Bleak House

I'm about to do something that might not be too safe. I like to present myself to the public of the world wide interwebs as a person of clear mind and outstanding character, a girl that laughs in the face of adversity and walks with a spring in her step. I certainly don't want to make anyone uncomfortable or come across as melodramatic and lame. I have been known to be both of those things, and I do not wish to propagate that personality aspect with this particular blog. I just want to be honest, and I just want to share. Maybe someone out there needs to hear this. I don't know. I could certainly use it.

I suffer from a delightful disease that was once called "depression," but has now been upgraded to "major depressive disorder." I guess that sounds more medical. Maybe because so many people like to whine about how "depressed" they are, the mayo clinic (or whoever's in charge of that sort of thing) decided it might be easier to give it a more technical/medical sounding name. It IS, after all, a medical condition. I have a history of it, and I come from a long line of afflicted who, if not properly diagnosed because of their generation, were terribly misunderstood. It is, as they say, in my blood. And this one is heavy.

I bring it up now because I seem to have slipped deep into a bout of it over the past few months. It's a funny feeling watching things slip out of your grasp, sinking, but spinning uncontrollably. I could not tell you, if you asked, when it started, or give you an outline of my descent. The pictures are never that clear. That's what it is: a fuzziness in your brain, a cloudiness, that fogs the reality, the logical order of every day life. Maybe it happens in slow motion, but a blind slow motion, not one during which you see all the little nuances of every single move made. Slipping into depression is like sinking slowly underwater. It's comfortable, yet suffocating, calm, yet terrifying.

I feel it in my whole body. Every muscle aches. Sometimes I think I can't even move under the weight. Every single decision I make throughout my days, is tossed up against this wall that I watched building around me, yet said nothing. It's a heaving of myself into each task, and it's exhausting. Sometimes I have to convince myself that I have to talk. I have to will myself to communicate. I have to fight myself to keep from crying.

And sometimes I do cry. I cry until I laugh at myself because I know exactly where I am. I made it home a few days ago and sat myself back in the far corner of my house, and I cried out loud, "I don't want to be sad anymore," and then I laughed, and I breathed, and my dog licked my knee.

And it's no one's fault. It's not even my fault. It just is. Just hovering there, completely unrelated to the earth's rotation. Simply a wire or two in my brain that is malfunctioning. But it's very lonely.

I suppose that's why I'm writing this. Depression is terribly lonely. Sometimes I don't even want to be with people because it feels more lonely than when I'm alone. Because I have no idea what to say. Because it takes so much energy to keep from responding to "hello" with "I'm so tired of being miserable." I can't find anyone talking about depression online except doctors talking about how we need to talk more about it. To whom? Who among us is able to take on, even for a brief moment, the cross we, the depressed, flail beneath? Who would we want to do that to?

Yes, I take medication, and, yes, I am a believer. Sometimes it takes work, to find the right drug and the right dosage, and sometimes everything changes, and you have to go back to square one, but it's worth it not to feel this way. It's worth it to have hope that the world isn't quite ready to write you off. I'm also a believer in therapy. NOTHING feels quite like having an hour a week during which to talk while someone listens. So few people really listen to each other. So many people need someone to listen to them. Someone that takes the weight for just a moment, and then helps you grow strong enough to bear it yourself. The weight is always there. We do have the capability of carrying it, and that's a relief.

So, I hope someone reads this, and feels relief. I hope someone stumbles upon this, and it soothes the dull pain of waking up to depression again and again.

Even with medication, depression is a tough road to travel, but it doesn't last forever. It can't. As soon as this room becomes too dark, a light will find its way in.

How To Be a Feminist Runner

Many of you might consider yourselves to be runners. Many of you may consider yourselves to be feminists. But, do any of you consider yourselves to be feminist runners, or have you ever experienced a truly feminist run?

The feminist run begins at home. Mental preparation is of the utmost importance. I like to listen to the Tron Soundtrack. This is feminist because the girl in the movie is a sexy fighter. I am preparing myself for a sexy fight: me and the road. Ladies: you must wear a sports bra. Your body must be solid. You can wear a skirt. You have the choice to exercise your femininity while running, or you can wear shorts, but sometimes they ride up. How can you focus on the fight for equality while you are pulling your shorts out of your butt? I recommend a good layer of corn starch between your legs. The thighs of the maternal are big and powerful. They also chafe. Don't let this defeat you.

Step out into the night. I always run at night because I live in a small town, and I can. No one bothers me. If you live in a place where you don't feel safe, but you still want to run at night, carry some mace...or a gun. Not everyone is a feminist. No one takes advantage of you! No one crosses you!

Choose music that speaks to your soul as a woman in charge of her own destiny and riles you up (this is key). I recommend: Aretha Franklin's "Respect," Ladytron's "They only want you when you're seventeen," Metric's "Help I'm alive," or anything Liz Phair prior to her brush with pop fame. If you like, you can also listen to incredibly degrading, hard-core rap. I find this to be just the ticket when needing that extra push to keep running. Nothing makes me want to bulldoze someone like listening to a rapper degrade his woman.

Do I need to buy an arm band for my iphone? No, you do not. I put my iphone in a sock, and I lodge it safely between my shoulder-blades inside of the back of my sports bra. Make sure the sock is good and absorbent. You don't want the phone getting moist.

Finally, end your run with a song that lifts you up and makes you feel like you've won the fight and can do so again and again. I like Lady Gaga's "Edge of Glory," but, "Born This Way" works really well too.

"I'm a dude. Can I be a feminist runner?"
Yes, you can. Follow all these instructions, but leave out the sports bra and skirt bits...unless you really like wearing skirts. There is nothing wrong with that. Skirts are awesome. Instead of thinking "manly," "misogynistic" thoughts, think empowering thoughts for all human beings. Listen to "Born This Way" at least once during your run. Maybe twice...and definitely Madonna. Then eat some chocolate ice-cream and call that lady you've been thinking about. Tell her how awesome she is. And, ladies, if that's you he's calling, thank him. Then, return the complement. Everyone is awesome.