Distraction or avoidance?

As the marathon I have been training for creeps closer, now only a few days away, I have become increasingly stressed. I know why this is. It is due to a combination of the death of Mum in February, the four year anniversary of Ruby's death on May 8th and the sudden death of my aunt (Mum's sister) only a few weeks ago. My marathon training over the last three months has been trying and tiring and has been such an immense distraction that few other things have been allowed space to affect me. My stress levels have increased as this potentially immense sporting achievement looms over me as I simultaneously attempt to compartmentalise my sadness. 

I think I have been fooling myself into thinking that my training has been a distraction in the way that a social activity might be a distraction if I'm sad. But this isn't sadness, this is grief. And when it comes to grief you have to put the hours in.

Grief won't process itself behind the scenes of a jolly diversion (as sadness can) but will linger and lurk, seeping through any facade that is created to cover it up until you are forced into confrontation. If left untackled grief creates an unstable and crumbling foundation for any future emotional resilience. Future stresses need not be too great to create tremors in our minds, fissures in our psyches. Seeing this written down has made me realise that my diversion tactics- the distractions of marathon training- have not been entirely successful and that my reactions to recent events are yet to affect me. It's in the post. I have a lot of mental work ahead of me. There are specific issues that need to be addressed when my run is over- I need to consider how I am coping with Ruby's anniversary, I need to consider how I feel about my aunt's recent death, I need to consider my Mum's recent death.  

Post-marathon I will need to put in place a plan of active consideration and recovery, I will need to do what works. For me this means being entirely honest and open about how I feel, arranging to see close friends for non-alcoholic evenings, good food, good coffee, putting no self-imposed restrictions on crying or expressing fragility, exercising for fun (not as training) and about creating time aside to reminisce Mum, my aunt and Ruby. The essence of my coping plans are rooted in the appreciation of the basics- friendship, love, food, play, the luck I possess and the achievements I have realised. As a good friend accurately opined when I told him I felt like my mind had been shattered after Ruby died, maybe these are the basic building blocks for my mind, for my life, with which I was to rebuild myself. 

I have not been through a period of distraction recently but one of avoidance. And post-marathon is the time to turn headlong into the wind. I can handle it, I've seen worse. 

Marathon running and why my body is amazing

Five years ago or so, shortly before Ruby died, I started to seriously consider my health and age for the first time. Not long after this I became vegetarian and have also kept an eye on my ingested food and gin calories (I had stopped smoking a few years before then- I went from a heavy 30 roll-ups-a-day to zero in one day, cold turkey). I was motivated by a colleague from work, George, who had started running not long before and was not only reaping obvious physical and mental health benefits but wouldn't shut up about it. So I bought the cheapest kit I could, downloaded the NHS "Couch to 5k" podcast, joined the local gym and jumped on a treadmill for the first time in my life. 

I loved it. I found the training quite an endeavour but it was manageable and, most importantly, achievable. As the nine week programme of walk/run/walk/run/walk intensified I was running 20 minutes non-stop by the end of week six and this was when I left the treadmill, waved the gym a happy goodbye and started to run outside. 

This was a life-changing event for me, my rebirth as "a runner". I have run without any major injury for nearly every week since then. I have run on my birthdays, on Christmas Day, at midnight, with a hangover, with a cold, through snow, on holiday, up hills, on roads, barefoot. I ran within a month of Ruby dying and within a week of Mum dying- I had to, I was compelled- I run to stave off depression and to maintain a consistent plateau of wellness. 

In January this year I started training for the Belfast marathon. I had been running two short runs and one long run of around 10-15 miles each week but it was time to crank up the energy and really push myself. So I then caught two nasty bugs and was out of action for a month.

But a month ago I joined the gym again, learnt how to use free weights and machines and set up an intense training programme. I attend the gym twice a week for strength and stability training plus once more for hill running (the treadmill again but the runs are short and very intense) and I have one long run outside at the weekend. The long run has been deliberately extended by 2 km each week so even though I was running a regular 18-22 km until last month, I ran 32 km (20 miles) a few days ago, the longest I have ever run, which is the typical maximum training distance that a first time marathon runner would aim for. 

So I am at my training goal, 20 miles. I hope to complete this distance two of three more times and then have an easy week or two before the marathon. I will continue to harbour fantasies of completing ultra-marathons (races over 26 miles, typically 50 to a hundred miles or more) but, for now, the marathon is in my sights. 

My training path has been, as far as I am aware, typical but has also been surprising in some ways- my gym membership, anathema as it always had been to the old me, has proven its cost. Certainly I get out what I put in and I have seen and felt obvious changes within only a few weeks, my stamina increasing and flexibility improving. Most startling of all is the ease with which I have increased the distance on my long run, 2 km week after week, although the muscles and tendons in my feet have struggled to keep up- my soles are bruised for days after each run and I have to hobble and stretch to recover. 

Rest days are considered "active rest" days. I perform a series of gentle stretching exercises for all major muscle groups, use a foam roller to help muscle recovery and carry out a set of lower leg strengthening excersises, useful for barefoot running. I don't actually run in bare feet very often but it is the term denoting a style or form of running signified by a forefoot strike as the foot reaches the ground instead of heel-striking, typical of most runners. Forefoot striking is the oldest and most natural way of running and, when not totally barefoot, I run in huaraches, Mexican running sandals which are, essentially, a thin layer of hard rubber held onto the foot by a strap. They do away with the sharpest of stones and broken glass but let me feel underfoot as if I wear nothing  at all. Traditionally they were made from cut up car tyres. 

Having never been a fan of my body I am now much more respectful as to what I never thought it could achieve. I have had no serious injuries during the entire time I have been running (only one twisted knee and one sore foot putting me off for a few weeks each) and, after an MOT by my GP recently and a thorough medical assessment at hospital prior to elective surgery (that in the end wasn't necessary) I know that, although my BMI would suggest I am "obese" I am in very good health and can outrun almost everyone I know. I am extremely appreciative of my good health and the physiology that will allow me to run a marathon, something only 1% of people have done. My joints can hold up my obese body for mile after mile, in comfort and in fact for fun. My bare feet will cover the distance that my hunter-gatherer ancestors have filled their days with for two million years. My obese, wobbly, middle-aged, greying, balding flabby body is amazing. It is aesthetically embarrassing but anatomically awe-inspiring and for those particular reasons, in those ways, I love it.

Baring injury I might just make those 26.2 miles on 1st May. 

Sisyphus

Sisyphus was a Greek mortal whose wiliness angered the gods so much that when he died and had to be forcibly taken to the underworld his particularly fiendish punishment entailed rolling a boulder up a mountain to its summit. It may have taken only a few days, months or maybe even years but, however long it took, however great the toil, when the rock reached the summit it would roll down to the bottom again. Sisyphus begin again, rolling the boulder back up the hill only for the same thing to happen. This would continue for eternity.

His condemnation does not lie in his upset and depression at his task (he does not, after all, refuse the activity and we can assume he is actually compelled to complete it) nor the sheer physical labour he exerts. His punishment is not that he has been given a task to build something at the top of the hill and sees his goal thwarted. 

His torment is eternal, his damnation complete, because of the sheer futility of his task. The boulder goes nowhere up the hill, it goes nowhere down the hill, it has no purpose, no reason (it is easy to imagine why treadmills were originally designed as such a hideous form of punishment in Victorian times. All that energy going to waste, the futility of the activity). Here is the hellish oblivion he must endure- to put effort into nothing, forever, for no reason. 

If purposelessness like that of Sisyphus' is a definition of eternal hell then surely the opposite- purpose and direction- is one meaning of a reason for living, for heaven on Earth, for happiness. Maybe there is no real value for immediate satisfaction or gratuitous sensory pleasure in our lives but, instead, we should demarcate who we are and our reason for being based on our role and objectives. 

If my happiness is based on my productivity, what should I produce and what is my role? According to the Greek gods my existence has meaning insofar as it has utility. How, therefore, am I best utilised in the brief time I have here in Earth? 

Ruby is always there

It has been many weeks since I last wrote. My mum died six weeks ago and I haven't felt motivated to write or do many other things. I was off work for a few weeks and spent some of it back in London visiting my dad and sister. 

I thought I was ready to return to work but my reality was that it took a few weeks for Mums death to begin to affect me. This blog is supposed to be about grief and mental health but right now, I can't, or don't want to, put my thoughts and experiences here. The most obvious thought I will share is that grief remains predictably unpredictable. 

Of course, Ruby hasn't been far from my mind. 

It was Shrove Tuesday recently. Pancakes were my and Ruby's favourite food and I have been unable to cook pancakes (crepes) since she died almost four years ago. The last few years I made drop-scones/ Scottish pancakes which was an obvious second best. But this year I just got on with making a big pile of proper crepes for breakfast and even managed to use the frying pan I bought Ruby for her own foodie experiments which has been at the back of the cupboard for years. She used it for a chicken-and-spice experiment- we cut a chicken fillet into bite-sized chunks and she marinaded each piece in a combination of different ground spices which were then labelled carefully and fried. Her favourite was a smoked paprika, coriander, cumin and turmeric mix which ever since had been known as Ruby Spice in our house. Even Tom has liked it from a young age and we keep a pre-mixed jar in the cupboard, just in case. Ruby was, of course, not far from my mind. 

I remain a jogger, preparing for the Belfast Marathon in May. I have recently started strength and stability training at my local gym, practice a hill run each week and a long run at weekends (I have just got in from my longest ever run- 28km- so my recent gym membership appears to be worth it). It takes a great deal of psychic effort to attend the gym or to spend hours away from Claire and Tom at the weekends but I keep the greater goal in mind of crossing the finish line and of raising money for a heart charity. And, of course, Ruby is not far from my mind. 

Adding to my recent feelings of loss was International Women's Day last week, always an emotional day for me. Although I feel a little uncomfortable as a man calling myself a feminist, I undoubtedly am one. There is no reason to not be a feminist. I lost my daughter four years ago and my mum six weeks ago. I am a nurse, of whom many more are women than men, and I have been one of very few men in any team I have worked in and rarely with a man as a manager. I generally prefer the company of women, professionally and personally, I prefer female comics, filmmakers, journalists, photographers and makers of art I admire. International Women's Day isn't just another day to me, it is a chance to openly consider and discuss ideas, interests, joys, admiration, and respects of great interest to me. I spent the lunchtime at Belfast City Hall supporting a pro-choice rally (abortion is still totally illegal here in Northern Ireland. But it's 2017) and then watched an amazing writer and academic speak at City Hall- Angela Davis, an American activist who focuses on ideas of poverty and lack of choice as being the most restrictive type of abuse women receive around the world. It chimed strongly with me as I so strongly believe Christopher Hitchen's maxim that almost all the worlds problems could disappear in one generation if all women were given absolute birth control. 

I wished Ruby was with me. She was never far from my thoughts. 

The Long Run

I attended to my weekly ritual of the long run yesterday, 24km by the sea. It was barely a few degrees above freezing, the sky was cloudless, pale and iridescent, the sun was blinding. I passed cows and sheep on one side with a view to Belfast Lough on the other- I breathed deep country smells mingled with an occasional waft of the salty sea. I can hear sheep braying, their calls echoing off the steep rocky hills nearby, and I can hear seagulls too. The pavement is flat, soft and narrow. The road is straight and barely undulating, quiet as a country lane, with perfect views down towards the Lough. Opposite, up on steep Knockagh Hill, the war memorial obelisk acts as my fulcrum, pivoting me throughout my run. First sight is at 5km then passing it at 7km then behind me at my 12km turn point and then guiding me home on the return. It is my sentinel. For the last few kilometres before home I tire and slow down, as slow as I can without walking. My breathing is still strong, I can inhale well and I can exhale well, but my legs are weak and begin to stiffen. I have been drinking electrolytes steadily from the water bottle in my rucksack but I have burnt close to 3000 calories (it takes a lot of energy to move a weight like mine) and nibbling on one banana 10km ago just isn't enough. I am famished.

I have to slow down to a walk and give myself four minutes before running again. Eventually I stagger round the last bend, wobbling into the house and falling into the shower, 24.11km in around three hours, essential training for the marathon in May. I have run this distance only a handful of times and although I am proud of my achievement today I am so tired I can't help but become tearful and emotional. I am drained. 

I have persistent doubts about running Belfast's marathon because I feel undertrained. My intensive training was supposed to start in early January but I have had two nasty bugs and a further ten days off all exercise after pushing myself too hard on a long run (26km before I was ready). In fact I had abandoned my marathon plans last week and had researched other races to try instead- a "tough mudder" 10km, a few half-marathons here and there, a Mourne Mountain marathon later in the year- when a phone call from my marathon-running cousin reignited my interest (it would be impossible to not run after speaking to her- she has covered enough miles in her life as a cross-country and marathon runner to get her to Mars and back, mostly wearing her wedding dress, a strawberry costume or other outfits than can only encourage people to give generously to the charities she raises money for). 

So here I am running the long run, the most important run in marathon training, reconsidering my hill runs, my speed runs, my interval training, my high-intensity training, my core strength, my tapering and all the other distractions we runners fool ourselves into thinking that are important. They all count, of course, but don't really matter. What really matters is the long run. 

There are no real short cuts to an endeavour such as running a marathon, you just have to put the hours in. 

My mum died one week ago today. There are no shortcuts to grief, you just have to put the hours in. 

Photo by me

Photo by John Xavier

Trump

Personality disorders (PD) are characterised by intransigent and pervasive traits of the self that are damaging and unwanted. Someone could be violent, lacking in empathy, unable to cope with even the simplest stressors, obsessively self-centred or manipulative. A collection of different traits would culminate in a diagnosis of personality disorder just as a collection of different symptoms culminate in a diagnosis of, say, schizophrenia or diabetes. 

There is increasing evidence that some personality disorders have a genetic base but mostly they form after a childhood involving abuse and neglect. According to the ICD-10, the primary diagnostic tool and listings used by health professionals worldwide, there are around eight commonly identified personality disorders including the most often seen in my line of work- Emotionally Unstable PD (previously "Borderline PD") and Anti-Social PD (previously "Psychopathic PD"). Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) is one of the rarer disorders but still develops from a childhood of inappropriate relationships with parents/careers characterised by unrealistic praise and unrealistic criticism, emotional abuse from unreliable carers (who may see the child as a trophy) and learnt manipulative behaviours. 

Treatment is usually not sought due to the insightlessnes of the typical patient but, when it is, psychotherapy is the preferred choice. It tends to focus on reducing harm to others by concentrating on increasing empathy in the patient, increasing their coping mechanisms and skills of reflection. 

Typical traits of NPD include:

-Exaggerated feelings of self-importance, a sense of grandiosity and extreme vanity

-An excessive need for admiration

-A lack of empathy

-A desire for power

-Manipulation of others

-A fragile sense of self-importance and bringing attention back to themselves when they don't have it, often by being unkind to others

-Distorted self-perception as being more talented, financially and professionally successful, intelligent, etc. than others

-A sense of entitlement and no awareness of their privilege

-Jealousy of others and expectations of jealousy from others

-Petty envy and obliviousness

I attended a rally in Belfast City Hall on Saturday 21st January, the day after Donald Trump's inauguration, in solidarity with women worldwide. It was genial, benevolent and extremely warm. There was love and respects at every turn and a sense of foundational solidarity infused the atmosphere. Womens' rights are human rights. It was a perfect antidote to the manipulative untruths that have been designed by Trump and perpetrated by him and his staff to facilitate the sowing of poisonous seeds. 

Speakers at the rally included Amnesty International, Black Lives Matter, Belfast's LGBT community, feminist groups and other fighters for the rights of marginalised and vulnerable groups and, of course, for women everywhere. 

I felt proud to be there with my wife and my son. Of course I missed Ruby too and wished she could be there. I could talk to her about Trump and about manipulative narcissists, about gender inequality and the amazing women who have laid the ground for her to get the independence she deserves. 

#womensmarch #womensrightsarehumanrights 

Christmas 2016

Christmas can be a quiet trudge for many bereaved people. Another public celebration without your loved one, another year away from them overtly marked beyond your control. But in other ways Christmas is no different from the rest of grief- just another day, time relentlessly out of our control. 

One of the many strange experiences related to grief is the close juxtaposition of alternating emotions and how comfortable these seem together- my Christmas day was no different. For a period in the morning, after the sugar rush of excitement, after Tom opened his presents, after spying an empty stocking with Ruby's name on it, I cried like the aftershock of new grief. It is now three and a half years down the line and too late for me to question why she isn't here anymore, I just know she isn't and it's as simple as that- she isn't here and I miss her, particularly at Christmas. But within hours of those tears and the cut of grief reopening I was chatting, laughing, feeling a part of a family again. 

Like any impending difficulty, survival and thriving involves considerate planning. I knew I had to be together with the people I love (as much as I could, some are in a different country), I had to sleep well, I had to go jogging as much as possible, I had to have no major plans and I had to relinquish control of my time and be somewhat of a slave to my environment (this is something I do more and more- I have found it increasingly comforting to identify those things over which I have little control, or temporarily don't want it, and to let myself flow with others or with the prevailing environment. In no way is it constructive and involves no real consideration of my direction but sometimes that's OK. Sometimes it is lovely to put the world slightly out of focus, to not work, to not make the effort and drift a little, to stare out the window and daydream for a while). 

My coping mechanisms mostly worked. There were sadnesses and laughs, no real stress, no arguements. Close friends came for New Year's Eve. I managed. In fact for someone as unsociable as me I felt proud I had interacted with other people every day and rarely felt overwhelmed (although by New Year's Eve the stimulus was getting to be a little too much. I wanted to hide away for the night but my friends are aware of my occasional social anxiety and are lovely enough to accept me, quiet or otherwise). 

I have been reading some great books, running through the unseasonably bright, dry, warm winter, playing children's games with my son. Simple pleasures. 

I have some plans for 2017:

Run the Belfast marathon in May (start training ASAP)

Maintain a consistent calorie deficit for weight loss

Keep moving

HIT training (boxing and spin bike)

More tenderness, kindness and patience

No alcohol during the working week

Read more

Sleep more

Learn to appreciate fine art

Try pottery and archery

Spend less time on Twitter

Be a better uncle

More jazz

Investigate starting a running/exercise/wellness group

Investigate how to make long-interview podcasts (about mental health, surviving adversity, etc)

Eat seasonally 

This is the view from my Christmas run over Cavehill, Belfast. I twisted my knee minutes after taking this photo but every time it twinges now I smile because, at the time, I was sprinting downhill, in new trainers through the squelchy mud, running with a smile on my face, free like a child. Good memories. And I truly appreciate my good health and ability to run unimpinged.