6 reasons to hate me, and 6 to tolerate me, and one neutral.

Dear Diary,

 

13.  My fall clothes are unfathomably baggy.  When I put on belts, the waists pucker up like a paper bag.  I absolutely have to take them to the tailor.  It's ridiculous.

 

This is what an agorophobic 19-mile run
looks like.

12.  I'm having some slight twinges of agoraphobia lately. I did a 19-mile long run last week without ever being more than 2.5 miles from my house.  Beat That.

 

11.  My vacation days were approved for the trip to Seattle.  I only have a couple vacation days, the rest I'm comping by working a couple saturdays.  I found some walking tours on the Frommers web site that look like fun.  (and, there's always the original Starbucks, the holy grail of caffein addicts everywhere.I also found a podcast audio tour of the Japanese Gardens.

This will be a relaxed vaca with just me and the Sweet Baboo, with that 50k in the middle of it.

  

10. The water's too cold to swim there.  I haven't been open water swimming in ages, and I miss it. 

 

9. My mother in law is coming soon for a week.  Have I mentioned my MIL and what a peach she is?  You hear all sorts of horror stories about MILs, that they meddle, they're bossy, etc.  Not mine.  She's restful and relaxed, and just goes with the flow. 

 

8. Seaman Jon, who is no longer a seaman but just Jon, returns home in November. He has been in jail for the past ten months.  I won't go into any more detail than that.  But at least I can stop worrying, and hopefully, he will get on with his life and head in a positive direction. 

 

7.  It's fall here.  The heat wave is over.  The mornings are crisp and cold.  The afternoons are warm and breezy.

 

6.  My oldest son turns 27 soon.  Twenty.  Seven.  I also noticed that I'm meeting parents that were born the year I graduated from high school.  Yeeikes.

 

5.  Sweet Baboo uses his Starbucks card.  A LOT. It gives him discounts, after all, over using any other form of payment for his quad-venti-nonfat-halzelnut-100-degree-latte.  He uses it so much that twice a month he gets a coupon for a free drink, any drink, which he then gives to me.  So at any given time, I have coupons for free drinks sitting in the side pocket in my car, and I can pull over and get my double-tall-nonfat-salted-carmel-100-degree-mocha.  For free. 

 

4.  I'm trying the 2-week Special K challenge. I know, crash diets are ridiculous.  I'm just doing it to make up for the two weeks of crappy eating the month before.   Of course today I'm carb loading for the Bear Chase 50K on Sunday.  Or something.

 

3.  While in Seattle, we're hoping to be able to make it up to Grouse Mountain (thanks, Becks!) for a hike to the top (the Grouse Grind) and to do something called "ziplining" around the top.

 

2.  I'll be ditching WW after this next week, once I've copied over all my favorite WW recipes.  I wrote them a letter telling me why.  They sent a fairly non-commital response. (Are you sure you checked the Frequently Asked Questions?)  yes, I'm sure.

• a) I bought four old WW cookbooks with the old points values in them online, at Amazon. 
• b) I downloaded three apps.  iTrackBites - so far, so good; and GoMealsHD.  I have to use the second to calculate the calories, fat, and fiber in my meals, and then I use the calculator in iTrackBites and record it.  They don't say "points," because that would be a trademart violation, so they call them "bites".  I am also loking at iWatchr. 
• c) I will have the AllrecipesPro app, which I adore.  I'll be loading in recipes from the cookbooks into that, because it also calculates calories, fat, and fiber as well as allows you to do menu planning, in which it dumps all the ingredients for the meals you plan to make into a shopping list.

 

1.  I'm also having some problems with depression lately.  It comes and goes.  Thankfully, I can run.  When I run, it goes away.  So does a Chinese super buffet.  But that's another story.

 

...

Untitled

Ironically, "Keep Breathing" by Ingrid Michaelson was on my ipod when I rounded the corner and came up on the guy standing just beneath the crest of the hill.

I'd noticed as I ran south in foothills the group of people, but was too far away to see what they were doing. I figured it was hikers, or even a group of folks out praying since, after all, it was Easter.

I switched off my ipod and walked up the hill toward the man, who had his back to me, staring at something I couldn't see. I saw the helicopter, and the EMTs standing in a semi-circle. They were doing chest compressions on--on what?

"Is this a training exercise or a real emergency," I whispered. I'd just had my refresher training in CPR so right away I was thinking: they're practicing on a CPR dummy. But most of those don't have legs.

"Real."

Two others were in dirt-bike riding attire, and there were three dirt bikes. I wasn't sure what to do. It seemed insensitive to walk on by. It seemed insensitive to stop and stare.

EMTs talking to each other in low voices, and into a radio. "They started doing chest compressions when he went down. That was at 9:35." I looked at my watch. It was 9:55. One EMT said something to another in a low voice, "probably not much heart muscle left."

Who would get the call on Easter Sunday, that their husband, father, or brother was gone?

The other two bikers were with him when he went down, after climbing a long hill. From what i could see, this wasn't a frequent activity. One of them told me that whenever they stopped CPR, the guy's pulse would immediately stop. I told them in a low voice that I was sorry for the loss of their friend, and walked quietly away, down a long hill. About 20 yards from the scene I came upon a lone helmet. I left it there.

About a mile later, the helicopter lifted off over the hill and flew south, toward University hospital.

I spent the rest of the day emersed in writing final papers for classes, but during breaks, my thoughts wondered to the mountain biker. Who was missing him already? Or had he, by some miracle, been recusitated? It's not likely. I don't know if I'll know who the guy was.

You hear people talk about how they "want to go" and I suppose that some might think that a beautiful morning in the northern foothills would be it. I don't know. Frankly, the guy's dark hair made me think he should have had more time left than that, and he oughtn't to have gone at all that day. He looked like he might have been my age, although it is hard to tell sometimes.

I don't know if all that I do will actually extend my life. Science says it will. I don't know what kind of genetics I have because most of the people in my family are overeaters and alcoholics, but i do have one Aunt, a retired physician who at 85 still walks to yoga class. She gives me hope that at 46 i am, indeed, middle-aged.

But overall, when I do go, I want to be certain for my family's sake that I did all I could to stay around.

Location:At home.

Blah, blah, blah. On running, journeys, and the meaning of suffering

Dear Diary,

I'm happy to report that this weekend I did not crap myself while running.  And if you're wondering why I didn't say that last weekend...well.

Moving on.

The lowest 'knuckle' on both my big toes hurt, and my quads are stiff, and some toes on my left foot are a bit raw on the ends, and I've still got a bit of that post-race narcolepsy. But, I'll go to work tomorrow morning.  Meanwhile, now that I won't be required to read and write I'll be doing more running and writing.

You know, as I run these things I realize, in the grand scheme of things, my own epic struggles are ridiculously and completely self-imposed.  I wonder what the onlookers think, as we run through their town, especially the ones who didn't come out to watch but were just going about their lives and there's this marathon in the way.  I imagine that guy, the one leaning against the fence as he might sit all day, staring, and I wonder what his life is like.  I wonder if he wonders what my life is like. Does he imagine that it is easy?  is he right?

There are those whose epic struggle is complete a marathon, just one, and then they are done.  Or a 10K.  Or a 5K.  They have meaning.  They have done something more than most will ever do and that, for them, is enough.  For others, there is a quest for more, and for so many different reasons.  For some, it might be a type of penance; for others, a triumph of will.  For sill others, a voice in their head whispers, ordinary, ordinary or something far more malevolent, is something to be quieted.    

We create our own struggles, our own dramas.  Some like me seem to enjoy them more when they hurt. The struggle I undertook to leave behind welfare and food stamps seems to have imprinted into me the need to meet goals, especially ones that are crazy and hard. I know that I'll hurt.  I might even cry.  It's all part of the fun.   :-/

I've passed lots of people with Vibram five-finger shoes, or just barefoot, who are clearly suffering.  My first instinct is to mock them: Did Born to Run convince him that running barefoot is natural?  Well, it is.  26 miles of cement and asphalt, however, is not.  Personally, it's weird, to me, to create that kind of suffering, to give one's life meaning, but that's their journey, their need to do something extraordinary. As my mother might have pointed out to me, You ran 62 miles when you could have taken a car.

Towards the end of road marathons especially, I pass a lot of men who are healthy and athletic-looking.  (Sweet Baboo thinks maybe most men do not pace themselves as well as women do.) Their slumped shoulders and shuffling feet speak their fatigue, and they are tired, suffering, and determined.  Perhaps if it was easy, it wouldn't mean as much.  It means more to overcome it on your own.  It is uniquely personal.

It's not to be imposed, however.  The woman at the Kalamazoo marathon who pulled a small boy along by the hand, a small boy of about eight, who was wearing a Tee-shirt that proclaimed: CHOOSE LIFE. CHOOSE ADOPTION, didn't know this.  As I passed, he asked mommy if he could rest for a moment, and she urged him on.  If you want to make your children walking advertisements for your beliefs, fine, but don't drag them 26 miles.  The journey, THEIR journey, means more if they push THEMselves.  You can't give the meaning of the journey to someone.  They have to find it on their own. Otherwise, they'll hate you for it.  When they think of your beliefs, they'll think of suffering.

There are the stories, and the journeys. Take none of them for granted.  They are uniquely those that belong to the people who created them. The sign at mile 12 that says "Jeanette you are a 13.1 rockstar!" made me smile because my guess is that there is a story behind that sign and the people who wrote it.  Jeanette, wherever she is, is a rockstar. We all are.

...

#4: The Wisdom Of No Escape

The central question...is not how we avoid uncertainty and fear but how we related to discomfort. How do we practice with difficulty, with out emotions, with the unpredictable encounters of an ordinary day? For those of us with a hunger to know the truth, painful emotions are like flags going up to say, "You're stuck!" We regard disappointment, embarassment, irrirtation, jealousy, and fear as moments that show us where we're holding back, how we're shutting down. Such uncomfortable feelings are messages that tell us to perk up and lean into a situation when we'd rather cave in and back away.

When the flag goes up, we have an opportunity: we can stay with our painful emotion instead of spinning out. Staying is how we get the hang of gently catching ourselves when we're about to let resentment harden into blame, righteousness, or alienation. It's also how we keep from smoothing things over by talking ourselves into a sense of inspiration. This is easier said than done.

Ordinarily we are swept away by habitual momentum. We don't interrupt our patterns even slightly. With practice, however, we learn to stay with a broken heart, with a nameless fear, with the desire for
revenge. sticking with uncertanty is how we learn to relax in the midst of chaos, how we learn to be cool when the ground beneath us suddenly disappears. We can bring ourselves back to the spiritual path countless times every day simply by exercising our willingless to rest in the uncertanty of the present moment - over and over again.

Chodron, P. (2002). Teaching #4, Title. In Sell, E., Editor, Comfortable with Uncertanty, 108 Teachings. Shambhala, Boston, US.

I went for a run this morning.

Dear Diary,

I went for a run this morning.  It's part of my "self care" that clinicians are supposed to engage in.  It's how I process my week, and things that can really get to me, like the kid that was in my office yesterday.

Usually the kids I see have some pretty chaotic upbringings.  They've seen mom get beat up. They've seen people get knifed.  Maybe they've been beat up.  By mom or dad.  Others have been sexually abused.  As horrifying as it is, I've gotten used to it.  I'm not numb, but it no longer haunts me. 

But the kid who was in my office yesterday had none of that in her history.  She regarded me suspiciously, staring at me intently under heavy-lidded eyes. The receptionist at the front desk later commented to me, disapprovingly, "That kid sure has some attitude. Hostile."

"She's not hostile," I corrected her, "She's severely psychotic, and heavily sedated."

When the kid blinked, she blinked slowly. Her mouth hung open. She would sometimes speak in response to questions, but it took a while, and the answers were hard to understand and usually just one word.
And there was that stare.

She was 17, and would turn 18 in 2 months, the age at which she would drop off the edge.  Deemed by society to be an "adult" who was perfectly able to take care of herself, and the benefits of being an ill child would disappear once she became a mentally ill adult. 

"Heavily sedated, flat affect, psychomotor retardation," I jotted in my notes. 

She has schizophrenia.  Out of nowhere, at age 15, she started hearing voices.  The many voices provided a running commentary of her thoughts and actions to each other, and sometimes to her. She started mumbling to herself in class, and would say and do things inappropriately sexual. She was convinced she had a chip or wire implanted in her, and prepared 12 pages of single-spaced, typewritten information supporting her theories, which she asked her psychiatrist to get to the government.  She believed in a plot by Nazis and the occult to overthrow the US government.

Several different medications had been tried.  But the girl she was, well-behaved, straight-A student who never did drugs or got into trouble at school, she was never going to be again. 

Most of the medications that they had tried so far caused sudden severe weight gain, or movement disorders, such as dystonia, a kind of twisting motion, and akathasia.  Akathasia is what causes the pacing and walking you sometimes see in people who are on antipsychotics. The medication makes their legs feel twitchy and restless, so they walk to get rid of that feeling.  Some antidepressants do it, too. 

The kid's Mom could barely speak English.  Dad couldn't speak any.  I could stumble through a tiny bit of Spanish, but not this.  How do you say "Treatment resistant psychosis" in Laotian?

I tried not to let my horrified sympathy show through too much when I spoke, to keep my face even, as I read through the case notes from the hospital that they'd brought with me.

They looked so hopeful.  I wanted to honor that hope.  I wanted to tell them that we had something that would fix their daughter, and that she would be the child they used to know.  But we didn't.  We don't.

"We don't have a program for you," I finally said, carefully placing the papers on my desk. It was hard to look them in the eye when I said it.  Their daughter had no behavior problems that we could remedy, and we only treat kids under 18.  I wanted to convey sympathy.

We can fix her, I wanted to tell them.  But we can't.  She'll need long-term care.  This kid has severe, unremitting psychosis that causes her to do stupid, dangerous things, mostly dangerous to herself.  Ever seen the scars where a kid has tried to dig out those implanted chips?

She also has a much higher risk than others her age of committing suicide. She's already told one psychiatrist that she didn't believe anything would ever work, and that "this is who I am now."  Hopelessness has settled in on a 17-year-old. 

She would need a treatment guardian, and a transition plan for adulthood.  I assigned her a case manager to start that process, and moved on to the next case.

Stuff like this gets to me.  The bright future extinguished, it stays with me longer than the rest.  I think about the dreams that we have for our children, and often for ourselves.  I wonder about how it would feel for that to be snuffed out, without warning.

In many ways, it would be worse than a death, I think.  You have the person in front of you, and they look like the kid you used to know, but that kid is gone.

Occasionally, you would see glimpses of the person they used to be, and you would hope. Then, hope would disappear again. 
 

Sometimes I process these thoughts by writing them out, in my silly little blog.  But more often than not, I run.
As I run, I imagine the wind blowing the images in my head--grief-stricken, worried faces; twitchy, nervous kids; staring girl, and angry boys--through me and away.

So, as I said earlier, I went for a run this morning.  It was a nice, long run, about 6.5 miles in the cool dawn.

At the end of it was a smiling, handsome man with a cup from Starbucks.

...

Now, having said that...

I have a confesson to make: I'm used to be the best, or pretty darn near it, at everything.  As a result, endurance sports have caused me no small of distress.

However, I've come to believe recently, very recently, that I need this distress.  As long as I can recognize it for what it is, and take it in perspective, that is.

As I've said before, if you surround yourself with people who are largely unmotivated, unambitious, then you get to be the one that others look up to, which is a pretty shaky foundation for self-esteem. You shouldn't have to have your ego stroked by always being #1.   

I'd gotten used to being "the smart one".  I always explained things to people who didn't understand them.  When I take classes, and the professor says something, people look at me to see what I think.  Wherever I work, people ask for my opinion or for information or help, whether it be with their statistics homework or advice on the DSM.  "Book learnin'" is easy for me.  I played it safe.  I did a lot of what was easy for me; I didn't just get one master's degree, I got three. I stayed away from things that weren't easy for me, unless it was absolutely necessary.  Doing things that don't come naturally to me, or being around others much more talented or accomplished than I, has often been anxiety-provoking. 

For some reason I cannot put my finger on, I suddenly started doing things that are anxiety provoking.  I married a high-achiever, and then cultivated a cadre of friends and acquaintances who are highly motivated and accomplished.  I went from big fish in a small pond to big fish in a big pond full of other big fishes, and then to being an equal among a group of brave, strong, and ambitious people.  In in competitions, I'm at the back of that pack.  It's been surprisingly difficult to get used to.    

I imagine that a large number of smart, successful people get into endurance sports and have the same experience. Some might not even be able to overcome the threatening results of not being even in the top half - they fade away, find something else to do, and avoid that discomfort. They seek only those competitions where they know they will win, and only the company of those who will stroke their ego.   

When they do poorly, they lay blame.  It's someone else's fault.  The event was poorly planned.  My bike mechanic screwed up.  It was so windy out.  My coach didn't prepare me for this...rather than accepting that this is what is.   I know.  I've done it.     

That's what acceptance is, I guess. Accepting a 'problem' without trying to fix it, just recognizing it for what it is, not taking it personally or attaching emotion to it. I can't be the best at everything, but I pretty good at being me, at trying, and at being brave. 

I'm not the best at this endurance thing.  I won't ever be the best.  I'm aiming for middle-of-the-pack.  Along the way, there's every liklihood of DNFs in my future, because I keep trying to do things that are harder.  Doing things that are hard means I might occasionally fail.  The knowledge of that possibility makes the successes that much sweeter . The uncertainty is frightening, and thrilling. 

So this is my current biggest challenge: accepting that I can't always be the best, and that I may fail, but sometimes things are just what they are, and that it's nobody's fault, not even my own.

...

(I've disabled comments on this post on purpose, because I didn't put it here fishing for assurances of how good or capable or worthy I am. That's my stuff to sort out, on my own, in my head. )

:-)

Ghost Town 38.5: A DNF Report.

These aren't pictures from the race. There aren't any, I don't think. I just was looking at these pictures today as a reminder of what I've done.

Yesterday began inauspiciously when I stood up in the Porta John and heard a soft thud as my only asthma inhaler landed in the chemical toilet.
I turned around and looked, well, down - I could see it clearly, and it was within reach.

What would you do?

And what do you think I did?

Soooo....the other thing that was weighing on me, so to speak was the day before when I stepped, fully hydrated, onto an impedance scale for the beginning of the 10-week "The Challenge" program.

Weight:178 (clothed)..........BFI: 41%

Yep, 41. As in, "STOP EATING ALL THOSE POTATO CHIPS."
I calculated that (.41 * 175 = a LOT of extra weight to haul up and down those hills) and that's a lot of fat that I don't need given that I'm neither living on the south pole NOR facing famine. So, I have a job ahead of me.

So, the start of the Ghost Town 38.5. The start, which was 25 or so degrees, depending on who you talked to, and 6 am, so it was dark. The first 12 miles were okay. I knew by mile 3 that I wasn't going to be running, but that okay: Even walking I kept a sub-15 minute pace. I was feeling pretty good, thinking, "I can totally do this." My IT Band didn't seem to mind the terrain too much...but I at a disadvantage. Not only have I not really been able to run in nearly 3 months, but was base I have is one that is for hauling 155 pounds or me around, not 175 pounds.

And Then. I hit The Spur, the first really steep uphill and downhills on the course. The way up was short and very steep, but covered with sharp, loose rocks (Baboo says it's like trying to walk on marbles), and when I came down - that's when it happened: my IT Band said, "Nope, no way, not here, I"m not havin' it." When I came out of the Spur I muttered to Baboo, who was corner-marshaling, "I'm in a lot of pain right now."

Prior to that the former last person passed me, a super nice lady who stopped and walked with me for a while, offering me some homeopathic remedy for pain. I'm not a huge homeopathy fan, but what the hell, I'll try anything at this point.
So I said, sure, and as they were dissolving under my tounge she said suddenly, "oh wait--you aren't a vegetarian, are you?"

"WHY?"

"Uh, they have bulls' testacles in them."

Chew on THAT.

Anyway, Homeopathy notwithstanding, the pain would get so intense that it would bring tears to my eyes. But only on the steep downhills, you know? So when I came out of the spur around 15 miles, and by mile 16, I was still hoping that I could do this. All I had to do was get through the next 8 miles, and I'd be back on road that I could continue to walk.

I had a thought, which I'll share at the end of this, but the end result was that even though I was crying from the pain and pissed off, by mile 18, I'd set a new goal.

See, by then, I knew I couldn't finish. I knew that as bad as the terrain was, the return was going to be worse (I found out later that this section of the road is, essentially, a stream bed) that had climbed steeply uphill would have to be returned going downhill and I FURTHER knew that as much pain as I was in now, I just wouldn't be able to take it.

I can push past pain, and I can push past tired, but bundle them together, and they wear me down. By mile 18 my pace had climbed to 19 minutes per mile, and I wanted to get to the turn around before the cutoff time. I didn't want to be pulled. I wanted it to be my decison to sit down.

So I did. Followed by Sheriff's posse on horseback, I finally hobbled, dead last, into station 4 at the turn around, and asked if I'd made it. It's a small race, and mine was the only drop bag left so they called out my name when I rounded the corner into the station. "You made it!" they said. I'd cleared the cutoff time by 5 minutes.

I said, "Good! I quit."

They were expecting that, because apparently the posse had radiod ahead with things like, "she's doing okay on the uphills and the flats but when she gets to those downhills she starts limping really bad." I wanted to get to mile 20 because it was a nice round number, and because I wanted to pick up my drop back, and because I wanted to leave, not be pulled. So, I did. I left.

I was driven back in what can only be described as the most terrifying pickup ride I've ever had in my life, and then I stopped and picked up my other drop bag, and met Sweet Baboo at mile 12, who felt bad and thus was very, very nice to me. I should have taken full advantage of that as in, you know what would make me feel really good right now? lots of new clothes but by the time I saw him I'd had the time to reflect on everything, and I was disappointed and discouraged, but feeling a bit better.

At first I was telling him, and DP, "Maybe I'm not supposed to be a runner. Maybe it's just not my thing," and they were all, "Oh, pish, posh" and had many other encouraging words and advice for me. Baboo, especially, had a lot to say to me given that he had similar experiences in the past.

So, I've had a night to sleep on it and here's what I've come up with:

1. I went 20 miles. 20 rocky, mostly uphill miles, climbing from altitude of 5000 up to about 7000 feet. Not only that, but in the last 12 months I've completed 5 marathons, 2 trail ultras, and an Ironman. So, it's not like I'm a slacker or anything.

2. I'm starting The Challenge New Mexico, which is a 10-week program designed to lower your body-fat ratio and build lean muscle. You will see a marked difference in my attempt at the 50-mile Rocky Racoon next month. Yes, you read right. I'm still going.

3. Nothing hurts, other than my IT Band. My feet don't hurt, my calves don't hurt, and my thighs don't hurt, despite hauling me up and down a very challenging course over 20 miles.

4. The race director told me I would be considered an "alumnus" anyway, and would get early registration for coming back next year, if I wanted. (I do. I've never DNF'd on a race that I could finish.)

5. Let's face it. When you attempt to do extraordinary things, sometimes you will fail. Sometimes, though, you succeed; it's for those moments of success that you keep going. When you fail, well, you learn from that, and you go on to attempt other, extraordinary things.

...

Brave New Life

About a month ago I started thinking about the bittersweet feeling that went along with knowing that, on August 8th, a lot of people I respect the hell out of are going to head back to work. I felt then, about a month ago, that I would miss that. Probably. Certainly.
I wondered what life had in store for me. What would I "be" next? Would I ever "be" anything? Whatever I would "be", and would I "be" any good at it? I've always been "just" a classroom teacher. What am I now?

What am I good for?

So last week I walked into the counseling center on what was my first "full" day in my new life. I was now a contracted mental health counselor at the center where I've volunteered for about 3 years. I got there about 15 minutes early, and as I rounded the corner, the clinical director saw me, picked up the phone, pushed a button on the base, and held it out to me:

"Talk to her. She's in jail for DWI. Her best friend just died and her divorce became final. Really upset, doesn't know where her kids are. Wants to talk to someone."
So I spent my first twenty minutes as a counselor trying to make it meaningful to this distraught mother that her only phone call was to talk to me.

Afterwards, the director was shuffling through the papers on his desk and mentioned he was going up to the hospital to check on a homeless patient who swallows razor blades. Usually, she (the patient) would put epoxy on them, he told me, but this time, she didn't, and now she had internal injuries and an infection.
The clinical director said this matter-of-factly, the the way you or I might say, Usually, I take my flat kit with me, but today i didn't, so I couldn't fix my flat.

A small, silent thought formed in my head: please, pleasedon'tassignmetotherazobladewoman pleasedon'tassignmetotherazorbladewoman pleasedon'tassignmetotherazobladewoman...

It wasn't that I didn't know what to do, mind you, or that I doubted own abilities. It's just that I wasn't ready for something quite that intense on my first day as a new professional. This counseling center is very central to a lot of social services catering to homeless and indigent people, and now as a counselor, it was real. This is real. Real lives. Real, painful, lives.

Most of the patients where I work are working people who can't quite afford the full cost of a mental health professional, but about a third that come don't have anywhere else to go for various reasons. Nearly everyone gets some sort of help to pay for the services, and that number is on the rise. Some patients are dropped off by the police when police decide they don't need to be in jail for their erratic behavior; they need a counselor.
Some have families they go home to.
Others don't have any family any more - if they have relatives, those slam the phone down when they call.

And here I am, in the thick of it. In the midst of these lives.
These, painful, disheveled lives.

Another counselor was assigned the razor blade patient, but I was asked, Well, what do you think?

I think we need to find out why she swallows razor blades, I offered. Then we'll know what to focus on. I went on to explain how her answer might differentiate her as having a psychotic disorder, PTSD, and/or a couple others that popped into my head and I thought, astonished, Holy cow, I actually know this shit.

The director nodded, signaling his approval (I hope) and hurried off.

I spent the day talking to more people, some in person, some on the phone, all of them in pain. On the way home, I listened to a song that kind of reminded me of the ruined and pain-filled lives that I often see at this counseling center, and that you might see on the street. Sweet Baboo has often worked with these kinds of lives as well, homeless veterans with severe and persistent mental illnesses.

But more importantly,

MUCH more importantly,

Well, I don't think I'll walk around feeling all sorry for myself, wrapped in my existential angst who am I? what am I? any more.

My new vocation will be a daily exercise in perspective, and, will include feeling the wonder at my outrageous fortune, my health, my ability to run, and all the love and friends I have in my life.

...

So...now what?

Tomorrow I'm going in to school and pack up my stuff, and do my end-of-the-year checkout for the last time. And then...well...then...I won't be a teacher any more.

This is proving to be surprisingly difficult for me. Yes, it's become hateful and tedious, but it's familiar hatefulness and tediousness. At least I knew the routines. For the past 9 years, I've identified myself as "a schoolteacher". Many positive assumptions are made based people knowing you're a teacher (patient, nurturing, likes kids, needs some free office supplies) who teaches ninth-graders (really patient) and teaches math (must be smart, too).

Before I was a teacher, I was a college student studying to be a teacher.

I think like a teacher. I boss people in public. I give other people's children scolding looks. I dress like a teacher.

So...how will I know what to be?
I've always been whatever it is I'm currently working at: student, teacher. I've never really just been me. And now, well, and now the last kiddo is heading into his senior year of high school. And I'm packing up my room. I have my master's degree. Not a student, or a teacher, and the kids are moving out.

What do I do? I'm sort of in a transition phase, right now.

Gawd, that sounds weak. I've worked since i was 15, with the exception of one year that I thought I'd try to be a stay-at-home mom and BOY, am I not cut out for that...my Dad pounded it into me: You are what you do, and if you don't do anything, you aren't anything.

And I'm not really doing anything. So am I nothing? I've spent my entire adult life, since age 19, taking care of mine or someone else's kids.

Well, then, what am I?

What will I do with my shiny new me?

Sigh. More stuff to think about, I guess. During a run, or something.

...