I used to run a lot. An excessive amount.
I used to be what those sweaty, Nike-wearing, time-checking early morning people call ‘a runner.’ And I used to swear by it.
I believed any ailment – bad day, cramps, grumpy temper, overwhelmed spirit – could be solved with a run. At some point in the run you do forget whatever else was bothering you. All your focus turns to drawing breath, moving forward, and finishing this one task. Then the accomplishment of completing a run outshines all other issues. Magic.
Some would comment on how often I ran and how it seemed to invoke the rigorous self-discipline I possessed. I was encouraged to keep running. I acknowledged that hallow term ‘runner.’ What an odd thought. For me, it was not really about being a runner at all. It was about survival.
I ran because I had to and I had to run because, contrary to mileage and seemingly strong legs, I was not well.
Near the end of school, I encountered depression and anxiety head on. Plenty was going on in my personal and academic life to invite them in – but I do think, after some familial studies, they would have caught up with me one way or another.
As an adolescent I did not always know how to cope. I didn’t know how to draw out sadness through writing or drawing. I didn’t know how to talk to friends about how afraid I was of myself, my own unfamiliar thoughts. It sounds a bit crazy to tell your friends you don’t recognise yourself anymore and you don’t remember why.
So, I ran. I knew how to run. I was good at it. Best of all I could control it - the speed, the stride, the length, the music, the time, all of it.
While most else spiraled out of my grasp, I took running hostage. It was mine and that would not change. Running was ideal to me. It could be named a healthy habit and it remained constant regardless of what country I was in at the time. This may be why I first loved, and continued to love, running – it’s transferrable. My speed and stride are the same here in Cambridge as they are in Texas or Mississippi or Namibia or Kenya – because they belong to me not the environment. For a TCK in the throes of life upsets and certain changes it was a necessary consistency.
Running was also my manic attempt at maintaining control.
I ran all the time. I ran in the early mornings, after dinner, in between classes, in the Tennessee heat. It did not matter if I was exhausted or exams were near, if I was on a family holiday, if I had two broken toes from field hockey or if I was sick. I would just run because I didn’t know what else to do.
And I would convince myself everything was alright because I had run. I should just say now, if you are running on broken toes then you are not okay; you need help.
Providentially, after a decade of being my poorly tempered fix, running betrayed me.
Three years ago, during the sixth mile or so of a long run, my skin exploded in hives. I was used to eczema taking over my skin, but I had never seen hives. I stumbled through the rest of my run, itching and wheezing and frightened (again, if you’re running and you break out in hives, stop running, something is wrong, you need help).
This was the first of many, many breakouts. The incessant hives became annoying, discouraging, enraging, unbiddenly familiar, and just massively exhausting. After each run with hives I would sit on our floor in the dark for several hours and wonder if running, an activity I depended on, was trying to kill me.
After a few GP appointments I was told to take a break from running to let my body relax and to reverse some inflammation. After a few more weeks stubbornly running and breaking out, I decided to comply.
The hives were not gone and now my sense of relief and control had been taken. Hazy days and sleepless nights stretched empty in front of me. With no compulsive exhaustion and no extensive running to fill my time I was just alone. I was forced to face my demons uninhibited, to open the trunk and let out all the boggarts so I could duel with them one by one.
Every unresolved moment of depression, grievance or loss in the past ten years pushed themselves to the surface. My body had buried these thoughts for so long, shoved them to the back of the mind with each run and said ‘we’ll think about that later’ until they quite literally exploded out of my skin in angry red wheals. I had reached my limit, and rather than allow me to continue in a depleted state, the Lord orchestrated for rest. It was a nonnegotiable demand from my body to stop, to reevaluate, to pray, to rest, and to share.
Depression had overwhelmed me for years, tangled itself to my sinew and bones. It had impregnated this collection of bones, choking everything else, I felt as though I was drowning – if I took too deep a breath water would rush in, fill my lungs, and I would just sink into the depths. This is a beast that robs you of any sense of self. It robs you of self-agency. It tears into your mind and rips out any foundational blocks of self-esteem you have carefully built. Depression seeps some deeply poisonous lethargy, depositing anxiety and self -loathing as it permeates cell by cell until the self becomes unrecognizable.
I adapted to conceal. I ran to keep it hidden. At times, a run was all I could accomplish in a single day. Some days I believed if I didn’t run it would mean depression had more control over my body then I did. And still, it seemed to find another way to dismantle my health.
It was during this time I became aware of how silent, how secret, and how well-hidden depression can be. I could see my concealed depression in direct juxtaposition with my other health issues. People could clearly see my hives and immediately ask if I was alright. They could see patches of irritated, bleeding skin and ask what on earth had happened. These publicly displayed conditions were easy to talk about, easy to comfort, easy to understand, but depression was not. It was still buried deep within me, rooted to a strong sense of shame for owning it in the first place.
Why was running, an unmanageable addiction of avoidance, praised while the crying and anxieties were expected to be hidden? Why were my hives a topic of interest with others but depression and the ensuing loneliness were simply glanced at with averting eyes?
No one can see the slow spread of a depressive episode as it overtakes and overindulges itself. No one can really see that desperate struggle before we are overcome, and depression commandeers again. We don’t ask because we can’t see, and even when we know, we are too afraid to ask.
But we are all broken and dying. Our bodies decay before our eyes in some way or another every day. We are often so forthcoming in discussing illnesses that plague our decrepit shadows of life but not the ones that rob joy from our spirit. We’re much more likely to discuss weight woes or allergen friendly recipes than to share our own experiences with mental illness – to share the sleepless nights, listless days, unbearable hours of trapped thoughts, the desperate, repeated prayers.
What would the world be like if we were a bit more open about mental health? What would the church be like if we addressed this? If we asked our friends and family ‘How’s your head? How’s your heart? What are you struggling with right now?’ Would they listen or would we be written off as charismatic, faithless loons?
What might happen if we started to understand that many illnesses will never be seen? What would happen if we understood how many of us are failing - withering deep beneath our bones?
Mental illnesses such as depression are not fully understood, and they are not well discussed. There are some who staunchly believe depression is a result of a wrong diet, others who say it is genetic and unavoidable and others who firmly express their disbelief in depression’s existence at all. This does not bode well for open discussion on the topic.
But I do understand why we avoid the subject. Depression is not glamorous. It is not Instagrammable. It’s perfectly acceptable to say I am a runner, I love running; it is another thing to say I run because I think consistently exhausting my body will abate my depression and sleep will come easier at night. One allows others to say ‘oh yeah, me too! We should go together sometime’ while the latter tends to bring wide eyed reactions and awkward silences.
And yet, both are real. Depression is pervasive in our communities and it has no social protocol. There is no accepted excuse as for other illnesses. With terrible eczema flare ups, I can say, ‘oh sorry, my skin is so dry and irritated because of this eczema at the moment, it just takes some extra time and care, hence why I am late…’ That’s very different from, ‘Sorry, I haven’t washed my hair or properly eaten in six days because all my energy is invested in staying alive, praying, remembering why I’m here and that this life is meaningful.’
Different narratives for different illnesses abiding in the same body with the same need for Grace.
During deep bouts of depression, it can be quite isolating. It’s lonely in a way many other illnesses are not. My eczema is allergen induced; I’ve had it since I was a kid. I understand the flare ups and my family know mostly what it is and how it’s treated. Depression is different. Perhaps because I don’t talk about it enough – I never built a habit of examining and exposing depression. I just ran.
Recently, in those self-removed seasons, I have found great comfort in God’s presence. In the past few years I have found myself more and more reliant on His presence and company during the terrible days. It is a delight to know that even on the loneliest, darkest days I am not alienated from Him. It is heartening to know that even if family or friends never understand your particular pains – you are not alone. It’s a comfort to know our God who lovingly, purposefully, painstakingly created you, knows your sin, fear, sorrow and hope, and still does not desert you. It is inconsequential if others cannot see or understand your illness when God intimately knows each detail of your being. Whether the pain is on the surface of your skin or the shadowed corners of your heart, He knows. I have found assurance in trusting that truth.
I still run – only three times a week because I’m a good patient. Depression is still too familiar. I still break out in occasional hives, but I am learning to be grateful for the blatant reminder to rest, to pray, to be still.
Mental health should become a familiar topic of conversation, but know that it is not necessary to have the fleeting comforts of men when you rest in the presence of Eternity. If isolating depression is a boggart I find in every corner of this earthly life it cannot overwhelm or cause despair for I am certain it is more than enough, much more than I deserve, to be known and loved by Him.
“I will declare your name to my brothers; in the congregation I will praise you. You who fear the Lord, praise him! All you descendants of Jacob honor him! Revere him, all you descendants of Israel! For he has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted one; he has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help.” Psalm 22:22-24