![]() ![]() But though I rationalize the pain, I know that it isn’t entirely healthy, and I can tell that’s one of the attractions. And I feel better about myself when I’m done no matter what, I’ve done something with my day. At least the acute pain screaming in my legs and chest has a source, one that I control. Yet running also feels vaguely like self-harm, at least the way I do it: I get to the point where every step hurts and then I keep going. Writing these poems felt both healthy and unhealthy, like I was indulging my depression but also controlling it by describing it. I’m breathing heavy but I’m still breathing. ![]() There’s time and space to navigate, and if I get to the end, I win. ![]() I’m a body, one that’s hurting, yes, but one that’s also surviving. When I run, I don’t think-or maybe it’s more accurate to say that I don’t think that way. If I’d stayed in bed, those thoughts that have been hunting me would have had an easy mark. That’s what I’m doing on this path: keeping my feet moving, literally and figuratively. It seems easy enough, but when you have a 220-pound defenseman coming at you, shoulder aimed at your head, your instinct is to stop and brace for impact, which is just what the defenseman wants-that is, a stationary target. Sports sayings are 95% drivel, but I appreciate this one from my hockey days: “Keep your feet moving.” The idea is that if you’re along the boards with the puck and keep stride, it will be harder to hit you, and if you do get hit, that hit’s not going to be as forceful because your momentum will deflect some of its energy. So though I know pre-dawn running through woods frequented by coyotes and bears and possible demons isn’t exactly healthy, it’s healthier than following my mind where it was headed. That’s one of the problems with antidepressants, I’ve heard: they make you feel well enough to kill yourself. The bad news was that, unlike a month before, I was able to get out of bed and potentially act. The good news was that, unlike a month before, I was able to get out of bed. It felt like bad but convincing outside counsel. I didn’t like thinking about all the possible ways to die, didn’t like imagining how quickly it could be done-and, most of all, I didn’t like that there was something comforting in the thought of suicide. It was my thoughts, after all, that were suicidal, I told myself, not me. What was bad, though, were the thoughts I was having, thoughts I had hoped would go away once the pills dissolved into my system. Yesterday morning, I did just that and got five hours. When he prescribed them last week, my doctor told me that if I wanted any chance of sleep, I should take the antidepressants right after waking up in the morning. An animal I’m reasonably certain is a possum-and if not a possum, definitely a demon-creeps through the leaf litter 40 yards ahead of me.Īccording to a sign I passed a mile ago, the park is closed until dawn, but these are the Georgia mountains-there’s no one here but me and that possum (or demon), the hour being, depending on your perspective, either so late or so early that any possible mischief has gone to bed. Soon, though, I’ll be on the unlit dirt trail-that’s-barely-a-trail that skirts the Nottely River. It’s 5:10 in the morning, and the concrete path I’m running is illuminated, barely, by lamps filled with at least a year’s worth of dead moths. ![]()
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