My Best Self

“Life is about change. Sometimes, it’s painful. Sometimes, it’s beautiful. Most of the time, it’s both.” –Lana Lang

If I could choose a quote for 2018, this would be it. We are constantly changing and evolving, for better or for worse. This year, it was as if I could physically feel my muscles stretching and growing, the neurotransmitters in my brain charting a new path, my values and beliefs crumbling and rebuilding.

So much change.

So much pain.

So much beauty.

I started 2018 with a goal of completing 12 races, one each month. I ended with 14 and a greater sense of self. A couple of those races were hard to sneak in due to my third severe back injury in September, but I did it. It was nothing short of life-changing. Pictured below is most of the race paraphernalia I collected this year. I emerged from these races with 6 age group wins and an invitation to nationals for Olympic triathlon in 2019.

Racing makes me feel alive. The “whish, whish” of water past my ears, connecting with my bike as soon as I hear that familiar “click, click”, the taste of sweat dripping from underneath my helmet, the smell of hot, sticky pavement, and the rhythm of my breath as it automatically synchronizes with my cadance. I love it all.

I once read a quote, “Triathlon doesnt build character, it reveals it.” Preparing for 14 races gave me a chance to know myself in a whole new way. A veil was lifted, and I saw this beautiful person who was fiercely independent and tough as hell. Someone who found joy in her own company and recklessly dove headfirst into new challenges and wild adventures. I found my true self, and, at first, I didn’t know what to do with her. Maybe because she was a little crazy. She didn’t like to follow recipes, she sometimes made really poor decisions, and the sorting hat put her in Slytherin. But I loved her. I love me and the person I built in 2018.

This year, I also obtained my LCSW, changed jobs 2 times, and moved again. I sometimes feel like I crawled through 2018, constantly exhausted, in pain, and in need of Xanax and a nap. But looking back at my accomplishments, despite many hardships, I see I didn’t crawl through this year at all. I fought with every ounce of strength I had. I fell down a few times, but I got right back up and kept tearing though the year. I shed layers of anxiety and insecurities. I said goodbye to toxic people and harmful thought patterns. “No” became my favorite word, and I used it often without feeling like I owed anyone an explanation.

So much change.

So much pain.

So much beauty.

I keep coming back to that moment when I am on a roller coaster, and the car has just tipped over the top of the crest. I have waited in anticipation for this moment. And now that it is here, I feel both excitement and fear. Maybe a little regret. But before I can take it back, I am toppling down the track at top speed. There is no going back, so I best enjoy the adrenaline, scream until I lose my voice, and laugh until my eyes water.

The air has been stolen from my lungs. I am left with a tingling in my fingers and the taste of electricity on my tongue in anticipation of what is to come in 2019. I am ready.

The Thing With Feathers

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
by: Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops- at all-

And the sweetest- in the Gale- is heard-
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm-

I’ve heard it in the chillest land-
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet- never- in Extremity
It asked a crumb- of me.

I re-visited this lovely poem a month or so ago, and it has been stirring up this feeling inside of me ever since. I read it much differently now than I did as a child. Perhaps because hope has a much deeper meaning these days.

For such a powerful word, “hope” is used so frivolously. “I hope the weather is nice tomorrow.” “I hope I get a bike for Christmas.” Interesting, considering the definition of hope from the dictionary:

To cherish a desire with anticipation: To want something to happen or be true.

To desire with expectation of obtainment or fulfillment.

To expect with confidence: TRUST

“Hope” is deeper than wanting something. There is also confident expectation, and I think that’s what makes hope such a powerful concept. It’s also what makes it so terrifying. For a long time, I never allowed myself to hope for much when it came to my abilities in light of my pain. It hurt too much to consider trying so hard, hoping so hard, and setting such lofty goals, only to be let down my something seemingly out of my control. I refused to allow myself the pleasure of dreaming big.

What I did hope for was that my pain would become manageable, and I think I’ve done my best at making the most of my low-pain days. I had to hope for this– to expect it– because the alternative– hopeLESSness– sucked all the meaning out of my life. I could not imagine living a life consumed by the physical pain I felt. But to me, a young woman with so much life left to live, hoping to only have “manageable pain” feels…

Pathetic.

Boring.

Tragic.

I do believe I can live a life that holds more promise than “manageable pain.” With a month and a half of minimal pain, I’ve found my big dreams have begun to spring forward without my permission. What would it feel like to complete an ironman? What do I need to bring with me to manage a 12 hour plane flight to Asia again to finally meet the little boy I sponsor? How much weight could I carry on a backpacking trip through Europe? Could I someday carry my own children in my body and not worry about what would happen when I bend over to pick them up once they live and breathe on their own? What would the adrenaline rush of a free-fall during skydiving feel like? Would I remember how to move my body and position my legs on a galloping horse? What would it be like to do these things I’ve been too scared to do for fear of immobilizing pain?

“Shhhhhh,” my mind says. “Let’s not let this thing with feathers get too big. You’ll only be let down.”

But what kind of life would that be? My heart tells me there is so much more. Hope was, and is, always there. Sometimes, it’s a quiet whisper, drown out by the loudness of this life. Other times, it’s a pounding in my head and a deep longing in my bones that I cannot ignore. So, I open myself up. I give myself permission to desire more, to expect more, to live more. After all, isn’t that what we all hope for?

Dismantle//Repair

In November, I ran a sub-25 minute 5k. I got first place in my age group for the third time, and it felt amazing. If you had told me 2 years ago that I would be saying this now, I would have laughed at you.

Yesterday was my first time running hard since this race. Like, really hard. I only did 4 miles, but I literally gave those 4 miles everything I had. Swimming will always be my number one, but I’ve also fallen in love with the way that running empties me. When I swim, I feel like I’ve gained something. I feel energized, motivated, positive, and fulfilled. I swim to feel good.

When I run my hardest, I’m usually trying to rid my body of something. Long, hard runs deplete me, and my body takes a toll. But in the process, I lose anxiety, fear of the future, regrets of past mistakes, a cluttered mind, self-loathing, and so much more. What I lose while running makes room for the good things.

I had a lot of negative energy to shed yesterday. I am grateful for almost a full month of minimal pain so that I can do the things I love and care for my body in the best way I know how. The pavement and the pool have become my sancuary, and I am quite okay with that. Yesterday, I cleaned house. Tomorrow, I get to dive into the pool and rebuild. Just as one of my favorite bands once wrote, “Things are gonna change now, for the better.” Cheers to repairing in 2018.

Lessons Learned

Today is a good day. I woke up at 5:30am for swim practice and was able to get my boots on without feeling like I was going to break in half. I told Coach I was feeling good, and I was put in the fastest lane. I swam 2 miles, strong and hard. I put on pants without thinking about it or feeling the usual shooting pain down my legs. I did laundry today. I pulled clothes out of the dryer and picked up a full laundry basket off the floor. I lifted the mattress without help to tuck in the corners of the bed sheets. I never had to lay down to rest. I wish every day could be as good as today.

I am on my way out of one of my intense pain valleys. I know I will return again soon, but today is about taking pleasure in being able to care for myself normally. Today, it is easier to be positive. Chronic pain is a monster, but I’ve learned many things over the last 3 years with it as my constant companion. On the good days, I can see how this experience has shaped me in some good ways:

• I can say I have incredible patience and tenacity.
• My pain tolerance is incredible.
• I’ve learned the depth of love my friends have for me, and I know who I can count on for help.
• I’m getting better at asking for help.
• When it comes to setting boundaries, I’m better at saying “no” when I know I should take it easy.
• I’m immensely grateful for my low-pain days. They feel like the best days, no matter what I’m doing.
• I’ve rediscovered my love for competitive swimming and have started putting a lot more time and energy into it.
• I’ve gained much more empathy for people with chronic pain and invisible illnesses, which has also made me a better counselor.
• It forces me to slow down. I don’t necessarily like this, but I know it can be good for me, especially since I like to stay busy physically and mentally.
• I’ve become more humble. Asking for help isn’t easy, and it’s embarassing to ask for help with simple tasks. I’ve learned that my life would be nearly impossible to live without my friends and family, and I cannot do it all by myself.

It’s not always easy to see these things, but I’m trying. With practice, I hope to be able to have this attitude even on my bad pain days. I also have an appointment with a neurologist this coming week. Because I’m on the upswing, my experience has been that providers do not take me seriously when I’m able to move more freely. I hope my doctor sees the big picture and that I am able to communicate to him just how significantly pain impacts my life. Prayers and good thoughts are appreciated. Thank you.

Different this Time

Well, it happened again. But it is different this time. Each time I hurt my back, I can identify a specific event that triggered the injury. I find comfort in identifying the cause, because if I know the cause, I can avoid it. For example, back extensions=bad things. I don’t do back extensions anymore. Problem solved.

Apparently not.

This time, I woke up to an achey back, but not too bad. Throughout the day, it just got worse and worse until sitting became impossible. And then walking was too hard. And then standing, and even laying down. I don’t know what I did, and I think that is one of the most frustrating things. I don’t know how to fix it this time.

Fixing is a big part of my identity. I find worth in my ability to fix and perfect, to make things better than they were before. I don’t want to just restore, I want to improve. I recently ran a race in which I improved my time by over 3 minutes. I found a sense of self-worth in doing this despite my back pain. I was BETTER than last time, and I worked hard to get to that point.

So, each time I injure myself, I have to rebuild. And then I have to improve. It’s exhausting, really, this search for perfection. In my head, I know it is unattainable, but my heart tells me that the only way I can be truly happy and even worthy of my own respect is to BE perfection. Again, I KNOW that is total bull. But if I constantly strive for it, I must believe it.

I know I push myself too hard. On a physical level, my back prevents me from pushing my hardest. It drives me crazy when I think of the ways my pain holds me back and aggressively shoves me back to the starting line each time I am injured. And each time the gun goes off, I take off, trying to reach the place I was at before the injury as quickly as possible so I can resume my work of improving and perfecting. For what? A better 5k time? Being able to see my abs? A 1st place medal? The approval of my coach?

This all seems so silly, yet I keep pushing. I have to find a way to remind myself that my worth does not lie in my abilities. It lies in simply being. I need not search for perfection to be worthy.

I ran across this song this morning while laying in bed, my body begging me to just lay there and rest. For once, I listened, and I let the words of this song speak to my heart. Maybe they will speak to yours, too.

https://youtu.be/kPgH4eBTAPk

Chronic Pain is…

This is an exercise I like to do when I’m trying to figure out what something means to me or how it affects me. I just write down as many words or phrases or sentences that I can think of that relate to the word/concept I’m trying to describe. Chronic pain is so different for everyone, and I needed to understand the role it plays in my life. It’s not a “feel good” exercise, but it helps me identify where some of my not-so-positive feelings are coming from.

To give you some background, I live with a significant amount of pain. Not as much as a lot of people, but it’s enough to alter the way I experience the world. I have been diagnosed with degenerative disc disease, arthritis in my back, herniated discs, a torn disc, and facet joint disease. Basically, my lumbar spine is a mess, and it hurts. It hurts all day every day. Some days, the pain is barely present. Other days, it dominates my entire conscious mind. Pain is so subjective. I often wonder if someone else had this pain, would they experience it as I do? Would it be just a minor inconvenience, or would it take over their life? I don’t know, but this is what my pain means to me:

Chronic Pain is…

• Not knowing what to expect day to day. I never know how badly I will hurt. It is hard to make plans.
• The first thing I greet in the morning, and the last thing I think about before going to bed.
• The tight-lipped smile I give people when they say, “I know how you feel.”
• Unanswered texts and missed phone calls.
• Cancelled plans and worrying about appearing “disinterested” or “flaky.”
• Never really knowing how fast I can run or how much weight I can lift or how far I can bike. I feel I will never know my full potential.
• Carefully considering the best way to wash my face in the morning so I don’t have to bend over the sink too far.
• The humiliation of needing help using the restroom, walking, or even rolling over in bed. That’s on the worst days.
• ER staff that don’t take my pain seriously.
• The sickening realization that pain isn’t just something I experience, it has also become a part of my identity.
• Lonely, isolating, and feeling misunderstood.
• Lost friendships.
• Saying “I’m good” when I’m really not.
• The anxiety I feel when booking a vacation months, weeks, or even days in advance because I never know how I will feel.
• Dreading long car rides and plane flights.
• Avoiding the movie theater because I can’t sit that long.
• Ignoring other serious medical issues because they all take a backseat to the pain.
• Unexpected and uncontrollable tears in inconvenient situations.
• Not knowing when to accept help from others. “Am I in too much pain, or should I try this myself?”
• Being extremely in-tune with my body, yet feeling as though it is not my own.
• Restless nights and poor sleep quality.
• Struggling to hold a conversation because sitting or standing here talking to you hurts like hell.
• Feeling like a burden.
• Invisible. Sometimes, when people aren’t able to see my pain, I feel invisible, too.
• Anger taken out on the ones I love most.
• Always having an exit plan at parties.
• Finding an empty room in a full house to cry. Or breathe. Or lay down.
• Pretending “It’s not that bad” or “I’m getting better” to make everyone else more comfortable.
• Perfectionistic tendencies and a need to control everything, because I’m not even in control of my own body.
• Missing out on things I’m really excited about.
• The epicenter of my anxiety and depression.
• Eating Advil like it is its own food group.
• The guilt I feel for complaining when I know there are so many people that have it much worse than I.
• A monster that is always hanging out with me uninvited.

I look at this and see just how significantly my back pain impacts my life. When something is invisible, it is hard to name it and describe it. I find that once I do this, I am able to breathe and move on. I add to this list occasionally as I become more familiar with this part of me. Each time I write something down, I try to imagine letting the words go. My pain does not own me. It is a part of my life, yes, but it does not define who I am.

Welcome to My Mind

“Why don’t you just journal?”–a question I ask myself frequently, because I do, occasionally, journal. It feels good to get the mess inside my head on paper, to organize it and analyze it, to call out my feelings for what they are. But then that’s it. I just feel there can be so much more. I long to connect with someone, to have someone say, “I hear you. I may not understand what you’re going through, but I have felt these feelings too.” I want someone to connect with me, to say, “Yes, what a relief it is to know someone else is experiencing these things too.”  We find healing in our vulnerability with each other, when the wounds are raw and bleeding, and we take off the bandage. Something beautiful happens when we connect through our most painful and real moments and say, “Me, too.” Because chronic pain and mental illness can feel very lonely.

This also means that this is all about me. For once, I’m not going to censor myself for your comfort. I’m going to say things that may be offensive. The purpose of my writing isn’t to make you feel good, and you can stop reading at anytime. I’m going to complain. I’m going to feel sorry for myself. I’m going to sound hopeless sometimes. I struggle to talk about these things because I often believe my thoughts are far too lengthy and complex to be of interest to anyone. But for this, I’m going to try really hard to not care about what you think. Welcome to my mind, friends. Here we go…