Last November, I signed up for a fifty-mile ultramarathon located in British Columbia, Canada: the Squamish 50. It’s no secret that I love running, but I’ve never made an attempt at something so mentally and physically demanding. I’ve participated in many events that have taxed me to the core, and I have survived all of them up to now.
But now, Squamish is just two days away. I’m equal parts excited and terrified. I have an idea of what to expect, but I won’t really know what it’s going to be like until I’m a few hours in and regretting my life choices. I hope, and expect, to finish. I would like to do so well. That said, I am prepared for the possibility of a DNF.
I know myself pretty well. I know my capabilities are far higher than I think they are. I know I have a lot of potential. I also know my weaknesses. I know what can sideline me, and I know these drawbacks are just as possible as success. I am a realist. I do not see the world through rose-colored glasses.
As a realist, I tend to temper my speech and expectation with caveats. I always maintain an awareness of possibility, both positive and negative. I find optimism delusional and pessimism toxic. The balance between the two is where I generally find myself.
****
So this morning I took my final pre-race run: a slow, flat, six-mile jaunt up and down the waterfront. It was right around sunrise when I started, but the overcast skies and hazy smoke from somewhat nearby forest fires painted the morning a dismal grey.
I started the run in a funk. It’s also no secret that I deal with depression on a regular basis. Running is an attempt to medicate and does a better job than anything else I’ve tried.
As I cruised effortlessly along, Puget Sound passing by on the right, Ruston Way on the left, I talked myself through some thoughts and emotions. I often feel this sense of isolation, this sort of disconnect with the human race. I look out at passersby and can recognize they’re just like me, and yet, simultaneously foreign. I will never know what it’s like to be the body and mind that is another individual. I will only ever know what it is to be me.
The inverse is also true.
****
There are a few regulars to the waterfront early each morning. I happen to be one. Steve happens to be another. I’ve never seen Steve anywhere else but the Tacoma waterfront early in the morning.
I left a little later than usual, so I wasn’t sure if I would see Steve at all on this particular run, but about a mile after turning around to return to my car, I saw him. I rounded the corner and there he was, just a hundred yards ahead of me.
“When’s the marathon?” Steve asked me as I passed him on the right.
“Saturday,” I replied, “Coming right up.”
“Is there a time you’re hoping for?”
“I’m just hoping to finish.” I laugh.
Hearing that, Steve got a funny look on his face.
“Oh come on,” he said, “You’ve got to have higher standards than that. You’ll do great. Good luck!”
I said, “Thanks,” wished him a good day, and continued onward.
The further I got from Steve, the more I thought about what he said. “You’ve got to have higher standards than that.” I don’t think he knows that my “marathon” is more than 26.2 miles. I don’t think he realizes that I’m going to be running an ultramarathon.
What’s more, I don’t know exactly why Steve thinks he has a good estimation of my capabilities. He’s never seen me for more than a few seconds at a time. Sure, I’m quick. My pace is usually pretty fast when I’m passing him down on Ruston Way, but you can’t fully judge someone with such limited data points to work with. For all Steve knows, I only run on the waterfront. For all he knows, I only run when I’m in view.
I’ve never run fifty miles before. I don’t know how I’ll do. And not only is this run going to be the longest of my life, it will also have the highest degree of difficulty. If I were simply running fifty miles on the road, and at sea level, I’d kill it. But that’s not going to be the situation. In addition to the high mileage, I’ll also be affronted by something like 11,000 total feet of gain. Only the future knows how I will do.
In thinking of Steve’s statement, that I should have higher standards, I can’t help but wonder if he’s right. I can do more than I think I can. I’ve proven that to myself over and over. And yet, I am ever vigilant against arrogance. Icarus taught a lesson I took to heart a long time ago. This lesson has made me rather personally conservative, but, to my credit, I have yet to fly too close to the sun.
****
This effect is not limited to running. Steve has a higher expectation of my capabilities than I do. I feel like I have the better perspective in this case. I know my running and I know my body and I know, at least intellectually, what I’ll be facing and I definitively don’t know if I’m up to the challenge. Steve, as an outsider, thinks I am. He thinks I am more than up to the challenge. Steve thinks I can do well. And I appreciate that sentiment. I really do. It encourages me.
Let’s look at another aspect of my life: depression. I want to explore the concept as I relate to it and then how others relate to me on the subject.
My depression began on July 10th, 2010. I can point to the specific moment it all started, too. I can’t tell you why, not with any certainty, but I can tell you when. And once that trigger was pulled, I fell into a downward spiral unlike anything I’d experienced at any point in my life up to then. It lasted days. Once the initial downturn passed, I felt normal for a while, as if granted a reprieve. Then something would happen to send me right back into the thick of despair.
This cycle has gone on for eight years. It maintained a consistent holding pattern for the first five or six years, but then things took a turn for the worse. The periods of depression began to last longer with an ever-increasing degree of severity and a shortened respite between. It got to the point where I no longer wanted to exist. I resented the fact that I would wake up each morning, just like yesterday, and have to participate in life. The whole thing felt nothing but tedious to me.
Eventually, I got help. I started going to therapy. I developed tools to navigate this depression. I began cultivating a mindfulness practice. I threw myself into running. I deconstructed the mindsets and attitudes most directly responsible for my depression.
But in spite of everything I’ve done up to now, in spite of the positive progress I’ve seen, in spite of my continued survival and growth, I still deal with depression on a daily basis. Some days are worse than others, but no day is free of at least a few moments of severely negative self-talk.
I’ve lived with this long enough to recognize the triggers that endlessly adjust the swing of the pendulum. I know what sets me off and isolates me. I know what brings hope and healing as well. And I know I’m responsible for at least as much as that which I am at the mercy of. The depth of the soil directly affects to the steadiness of the tree, but the strength of the roots are also vital to the tree’s continued upright existence.
I often have a difficult time differentiating between the strength of the roots and the depth of the soil I’m working with. Sometimes I feel strong in the face of myriad personal demons. Other times, I feel I can barely hold on and just want to fall over in defeat.
Often I feel both of these things at once.
****
When I tell someone how socially maladjusted I feel, they look at me like I’m crazy. I’m high functioning so the only me they know is the lie I’ve told them. In my daily life, I have a rather jovial disposition. I smile often, laugh frequently, and am generally ready to hand out kindness to the people around me.
My interactions with others are not vulnerable or genuine. They seem like it. And they partially are, I guess, but not completely. I learned a long time ago how to fake vulnerability. I learned how to use partial truths, deflection, and verbal manipulation to hide how deeply lonely and broken I am.
I’ve developed an insidious conversational skill. I know how to leverage the aspects of my depression that are generally applicable to most people to differing degrees. I’m an open book when it comes to admitting my depression and explaining what it basically looks like for me, as well as how I cope. The problem is, I only tell a part of the story. Even now, you’ll likely notice, I’ve not shared anything specific. I’ve hinted at specifics, alluded to particulars, but not shared anything truly genuine or honest.
This is what I do. I give people enough to work with, enough to let them think they know me.
Then they stop asking questions. Invariably. Once they think they understand, they steer the conversation in another direction and don’t seem to realize that the course of the conversation was planned by my subconscious mind. And if they do realize how surface level the conversation truly was, they don’t let on.
And yet, everyone around me seems to think I’ll find my way out of this depression. They see my progress (and, to be fair, that has been considerable) and think I’m on my way to full mental and emotional healing.
But they aren’t privy to the inner workings of my mind. Few people even really know the ultimate causes of my suffering. Or, again, if they do, they don’t let on. Few people even recognize the severity. I sometimes don’t even recognize the severity except in retrospect.
Still I hear platitudes. Still I hear well wishes and misplaced encouragement. People tell me all sorts of things they think will help. Most of the time I do believe it comes from a genuine place of compassion and sympathy, but it’s all functionally the same. It misses the point entirely. And this is mostly because I am not forthcoming with my baggage.
****
It’s like Steve on the waterfront. He sees me run and can tell my pace is fast. Judging by my physique, he can also accurately assume I’m fit and efficient. From there, it’s not difficult to see why he would extrapolate my capabilities based on what he knows. And what he knows is that I’m a physically fit runner with a quick pace, efficient cadence, and enough dedication to my sport to be up at six on a Thursday morning, pounding out a few miles even with the poor, smoky air quality.
I can’t fault Steve for assuming the best. I’d do the same. And he’s likely operating under the false assumption that I’m running 26.2 miles when, in reality, I’m running twice that. How could he make a different assumption given what he knows, what he’s seen and experienced?
So, too, my social circles can’t possibly understand my depression. Not because they aren’t capable. They are. Unequivocally. But if they are to understand, I am going to need to be far more up front with the truth than I ever have been. And I don’t know if that is something I can do.
Scratch that. I can do it. I can do more than I think I can.
But will I? That’s a very different question. The answer isn’t a simple one. Not for me.
****
It might seem logical to expect me to be more candid here at the end of this writing. It would seem like I should use this opportunity to do the thing I know I should do.
I’m not going to.
Maybe someday I’ll figure out exactly how to curb these inhibitions. Perhaps I’ll find a way to heal and become mentally healthy, more balanced emotionally.
Maybe. Perhaps. Someday. Not today. It’s a tricky thing. Far trickier than running fifty miles. And I honestly don’t know that I’m up to the challenge.