is not that kind of runner's diary.

Yes, it is a digital log--a jog blog if you will--of the mileage, the diet, the progress, the struggles and the accomplishments of our training for the Chicago Marathon in October, but this blog is more than that: it's a diary of the thoughts, the frustration, the insights, the battle and the steps towards the enlightenment that comes when one lets go, or is present, or gives up. And by giving up, I mean makes the decision to end their self-induced suffering.

The end of suffering?! you ask. Isn't running 26.2 miles pretty much the equivalent of locking one's body in an Ultimate Fighting cage with Macho Man Randy Savage? Probably. Jogging, running a marathon, nonetheless, IS painful. But there's a difference between pain and suffering. One is about trying to control the uncontrollable. That's what causes suffering.

A story: about a year ago, I hit rock bottom. I was recovering from the loss of a baby who died in the 5th month of my pregnancy. First of all, I hadn't planned on getting pregnant: I was taking the pill, and I never missed a day. (I'm that .01 percent.) But still. It happened. It wasn't easy. I embraced it.

Anyway, during the ultrasound that would tell us the sex of our baby, the doctors told us instead that our baby was sick. With my head still on the pillow in the exam room, I learned she was really sick. That she wasn't going to survive. They told us that it wasn't our fault--the doomed pregnancy was purely a genetic fluke, and there was nothing we could have done to prevented it. But that didn't matter. I felt responsible. I felt like there was something I could've done differently--eaten more apples, been happier about the surprise leap into parenthood. I blamed myself: if only I had not had that extra glass of champagne (or three). If only I had drank 8 glasses of water a day. Evian bottled water. Or washed my hands more often. Or eaten more broccoli. I wanted control. I wanted control of the things I had no control over. And not being able to change things didn't feel good of .

Months after the loss of our baby (we named her Lilly), our support system had all moved on. People had their own lives to care for. I tried to move on, too. I tried very hard, but I couldn't. I wanted my feelings to be different, andwas forcing my emotions to get back into their seats, shut up and be quiet, be happy or at least fake a smile. But this made me more exasperated because it didn't work. It just made me more angry, more depressed, more resentful. I tried harder. I got worse.

I started seeing a therapist. She was strong, honest, brutal, and helpful, but she couldn't make me let go of the desire for control. After a few months, "You have post-traumatic stress disorder," is what it eventually came down to. My therapist diagnosed me as Clinically Depressed with PTSD, and strongly encouraged that I promptly be medicated with antidepressants. With her pen, she scribbled the name of an (expensive) Upper West Side psychiatrist down onto a piece of paper, then sent me on my way.


I am clinically depressed. I said it out loud. The "clinical" made it sound so official. And by admitting these words, I knew something was finished. The denial of my pain was leaving me, as was the anger that bounced with love, sadness and grief.

Post-traumatic stress disorder. I knew the admission was a beginning. Once I said the words out loud, I felt as if I'd opened the festered secrecy of my heart. PTSD. Depressed. And I continued to confess rapidly and urgently, and felt ready to accept the previously unforeseen liberation.

Antidepressants. Relief. The professional diagnosis of my emotions made them feel justified--I was not imagining the invisible pain that I couldn't shake. But medication?



I never wanted to be a person who popped a "happy pill" each morning. It was too 1994, too New York, too cliche. I wanted to feel alive again, eager and curious and adventuresome like the girl I was at age 5, 12, 25 . . . I simply wanted to end my suffering. Yet, as sure as I was about my longing for happiness, I was ambivalent about going on antidepressants. What if they didn't work? What if the pills didn't make me glad, but diluted my grief instead? I was reluctant, but more than that, I was desperate.

The day before my intake appointment with the psychiatrist on the Upper West Side, I received a call from my friend Patrick, one of my best friends whom I had met in college. Pat grew up in the Midwest. He played ice hockey. He was an accountant. He called himself "Paxmax: making peace through taxes." Pat had once admitted to having a problem of NOT being able to take life seriously. I laughed when he said this. Pat and I had gotten so close because we were always laughing at one another. We were always trying to be funny, self-deprecating . . . it had sort of become a competition. To wit: there is more ribbing in our friendship than KC bbq joint. (When I told him I was starting a jog blog, he responded with the mock jog log at the top of this entry.)

Anyway, this "dark period" of mine had made Pat concerned--he wasn't used to not being able to make me laugh at myself, or at least at him. He started calling once or twice a week to check in and keep tabs. When I told him that I'd found a solution to my misery, and explained where I'd be going the next day, what I'd be getting and taking, my friend scoffed at my enthusiasm.

"I need to," I explained. "My serotonin levels are all jacked up. It's clinical! I need meds!"

"You fool," he teased. "You ain't no Girl, Interupted. Why don't you just go for a jog instead?"

And in that instant, everything changed.

* * *

You see, nobody really wants to suffer. And there aren't too many people who willingly (or often) want to be in pain. I didn't want to feel my own grief: I'd never experienced something so profound as losing a child. I had never been so alone in my feelings. And I didn't want to feel the pain, so I dodged it. I was scared at what it might feel like. I wanted something else: I wanted the death never to have had happened. I wanted to feel good. I wanted to be just like everyone else. I wanted to be normal, wanted my feelings to be happy ones, or at least some kind of comfortable smear. I wanted to to get rid of my grief. But by avoiding the pain, by refusing to confront it and push through it, my pain pickled like a kosher dill. It started to stink. And I started to stink. And the stinking made me suffer.

So I started to run. After my friend's simple yet savant alternative to antidepressants, I started jogging. In the beginning, I couldn't run for the life of me. Not a single mile. I'd start strong, then feel a burn, get a sidecramp and slow down. I'd powerwalk, feel embarrassed, then quit. (Hey, leaving the house had been victory enough for me!) But with the encouragement of my husband Andrew, I tried again. And again. Soon, I could run a mile. Then two, three, four. Okay, maybe it took me awhile to get to four. But eventually, I felt like a "runner." And I was amazed at what I was capable of. Soon, I started to feel a little better. I started to feel feisty, even. I felt in control of my body, and knew the difference between creating something (running) and wanting (yearning for things beyond my control). Once I'd managed to ignore the incessant chatter in my head that told me to want this or want that, to do this or go after that, once I set myself into the present moment, I started to feel better.

This is why I run.

Or at least what got me running again. And why run a marathon? Go big or go home, I figured. Let's see how far I can go, I thought.

A little while ago, I asked my dad to run it with me. He said "yes". He didn't hesitate much, either. I asked my Dad because he's a great runner, and because he's always up for a Zen-like challenge. I also asked him because I knew he was no stranger to the the things on my life's radar map: not only has he been a runner his whole life, but Dad has also experienced the pain of losing a child--my father had been in the car when my younger brother Julian was killed by a drunk driver. And my father had survived in more ways than one.

Dad had lost his son in a tragedy that he had no control over, yet he had remained spiritual and wise and at peace. He is still a forgiver. He still has a healthy, if not stronger marriage. He is a vegetarian. He's the one who prompted me to become a vegetarian, in fact. He is the most compassionate person I've ever met. I've always wanted to learn more about him. I decided to run and train for the Chicago Marathon and ask my father to join me because I knew he had some insights on grief--on "good" grief.

Plus, he's a great running partner.

* * *

There are now 99 days left until the marathon. We are up to mile 10 (we were up to 12 but switched to a new training routine that now includes a lot of hill work. Yeeoouchhh!). I've gotten up to 11 miles before, but still, even when I am just starting to finish up mile 1, it still can suck and I can still hate it. There are good days and bad days, and on the bad days, I forgive myself. Sometimes I butcher the rub because I didn't drink enough water that day. Sometimes it's because of the weather--too hot, usually. Sometimes I didn't get enough sleep the night before, or eat enough and more than often, there is pain when I run.

But I try to push through. It keeps getting easier. The pain isn't scary, and it is disappearing. I focus on my breathing. I explore the feeling of the sidecramp. I make friends with it. A sidecramp has never killed anyone. I try to keep going, and when I'm on mile 5 and it's hot out and the sweat between my legs makes my shorts appear as if I've peed them and my ipod has run out of batteries and I'm facing the bottom of a giant hill and I get scared and start to give up before I even start, I face my fear. And that's when I realize there's nothing even there--that I don't even know what I'm afraid of.



I never ended up going on antidepressants. I am forever grateful to my friend Patrick, who continues to make me laugh at myself (sidenote: the other day, he called me "a vegan with a big butt"), but mostly because it was Pat's simple yet savant suggestion that prompted my spiritual and physical resurgence after losing my child, and nearly my mind: running, the art of literally putting one foot in front of the other, is what brought me back to life.


In other news: soon to come, updates from Phil's side of things in Michigan.

Truly,

Mira

p.s. today we run 5 miles, and I admit, I am not exactly psyched about jogging on a Friday evening!

p.p.s. A shout-out goes to Laura Munson, a true blessing, who came into my life yesterday and inspired me to really believe in myself, and be at peace. She's simply mindblowing, and I'm still processing her awesomeness. Check out her story and let your mind be blown by clicking here: http://lauramunsonauthor.com/book.php