***
I’d grown up mostly alone. By the time I was born, Mom and Dad were in their thirties. My brother and sister escaped to their adult lives before I finished middle school. My drinking parents fought over money. Occasional outbursts of temper punctuated their brooding silences. To isolate and zone out, I practiced flute in my room, cantered solo around the yard pretending I was a horse, or escaped to the woods to build “cities” from fallen trees. I tried to stay out of the way, but developed a veil of sadness, and extreme negative thinking. In my teen years, I binge-drank.
Alcohol blurred the sharp edges of life, and drinking felt as natural as breathing. My parents allowed me to drink openly with them long before I learned to drive. Our family measured distances and projects by the number of beers they would take. The utility room never contained fewer than three cases of long-necked Budweisers, and the bottom refrigerator drawer (which I would learn in college most families filled with vegetables) we reserved for chilling the beer.
At sixteen, I passed out at a Heart concert on the floor of the women’s bathroom and promptly swore off alcohol only to start drinking again a few weeks later. Into college and law school, with each consequence, I would quit, then soon forgot that even the first drink was a bad idea. I lost the car more than once. In a blackout, I slugged a friend. While working at the law firm, I rolled a brand-new station wagon. I wound up in situations and with people I shouldn’t have, even though my binges were sometimes years apart.
Finally, one night when I was in my thirties, I stood in front of an open refrigerator negotiating with the six-pack that sat on the middle shelf. I knew where it would end. I sought help, and a community of ex-problem drinkers taught me how to stay stopped. Without those fellow travelers, I was doomed.
***
The Penguins became my running fellowship. When I wrote about conquering the hill near the ravine by our house, they cheered. They talked about shoes, water (hydration) belts, sports bras, tech shirts, capris, and underwear. They talked about interval training, long slow runs, tempo runs—all new to me. Fartlek? Is that even a word? They explained that “fartlek” is Swedish for “speed play.” You “play” with speed, altering your pace on a whim.
As my knowledge grew, so did my confidence. Soon, I too was posting “WTG!” if a newcomer reported progress. The people in the Penguin Forum couldn’t see my middle-aged body as I slogged through my neighborhood. I might be shy in front of other people, but not on the internet. I eagerly shared what I had learned.
With the Penguins, I began to think of myself as a runner. Never mind that I was barely running five minutes at a time. Depression makes me think I’m worthless, that the good days are behind me, and only doom and gloom lie ahead. By taking myself more seriously, I put in more effort and was less likely to quit. I hoped others would take me seriously too, but that wasn’t as important as me remembering a competence I thought I lacked. In my slow, middle-aged way, I was good at running. Sharing my limited experience kept the dangerously dull mood at bay, at least while I was on the Penguin Forums.
***
My joy was short-lived. The last week of April, as I completed week four, my ankle swelled the way it had so many years before. When it remained swollen a few days later, it scared me enough to stop.
Over the next two weeks, the dog and I took many long walks, but it broke my heart to think I would lose the fitness and fun. My friends Kim and Fiona continued to post and email about their running. The Penguin Forums just made me sad. I talked to my psychiatrist about a med change, but we held off to see if the darkness would pass.
***
My current psychiatrist and I are vigilant about not letting the darkness linger. We know how bad it can get. In 1994, after I took a disability leave of absence from work, my motivation and joy for life, including the intense running I was doing, faded. Even breathing was difficult.
On a September day, I took the dogs for a run. Weak, worn down, and empty inside, I only managed a block. Running had become a chore, one more thing depression had stolen. I turned the dogs for home. Inside, I took off my running shoes and put them in the back of the closet.
A few days later, stone cold sober, I lay on the family room floor, my heavy head resting on the Berber carpet while Ed was at work. Astro and Maxine, the two dogs I had before Ed and I married, curled around me. My arms, legs, and head felt like they had weights attached, and my mind was thick with sludge. The smallest tasks made me feel as if I were drowning. Outside the family room window, even the blue sky looked bleak.
As I lay there, I imagined loading Maxine, a black Labrador, and Astro, an American Eskimo Dog, into my station wagon, turning on the engine without opening the garage door, and crawling in the back with them. Permanent “sleep” seemed the only reasonable solution. Despite Ed’s love, I believed he would be better off without us.
Before I could carry out my fatal plan, the phone rang. I’d forgotten about my psychologist appointment. Still in my pajamas, I went, told her of my plan, and was admitted to the locked ward of a psychiatric hospital until the suicidal thoughts passed. I spent the next six months in various outpatient mental health treatment programs.
With that nervous breakdown, I left the legal profession permanently after ten years of practice. I haven’t held a regular job since. I began to write and found homes for a few articles and essays, but low energy and perfectionism kept me from finishing anything longer. I posted occasional articles to my writing blog, Bum Glue (“Apply to seat of pants. Sit. Write.”), taught a few writing classes, and published a monthly email of Ohio writing events, the Write Now Newsletter, working those around my inability to get out of bed and the voices in my head that told me everything I wrote was horrible. I also wrote drafts of three novels, four memoirs, a book about writing, and a book of daily mindfulness meditations. But I couldn’t channel the energy to complete those. After several revisions, I decided each book was too flawed and started a new one—nine times. When people asked about work, I said I was retired.
In much the same way that the ex-problem drinkers have kept me on the sober path and various groups of meditators supported my mindfulness practice, the writing community helped me keep pen to page despite my challenges. The Buddhists call their community the “Sangha.” Sitting in a quiet room with others provided structure as I attempted to focus on my breath. Discussing the writings of Buddhist teachers brought us together. In writing, critique groups, writing groups (both in person and online), and workshops and conferences allowed me to mingle with other “scribblers.” With the recovering people, I learned how to live without alcohol. Beyond mere camaraderie, group synergy made any journey more pleasant, and provided friendly peer pressure and support in tough times. I found these same virtues among the running “Penguins.”
***
After two weeks of rest from running, my ankle returned to normal. Perhaps I was ready for week five after all. I mulled that for a few more days before pulling out the schedule. The first day simply increased the amount of jogging and decreased the walk breaks. But the second day required eight minutes of jogging, and the third day jumped to a steady twenty minutes straight with, get this, no walking! I panicked. If I couldn’t do the second or third day, why bother with the first?
No, this thinking does not make sense, but that’s how my mind works. For fifteen minutes, I tried to convince myself to just do the first day. I tried to recall the increased energy and happy mood the workouts produced. I tried to imagine myself succeeding, but the panic would not subside. I’d expected each week to follow the same format, with an increased challenge to be repeated three times. I sulked, unable to make myself put on exercise clothes, leash up the dog, or do anything productive. Blue and mildly nauseous, I called a friend, but she didn’t answer. I called Ed, but he was busy with work. I surfed the internet and played many