When depression looks like a long-haired monster beside your bed.

I have a new blog ‘look’.

I should have a new blog URL too, but right now Google Custom Domain’s are down.  Hence why my blog dropped off the Internet last week.  So until they figure that out, we are back with the old URL, new blog :).

Because it was time for a change.

Brea over at Utterly Chaotic, who was so very patient and calm with me and my indecision and my freak outs,  made this design for me.  And I love it.

The most common way someone found my blog in a search engine before?  By typing in ‘though she be but little, she is fierce tattoo’

Because, well, once I showed a blog photo of that tattoo.  And apparently, people are into that tattoo.

So am I.  That’s why I got it.

I decided to use this new ‘Fierce’ blog to finally write something, months in the making, something that rattles in my head while I run and writes itself silently at night when I can’t sleep.

It is decidedly not ‘fierce’.

In fact, it is much more of a whimper than a war cry.  More of an eventual confession than a victory yell.

2 months ago, I moved to this city.

When people ask how I am adjusting, I always say the same thing.

‘It’s a beautiful city.’

And that’s not a lie.  The lake, the trees, the old buildings and the abundance of climbing ivy…. it’s gorgeous.

And let’s face it, that’s what you want to hear, right?

Because the truth is decidedly less fun.

No one wants to hear that my body’s nagging insistence that I just sleep in one more hour each morning has manifested into nightly insomnia and morning’s that I just want to go back to bed. Every day.

No one is interested that my injured Achilles combined with my overall laziness has started a cycle of inability to get out and run leading to self-directed anger at my lack of fitness, leading to my inability to get out and run.

When I get right down to it, no one wants to know that deep down, I am absolutely petrified by the slow moving and all consuming grip of depression that I see like a monster at the bottom of the bed, climbing it’s way towards me.

She looks almost like the girl from that movie ‘The Ring’.  Slow.  Horrifying for no good reason.  I mean, she’s not big, strong, fast… hell, she’s not even armed.  
I think what makes her scary is that she just. keeps. coming.

It’s not the first time she’s stalked me.  I saw her years ago too, and that almost makes it worse.  I know what happens the closer she gets.

I remember what it felt like when everything made me angry.  When all I could do was sit and worry that I wasn’t doing enough but felt like I physically couldn’t do anything else.  When I based my days around when I could get home for a nap.  When I slept my world away and ignored the people who meant the most.

I remember and I desperately, desperately don’t want to see that side of life again.  So much so that when it started…. when I first saw the fatigue and the lack of motivation and the anger on the horizon, I thought I could will it away.

I spent nights awake formulating a plan.  New diet and exercise plans.  Keep busy schemes. Bargaining with God about how much or how often I would be in Scripture and prayer for him to agree to make it stop.
Anything, ANYTHING I thought might keep away the feeling of the complete and total lack of motivation to live.  Because I should be able to work it out. Because a strong person could just shake it off.  Because I have a house to keep and a family to raise and anyone else on earth could just get up and get on with it.

Because in my head I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of strength/courage/faith I have if I can’t stop it on my own.

The feeling, well, it has become a part of my entire life.  Every outfit I try on.  Every time I walk in a room.  Every meal I have or conversation I start with someone new.

So it goes without saying that my runs are nothing like they used to be.

My runs that used to be my escape that are now just 45min of me letting me know what a lazy bitch I am.

They make me feel worse before I even leave because I just know that I don’t have the same endurance that I had just a few months ago.  And I spend my run berating the few pounds I’ve gained and how hard my 5k seems when I used to run 10 every day.  That I’m sure my running shorts don’t fit the same and that it must be my own laziness that is causing this since nothing I am doing seems to make the weight come off or the runs get better.

This past week, these super fun runs have included our new dog.

It’s been an adjustment bringing him with me.  He’s technically still just a puppy.  He was just de-masculated last week (welcome to the family!:).  And, well, especially on those mornings that DH has taken him out just before me, he’s slow.

I found myself thinking this morning ‘poor guy, he did just have that procedure…. and he’s still a puppy.  He’s gone through a lot of changes this month.  It’s ok we’re going a little slower than I usually would.  He needs time to adjust.  This is still a good pace!’.

And since we have to stop at the intersections so we can teach him to sit before we tell him it’s ok to cross the street, when we hit the last intersection before home instead of sitting, he lay right down.

But the thing is, I didn’t berate him for being lazy.  I didn’t insult or make fun of him for not having enough endurance.

I giggled.  And gave him a bellyrub before encouraging him that we can just walk it in. 

I showed him substantially more compassion than I have shown myself since I got here.

At home I checked my GPS.  And we had run my farthest distance in a month.

Much slower than before.

Not spending the run mocking myself in my head for my crappy pace or reminding myself how fast I was or how long I used to go.  But encouraging my dog that he could make it a little farther.

I thought he was dragging me behind.  But he was actually pushing me forward by letting me admit something.

It’s ok to feel like shit when all of a sudden you are a stray dog lost in a strange place and then thrown into a new house with new people.  Or even if you find yourself in a new city feeling a little lost and purposeless.

It’s ok to have to run a little slower to get a little farther after coming back from an injured Achilles.  Or the loss of your testicles.  

It’s ok to acknowledge the creeping monster at the foot of the bed without pretending that if you formulate the right plan all on your own you can make her stop crawling towards you.

I’ve been sitting with my back against the wall watching her slowly and purposefully make her way into my head all the while thinking if I was a strong enough person I could make her go away without having to admit to anyone, even DH, that I ever saw her in the first place.

People like me don’t get depressed, right?  I mean, it is totally ok if other people do, it’s not their fault, they can’t help it when it happens and I can support them…… but just.not.me.
Funny thing is, none of my late in the night make-her-stop schemes made even the slightest difference.  By the time morning came I felt useless, angry, exhausted and absolutely sad for no good reason.

It took a dog we only half wanted, the dog we got to appease out children, to show me that it had nothing to do all the things I thought I could do on my own and everything to do with my willingness to try and do it with someone else.

Because to answer my own question, what kind of courage/strength/faith do I have if I refuse to accept that I can’t stop it on my own?

Starting with admitting to DH that everything is not, in fact, ok. Then admitting to God that I need to stop treating him like a bargaining chip and start just being with Him. Regardless of whether he chooses to make it stop or chooses to walk me through.

It’s ok to admit that to both of them.  They already know, they just need to hear it from me.

After that, well, I might wake up one morning feeling fine.  Or I might not.  But whether it does or does not go away, I will make it.

They say Border Collies need a ‘job’ to do or they get destructive.

I think ours found his all on his own.

That doesn’t mean I’m not buying him a backpack so I don’t have to wear my running belt.

DH is in the Armoured Corp.  And they don’t call a new soldier a Private.  A new soldier is a Trooper.

When we moved, DH stopped having soldiers under him to lead.  He has a different job now that doesn’t involve Squadrons or troops as much as it involves Blackberries and cubicles.Thankfully for him the job still involves the chance to deploy and do ‘soldier’ things, but overall it has not been an easy transition for him.

Sometimes, I think he misses the part of his job that used to be training, encouraging and leading the younger soldiers.

That could be why when we adopted our dog from the local shelter, we chose to give him a new name to go with his new home.

Meet Trooper.

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