Tag: recovery

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The Peace Within the Struggle

The North Face Endurance Challenge: Wisconsin 50M – 7:45:11

Hello. Hi. Buongiorno. Good morning. Good afternoon. CIAO. How are you my friends?! What’s new with you? It’s been a minute (and then some). I hope you’re well. I hope you’re more successful at keeping up with your writing goals than I am. So much has happened between now and my last post. Rather than try to play catch up, I can sprinkle in some updates throughout the next few posts. Which I promise will be more regular and not just entirely dependent on my racing! Having said that – yesterday was a big day. A (Type II) fun day. One of those rare days where I smash a lofty goal and surprise myself at the same. A day where the universe conspires perfect weather, a previous night of ACTUALLY getting some sleep on an overnight shift, and a previous weekend of inspiring runs at the Superior 100 to help me get my dehydrated and undertrained ass from zero to 50 miles in a time I was damn proud of. Now, this is not a distance that’s new to me. But two years ago I was much more prepared, ran on as flat of a route as you can going for 50 miles, and was pushed only by completion. There is nothing that pushes the mind and the body like racing. Two years ago it hurt, but yesterday was suffering. In the good way 😀

I fell asleep about 10pm, got up at 3am, dipped a Cliff bar in an almond/cashew/chia/flax seed spread (thank you Holly Reiland and your Costco membership), guzzled some coffee, zombie drove 40 minutes to the start and found myself in front of the brightest flash camera known to humankind 5 minutes before the start of a 5am race. And my ridiculously stupid ass is still finding a way to smile.

 

But let’s back it up a little more. This last year of running has been met with some heavy training, breathroughs in fitness, but overall, a lot of frustration. I was knocked out of this race last year after coming off a fantastically fun mountain trail marathon in Colorado Springs at Pike’s Peak. I thought I was all set and ready to go for TCM Marathon weekend to bounce back into racing a month later, but those injuries cropped back up in a big way. A month or so of recovery and I was back-in-business with Boston training. And, as if predestined by some malevolent force in the cosmos, a similar ankle injury perked up to knock me out of that race too. Needless to say I was disappointed. Especially considering that I’d made it the last three years of consistent running without more than a sprained ankle. And that from just being careless! So, rinse and repeat, I scaled back the mileage, again chalked it up to overtraining and too many hills, and got ready to start my first medical school rotation in May (gasp!). I had made the adjustments of actually warming up before ALL runs, putting some strength training in the weight room, and drawing the alphabet with my toes for quite literally hours a day in an effort to strengthen these seemingly weakened tendons. And, once again, things got better. And the malicious sin wave of destiny threw my IPOS (injured piece of shit for those less familiar with the running lexicon) back onto the bike and out of the running shoes for a THIRD TIME IN LESS THAN A YEAR, this time with plantars fasciitis. And even then I was finding a way to get hurt! A spill on my bike in late July trying emulate a long run meant that not only did running hurt, but the vice-clamp headache and nausea of a concussion made just living a challenging. Being me is weird.

Time trials on 5 year old, $200 bike are unsafe as it is. But put that bike underneath a foolhardy and treacherously untalented injured-runner-turned-cyclist and you have a recipe for disaster. The moral of the story is to always, always wear your helmet. Someone like me has only precious few brain cells to spare, and they aren’t worth being transected by the road or by the bumper of a moving van (or in my case, both). Though that flimsy helmet will do nothing to save you from a month of horribly painful showers. Such is life.

This time, however, the variables had been narrowed to all but one. The one variable I thought absolutely I was immune to having to deal with. Shoes. As much as I loved Altras, they did not love me back. I tossed them for some Hokas and like magic, the ankle pain, plantars fasc, and everything else disappeared. And I was back to running as far and as fast as board studying would allow. Some late mornings meant I didn’t get to the trails as often as I wanted, and a small overuse pain (legitimately overuse pain, I know the difference now) meant a slightly earlier taper and shorter long runs than I needed to feel confident going into yesterday’s 50 miler. That, and working 6p-8a shifts the entire week preceding on my OBGYN rotation meant absolutely chaotic sleep. I might have slept 20 hours between Monday-Friday before the race. For some of you 4 hours a night might be plenty – for me that is barely more than a week’s worth of naps. 

I seem always to miss at least one thing in preparation…for every single thing that I do. Leaving to the grocery store? Forget my wallet. Going to a friend’s house to exchange some baked goods? Forget the actual baked goods. Heading out for a shift at the hospital on my bike and in my running shorts? Forget to pack UNDERWEAR in my backpack. Fully admitting to you all that I have inadvertently gone commando in scrubs. Yesterday was no exception. Jersey, shorts, shoes, socks, nutrition, all packed and ready to go. Even brought my headlamp…but forgot to check the batteries. For almost two hours I had never been so scared to fall on my face in my life. Just something to stow away mentally for next year. Hopefully remembering that doesn’t displace another key item. Here’s looking at you ‘Murica shorts.

 

But having not raced since March (a 10 mile tune-up before Boston that made me VERY confident of my abilities to do well out there…before the aforementioned injuries), I’d be damned if something like a little grad school was getting in the way of me heading out to Milwaukee. So I ran the 8.5 miles home on Friday morning from the hospital, showered, breakfast, hit the road for the 5 hour trek to Milwaukee, hit the sac, and woke up a few hours later to make it happen. I really didn’t know what to expect. I had run 50 miles before, but that was almost two years ago, and bum flat on the urban roads. I hadn’t run more than 20 miles in over 6 months. I hadn’t been on ANY trail in at least a month. But for everything I felt uncertain about, there were things I KNEW without a doubt. I knew I had friends who had just run 100 miles on the Superior Hiking Trail in the face of completely stupid elevation change and terrain. I knew that I myself was no stranger to suffering, and overcoming said suffering. And I also had a goal. To finish in less than 8 hours. For no other reason than it sounded more difficult than anything I’d ever done, but just in reach enough to try. As it turned out, as it always turns out in a race, someone’s trying to do the same thing you are. I’m lucky I found a few of those folks along the way.

Everything actually started pretty well – despite the fact that I was half blind for a few hours due to bad preparation. Even past 20 miles I felt well energized. Like I could keep up that pace all day. However, it wouldn’t take too long after hitting the turnaround just how weak my climbing legs are. A 70+ mile/week marathon roadrunner making a swan dive into even a moderately hilly ultra meant searing quad pain at every incline. The pre-race and early race smile had mostly been replaced by an exasperated and destitute grimace that was too dumb, hungry, and thirsty for the next aid-station coke to give-up.

 

The first of my newfound friends I found along the first half of the course. A wise ultrarunner a few years my senior, and with much more trail and ultra experience than me, provided wonderful conversation fodder along the sunny horse trails and cool, canopied paths within the state park. Our conversations rambled from admiring the beautiful weather, divulging our own paths into the sport, and our shared cynicism of the overzealous 22 year old who’d left us in the dust early in the race (he did NOT slow down like we predicted, and went onto to take 3rd). We paced each other all the way through the halfway point, where it would be my turn to let my unjustified ego take the reins and pull ahead.

This did not help me.

Running up those steep hills was relatively easy the first time around. But realizing the pain of doing them twice 30 miles into the race is something you just don’t anticipate when you’re as undertrained and foolish as me. I was going just fast enough to maintain an uncomfortable pace when I caught the next man in front of me. With over 20 miles to go I was not about to drop this pacer, lest I end up in a crumpled heap on the side of a trail begging for another handful of pretzels and some ice cold mountain dew.

This experienced ultrarunner and 50 miler beast was my damn guardian angel through the last half of the race. There’s no way I would have been smart enough to walk up the hills, and not a chance I’d have had the motivation to keep going by myself for 4 more hours. Another man trying to break 8 hours and with his help we crushed it. There’s always power in numbers folks.

 

Once again I found myself trading introductions (albeit with a much more subdued attitude and far less words), exchanging some minor life details (and perhaps a few major ones, I honestly don’t remember), and cheering on and congratulating not only the marathoners and 50k folks, but a few of the 50 miler racers we would trade spots over the next 15-20 miles. Even with the inspiration of my friends, the camaraderie on the course, and my quiet, burning desire to achieve my goals, the last 1/3 of this race, right up until the last aid station en route to the finish, was touch-and-go. Although the morning started perfectly, at 55 degrees and not a cloud in sight, things were warming up. And so was I. I was drinking 32 oz water every 3ish miles, as well as some coke at every aid station, and I was still completely dehydrated. In medical school we talk about innumerable ways in which the kidneys can receive damage, but ultrarunning is not on that list. Peeing painfully hot, brown liquid immediately after the race meant that I had to assimilate my medical knowledge into some guesses as to what in the terrifying hell was going on in my body. Accumulation of uncleared lactate from low glucose stores that was now acidifying my body (and therefore my pee)? Renal hypoperfusion due to blood shunting to my trashed quads in an attempt to eliminate waste products? Who knows. Simply put, I needed more fluid than I could have ever imagined. Put that on the list of things to not forget for next year…

After almost two marathons worth of running, seeing the finish line from a mile away still gives you some kind of 2nd (or probably at this point, 11th) wind. I’m normally pretty emotional at finish lines but the extreme dehydration and no less than a pound of salty pretzels ruminating in my intestines made anything other than moving almost impossible. Just the way I wanted to finish.

 

But through all that pain and exhaustion, thinking I might just pass out if I had to hit another uphill, the words of a fellow racer (and now course record holder and ultimate badass) Justin Grunewald came to my mind. If you don’t know the man, him and his wife’s story is heartbreaking and inspiring. I remember reading one ofhis post a few months back that described his wife’s battle with cancer. Buried in that post was a quote I wrote down immediately – ‘It’s okay to suffer, it’s not okay to give up.’ I’m not sure a day goes by when those words don’t resonate with me. From menial tasks like not wanting to take out the trash when its full, or folding clothes, to the physical and mental demands of studying medicine or racing an ultra, the mantra is a manifestation of everything it means to not only run, and race, but to experience life. Life is an endless serious of obstacles that are wrought with uncomfortable, dark, tiring moments that cloud our judgement and strangle our will and motivation. That’s okay. Suffering is the overall foundation to peace and contentedness. Happiness doesn’t exist in spite of suffering, it’s because of it. But only when you persevere. Only when you don’t give up. To be able to send my well wishes to the owner of this quote a few seconds before the gun went off emblazoned those words deeply into my mind for the next 8 hours. They would reemerge, tacitly, in my head, at the foot of each hill as I trudged, bent over, gasping for air, knowing that not giving up was the secret to finding that peace. 

I had a conversation with my best friend just a week ago that best summarizes this winding recapitulation of yesterday’s events. In essence, it was a rejection of the notion that anything we do in this life is truly ‘on our own.’ Or, that anything we do on our own is made vastly more efficient and more rewarding with the spirit of others with us. I’m no more responsible for achieving my goal yesterday than my friends generously hosting me the night before and after (and for the pedialite post-race that was next-level recovery). Nor would I have even imagined myself being able to do this without inspiration from the likes of the world renowned and local ultrarunners that give sustenance to the idea of, ‘Why not me?’ There is no doubt I would have found a way to suffer AND give up had it not been for my compatriots on the course with wisdom and pacing, and I wouldn’t have made it even a fifth of the race without each and every volunteer to help along the way. Yes, it was ‘my’ two feet that finished, but the ability to do so is credited entirely to every friend, colleague, and faraway inspiration who exude such devotion and serve as such powerful examples as to act as a proverbial springboard into a level of self-confidence I cannot achieve on my own. Each footstrike along the trail is given to those whom I’ve learned from, and continue to learn from. Especially when it hurts. Because at the other end of the hurt, at the crest of the hill, at the end of the treeline, is peace. Is the downhill. Is a finish line. So long as you don’t give up.

‘Til next time everyone!

 

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Just. Show. Up.

November Project – Every Wednesday

This morning marked my return to working out with a group. But not just any group. You are truly not a badass until you have sweated with this collection of studs right here. I can’t believe the shame of my own weight-gain and binge-eating disorder kept me from showing my face for almost 3 damn years (you can check out the fuller story here).  Had I had the courage to open up about what I was putting myself through, no doubt my recovery would have taken on a far more expedient (and less potentially disastrous) course. It’s almost impossible for me to fathom now, but I would literally change my running routes, avoiding that dark but inviting spot between the Guthrie Theater and Mill City Museum, just so no one would see me. Just so no one would know how much I had changed. All the while I knew damn well in my head that not a single one of these tremendous humans would hold an ounce of judgement toward me. Not one of them would have been anything but supportive, kind, and uplifting. All while kicking each others’ ass (in a good way!) through a dope workout. Man, oh man, I just couldn’t brave through my negative emotions. I even had the example of a strong and courageous friend (read his post, his story IS inspiring) to use as a template. Jack shares his own experience battling, and recovering from, an eating disorder. I could have used his bravery right there and then to buttress my self-confidence and open the fuck up to someone, but, I did not, and suffered as a result. Perhaps it just wasn’t my time. I’ll be damned if it ain’t my time now.

So who are these people? What do they do? This is called November Project. It’s the greatest group of people in the world that get together on Wednesday mornings well before the sun comes up to hug, sweat, and workout. There is no cover. There is no necessary equipment (you might wanna bring a jacket if you live where I do). No membership fee. No personal trainers. It’s you and your favorite people on Earth. For a half hour you motivate each other to grab the morning by the horns and ride it into oblivion. You look forward to freezing cold mornings with an icy smile on your face cause you know you just changed the goddamn world. Think I’m exaggerating? Since it’s inception with a couple of rower bros from the NE United States in 2011, the movement has attracted people from all over the world, with tribes spanning 3 continents and 8 countries. And it’s growing. And it’s FREE. There is no sign-in, no dues, no tax, and no bullshit. And it’s for everyone. Sub 3 hour marathoners to couch potatoes to heavy lifting gals and guys to total couch potatoes. It doesn’t matter – and it never will. I couldn’t have envisioned a better environment to really recover in.

BTW this is Jack and I – basically this is my face all the time during workouts.

I literally, literally, LITERALLY, cannot wait to spend every available Wednesday morning here. I was first introduced to it by my good friend pictured above. It sounded as strange to me as I’m sure it does to you right now. He said something about hugs, and sweating, and a…project? What the hell was this cult? I was mildly curious, and majorly skeptical. But, as my actions are (almost) exclusively dictated by my do-whatever attitude, I thought I’d give it a shot. I’m up anyway, right? It’s really not that early for me! Let’s check it out……and then subsequently come as often as possible. I was one workout in, and I was hooked. The boombox, the hugs, the fuck-yeahs, the deck of cards, it was a thug-style workout that I couldn’t have envisioned until I showed up myself. It had been years since I had had the ability to really train with people. To throw high-fives and motivational ‘You got this!’ out to people, most of whom I’d never met in my life. I went from stranger to comrade within the time it takes to give a hug. And there were many, many more hugs than one. From every fitness level, everyone was just having just fun. There was encouragement. Excitement. Competitiveness. I was sold. And clearly these peeps were too.

Nothing defined my isolation more than missing these incredible workouts with these even more incredible champions. This morning was epic. I hugged. And yes, Ryan Duff cried. A lot. Med school will surely de-rail my attendance here and there (I even anticipate a few #wemissedyou in the future). But not a hump-day went by during my ‘hiatus’ that I didn’t think about coming back. To getting back to propelling myself and others to absolutely beat the crap out of the morning and do work. There is always an aura of mind-numbingly intense positivity in this space that it’s actually euphoric. I missed that terribly – but now I don’t feel like I have to. I can #justshowup, be myself, and let it all out. I don’t carry the shame or despair with my every step anymore, and it frees up all of that mental energy to actually exude some high vibrations to the tribe. Especially for those that may struggle to hit the 6:27am start-time.  I can’t make up for that lost time, but I can try. How? By spreading the word. Come. Find a tribe near you, or if you live in the MSP area, get your behind to the river between Mill City museum and Guthrie Theater on Wednesday morning, 6:27am. I’ll be there. The tribe will be there. You’ll get addicted and won’t even want to quit. And why would you want to? No doubt my recovery will be spent sharing the love with these people who have the capacity to receive it, and who give way more back. If subzero, pre-dawn workouts are crazy, a disorder if you will, well, it’s one I can’t get behind. But don’t take it from me. #justshowup and find out.

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A Peanut Butter Ice Cream Nightmare: Food, Impulse, and (re)Ascension to Average

Today is a sort of special kind of day. Two rather significant events occurred. One: I ran a long ways (not that significant but more than I ever have before). Two. I cried. In the arms of a total stranger who had the generosity of helping warm my gloves and my heart during this awfully cold run. It’s been years since I have been that open with another human being, and we had known each other for all of about 4 minutes. It felt amazing. It’s unimaginable to me that I have held held back for so long this almost uniquely human experience for the sake of establishing a façade of stoicism. Not anymore.

So who gives a fuck right? (Btw, you’ll see this is rather uncensored commentary, and an uninhibited Duff probably falls on the heavier end of ‘vulgar’ language. Bear with me). Well, I have no idea. But it’s gonna be put out into the world regardless. Cause if 25 years of living has taught me one thing, it’s the more garbage you hold in, the more septic your mind and spirit become (yes, Ryan Duff is getting spiritual, hold onto your fucking hats). And you don’t need to be in medical school to know that sepsis is really not a good thing. In accordance with my all-or-nothing, impulsive, do-or-do-not attitude, allow me to take out the trash.

So you’ve made it this far and you have no idea what I’m talking about, or why. If you have spoken to me in person you’re in familiar territory. Let me explain. Let’s take a little trip back in time. I grew up in what I will finally admit to the world (or the maybe 5 people reading this) was not an average household. I have lied about that for a while, so let’s unpack that dumpster. Out of respect for everyone involved, I’ll just say I was privy to a torrent of alcohol addiction, drug addiction, eating disorders (remember that one we’re coming back to it), and a suicide attempt to boot. Fights were the norm. ‘Walking on eggshells’ was the rule rather than an idiom. And all around a relative dearth of communication – between anyone. Talk about dysfunctional. As the youngest of 4 progeny, I thought myself ‘lucky’ having escaped all this misfortune personally. ‘I’ll never be like that!’ said my (even more than now) naïve self. ‘How can people be so selfish?’ ‘Why can’t they just be happy?’ ‘Why would they do that to themselves?” Little Ry-blaster had it all figured out. I’d have to wait until my twenties to learn just how dumb I really was.

Sidetrack: I took a liking to running from a young age. There were times running with my mom as a grade-schooler when I remember really being authentic, having meaningful conversations, and pondering on what it means to run through exhaustion. Hell, I still use ‘run to the next street light’ as a motivational ploy to persevere through a long-run bonk, and I developed that at the ripe age of 7. It served me well this morning, this afternoon, and this evening. But it truly took off in college. I remember specifically one cold evening during winter break of freshmen year when I get lost out in the country roads for a couple hours to come back and realized I ran my first half-marathon. Go me! But it was fun. And I felt alive. And I fucking loved it. Whatever concoction of neurochemicals that were sustained in my brain (I’m sure I’ll learn more than I ever wanted to know this Spring) during that first, true, cold, long run was enough to get me hooked. And hooked I still am. But that wasn’t so much the issue. If running was the ‘yang’ of my solitary happiness, then a dark ‘ying’ lingered in the shadow of my constrained spirit: food obsession. Growing out of a sense of loneliness (not solitude) and dissatisfaction, my obsession with it manifested in much the same ways as is common among young adults (usually women, but ask anyone who knows me just how much I hate gender stereotypes). It was borne out of an obsession with body image, a sense of ‘accomplishment’ in achieving a certain look, and a more desirable motivation of wanting to just run faster and farther. It took time, but by my midway through sophomore year of college, well, I was finding out just how deep that rabbit hole went.

I never quite matched the clinical definition of anorexia nervosa. I think I never hit that low of weight, and it didn’t significantly effect my energy levels, but certainly a drop 30-40 lbs in a relatively normal weight, active 20 year-old would be cause for concern for anybody. But with a lack of meaningful interaction with friends and family, who was there to stymie the symptoms? To keep me in check? To ask how I was doing and intervene appropriately? Okay, I would never, ever, hold anybody else accountable for my actions. I was responsible for what happened, and me alone. But I would also never, ever, suggest that I had an ounce of training in dealing with negative thoughts and emotions, how to manage stress and external pressures, and how to just generally socialize with others in a way (well, in ANY way) that is conducive to emotional well-being. Without any of these skills to cope, what’s a rather impulsive, stressed-out, food-obsessed, eating disorder pre-disposed, 20-something-guy going to do?

Okay, fast-forward. About a year and a half. And to, in my mind, more dire straits. We’ve been keeping up this restrictive diet for a while. Restrictive is maybe not the word – let’s go with highly ordered with a (un)healthy dose of mal/undernourishment. What a mouthful! Anyway, fast-forward. Right. I remember it like it was yesterday. Coming home from class, getting ready for my usual dinner of flaked mashed potatoes. Yeah, like the ones that come in a fucking box. No butter or cheese, made with water, but an abundance of salt. Delicious, right? But! A thought occurred. You know what sounds good right now? Like, REALLY fucking delicious. A peanut-butter jelly sandwich. On a bagel. A sweet, chocolate chip bagel! Now this is something similar to what I’d eaten for breakfast just about every day of my life for the past 2 years (keep the pb+j, take out the bagel and replace with 2 slices of some ‘low-calorie’ bread). But for dinner?! You gotta be kidding me – I wouldn’t dream of it! Think about how many calories that would be! Didn’t I already have a big lunch? But sure enough, before I knew it, I was putting away that pb&j bagel faster than you could imagine. Maybe not the craziest thing in the world. Not a totally uncommon snack in America. Especially for ‘runners,’ as one might describe me. But that voice wasn’t finished. That was not satiating, not even close. What’s the harm in another one? When I was in high school, two PB&J’s and a couple of chocolate milks constituted my daily lunch. What really was the harm? Come on, you ran 8 miles this morning, you can put another one away! That sandwich was delicious – have another! And for the first time in many years, well…that’s exactly what I did. Still, no regrets (yet). But here’s the kicker. Now is where it gets really crazy. I mean a little (lot of) bit psycho. About 10 minutes, 4 more Pb&J bagels, half a quart of chocolate milk, and a few handfuls of candy later, and I was, well…satiated? Full? Hmmm…let’s try sick. Enter normal brain: What the fuck just happened? I felt like I had just entered a zombie trance. At no point during that exercise did I feel anything that amounted to rational thought. And…and, well by god – it felt good! At least, while it was happening. That amount of peanut butter, bread, and dairy will put a fucking knot in your gut. But when was the last time I ate something without looking at a food label first? Without knowing it has x calories or y grams of fat? I actually thought I’d accomplished something – like I was really breaking free! Sure, now I felt sick, but wasn’t that better than being perpetually unsatisfied? Anything had to be better than that prison of malnourishment, obsession, and starvation, right? As it turns out, for the better part of four years, I’d find myself in a new rabbit hole that went deeper, and was far worse than anything I’d ever experienced before.

Having not been fruitful in meeting the diagnostic criteria for anorexia nervosa, my perturbed brain thought it would try its hand at binge-eating disorder (it was a rousing success). What I described above was my first episode of binge eating. It was, unfortunately, not the last, not the most severe, and not the last time I’d say ‘never again’. For now, I’ll refrain from expounding the gory details. Suffice to say, there was significant weight gain, a food log, calorie counting, broken promises to myself, attempts at purging (and 2 physiologically induced purges from a couple of really intense episodes), and even some suicidal ideation when I did finally bottom out (another topic for another day).  I truly cannot estimate the pints of ice cream, jars of peanut butter, donuts, boxes of cookies, whole pizzas, sandwiches, burritos, blocks of cheese, bags of chips, and every other imaginable shit food I had consumed individually in those years. If I thought I had been obsessed with food before, I didn’t understand what being under the dominion of it really felt like. Every waking moment was focused on how I could stifle the voice. What and where and how much I was going to eat. And, at its worst, about 5 nights a week, ending with an all-consuming binge. All I can tell you now, is through true recognition of what I was doing, and why, and the tools to stop it, was I able to put that beast to bed. FOR GOOD.

There are three books I read specifically that got me out of that hell. It took a while for me to put that knowledge into wisdom (much like I had the knowledge that an eating disorder could fuck up your life but not the wisdom to actually prevent it), but eventually it…well, it just clicked. Brain Over Binge, and its compendium Brain Over Binge Recovery Guide, as well as Rational Recovery. The RR book was designed for alcoholics, but if I could (and the author of the former book could as well) ascertain anything from this despicable habit, it’s that impulsivity is a mutual component of both binge eating and binge drinking. And that’s what these books got to the heart of. Again, for now, I’ll refrain from the exact processes that are involved as its not the focus of this admittedly long post. The point is that I needed just a little more than what was given to me in these books. I needed to communicate. To share. Even if it meant just putting it on paper. My true thoughts. I needed to establish friendships. I didn’t predict that my that my recovery would find its birth within the middle of the first semester of medical school – but I’ll take it. I will fucking take it.

I couldn’t have recovered, made it through this semester, and (as scary as it is to admit) possibly survived without communication. Without expressing to individuals what I was feeling. There were other factors to (another post for sure), but principally this is a story I’ve needed to share since before it even started. Anxiety and stress exists within all of us. You can hold it in or you can share. I tried the former. Hopefully this post has conveyed to you that didn’t work. Through the semester I tried the latter – no, I didn’t share this level of personal experience. In fact, this is the first I’ve told anyone any of this part of the story. But the overwhelming stress of school, the problems with family, the joys of running (and the not so joyous occasions of falling/spraining ankles). All this I started to share with friends. I could have balled all that shit up into a binge. Into isolation. You don’t destroy yourself with food while around people – it’s a solitary endeavor. Whoever said misery loves company doesn’t know how good 2 pints of Ben and Jerry’s are after a whole pizza and a box of chips ahoy cookies watching Netflix by yourself (it’s miserable). Though I almost had it beat before I started school, it wasn’t until a cold day in early November when it clicked for good (another topic, for later). I had all of the knowledge that I needed to overcome that beast. I knew I had found ways to deal with the urges, to mitigate stress, and to just be present. It’s all because I sought help, and found it within the books described above. But the final piece to the puzzle was communicating my thoughts and feelings. The everyday things that, if left untouched, WILL break you. All the things that just ad to all the toxic garbage that builds in one’s mind and soul. That place of isolation and secrecy is not a place I ever want to be again. Which brings me to this blog. If communicating some of my thoughts/feelings/emotions amounted to successfully ending this nasty ordeal, what effects could there be by communicating all of them? Why wouldn’t I try it? Let’s see how far that rabbit hole goes…

So hopefully you stick along for the ride. I have some ideas for what will be produced in this blog, but regardless of the point of each post, rest assured knowing that the words will represent, now or at some point in the past, my truest and most authentic self. Some reservations will be placed only out of respect of those people involved who would like to be anonymous. Not that I consider myself as someone with a story really worth writing home about. Honestly, this experiment is more for my benefit than anyone else. I know it will keep me ‘sober.’ And if it doesn’t, I’ll be damned if it that story doesn’t end up on here anyway. In full fucking detail. But in my opinion, even a barely average dude like me has got something to share. Meaning everyone has got a story to share. Whether that story is completely public or private, shared with many or shared with few, it deserves to be heard and understood. If I’m good at one thing (and if grad school taught me anything, it’s that that might just be true), it’s doing shit people don’t often do. Run 50 miles to celebrate ‘sobriety?’ Fuck yeah. Write a public blog detailing every hitherto tacit event that almost destroyed you for the sake of being honest? Tell me where to sign. It might be dumb, or strange, but it’s definitely me. And who I am now is definitely closer to me than I have ever been in my life.

Me. Unleashed. Hopefully you stick around. I think we’ll both learn something.