Alive!

KING LEAR, 2013. Fat Man Acting

     "I was hoping you wouldn't do it," Mum said to me. "I don't want you to get sick again." She was talking good sense. Ever since I was in High School, I've always gotten some kind of malady right before or after the run of a play. Fatigue and anxiety take their toll, and it's only gotten worse as I've grown older. After my last two productions, I've fallen into such deep depression that my therapist seriously considered involuntary hospitalization. I was determined to make this show a turning point. Whatever it took, I wanted to hold on to my artistic standards AND my mental health.

     And I'm happy to report success on all fronts.

 

The whole Summer Session class came to the show. (all but little Sammy)

   Even before going to the theatre to pick up my script, I sat down with my calender and scheduled my rest. I may be the only person in the world whose daily agenda includes naps. My work as a runner and a trainer had taught me the importance of rest and recovery. I also knew how much fatigue contributed to my depression in the past. I wasn't going to let that happen. Once the rehearsal schedule was posted, I contacted my supervisors and colleagues at the Y. I was going to need backup to cover classes, and my YMCA family jumped right in. They supported me from the first day, and a lot of them even came to see the show. I'm not being funny when I call mine the #bestjobever. It's a fact.

     Time was only one of the resources I had to marshal. I was going to need the people I loved, too. Friends and family all stepped up to support me. They checked in to make sure I was doing OK. Invited me out to lunch or a movie. Paid visits. Dropped notes. Joined me for workouts and walks. Offered support and laughter. Trusted me with secrets. Asked for help and support. 

     The emotional toolbox I had assembled during the past year with my therapist was packed and ready. Managing setbacks. Coping with distractions. Accepting the hards times without letting them take over. I didn't spend a minute buried under the covers; didn't miss a single commitment because of depression, and that is mostly thanks to the skills I learned from my head shrinker. 

   

Lot of pushups in those old arms.

 Once I was confident about my emotional health plan, I turned my attention to my body. I had already set my sleep program in stone, but I knew that the role of the Creature was going to make some pretty intense physical demands. I changed the focus of my training to increasing strength, especially in my upper body. I stopped training like a runner, and started training like a lifter. One of my jobs was to pick up and carry a grown man at the end of the play, and I wanted us both to feel good about my ability to do that. I won't pretend there wasn't some vanity involved. I was going to be shirtless for the creation scene, and I wanted to look as good as I could. Maybe I was no Adonis, but I looked my best.  

Frankenstein and Son. Tim Hull as Victor.

 

    I usually dive in to the script with a single-minded focus that neglects nearly everything else. I thought I was making the Theatre the center of my life; I now realize that I was using it as a substitute for my life: a place to hide from all the things that I didn't want to have to think about. I thought I was being an Artist. Instead, I was an Addict. I abused acting as a drug to take away the pain of real life. The unique thing about my preparation for this role was that I put my life in order first. How different my career might have been if I had understood this lesson when I was 20, but I am so very grateful to have learned it now.

A company I will hold in my heart forever.

     The play itself was a joy from start to finish. Part of that is due to the changes in me, but a large part of it is because of the beautiful script and the wonderfully talented group of artists who came together to make the play happen. I'm not going to call them out individually because there is no way I could do everyone justice. But I have to say that Bo List's adaptation of Mrs Shelley's story is a terrific ride, for the actors and the audience. The role of The Creature is a masterpiece. The chance to play a character from infancy to adulthood, climbing through each level of physical, mental, and spiritual development toward a final, magnificent epiphany... it is an actor's dream. I will always be grateful to Bo for endowing his "monster" with so gigantic, terrifying, and tender a soul.

     You know, it's funny: I always wanted to be a great Shakespearian actor. I wanted to be remembered as Prospero or Lear. And I don't think I stunk in those parts. But at one point during the run, someone told me that in a strange and wonderful way... I just may have been born to play Frankenstein's monster. There was a time when I would have been insulted to hear that. I'm glad I've lived long enough to be proud instead. And I can't wait to see what the Theatre has in store for me next.

     

Values, Roles, and Goals: A Strategy for Living

What matters to you? There are a lot of ways to answer that question. 

There are people who matter a lot to me: colleagues, clients, and class members at the Y; friends; family; the animals I know and love; strangers I meet. 

There are things that matter: bank account, car; running shoes, computer, favorite books. 

Activities I do matter to me: keeping in touch with people; going to work; exercising; acting; prayer and meditation.

Then there are the principles that I value. What are my principles? They are the answers to this question:

What kind of person do I want to be?

VALUES

Steven Covey, author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People asks it this way: If you could go to your own funeral, what would you want to hear them say about you? I've mentioned my core values before, but as long as I'm imagining my own eulogy, please, indulge my repeating them one more time:

Courage: The will to take action that makes life full, rich, and meaningful

Strength: The ability to act

Compassion: Authentic connections to others

Joy: A spirit of celebration, gratitude, and delight

That's my list. Your values will almost certainly be different. You might say creativity, honor, love, security or duty. There is a whole universe of choices. The idea is to drill down to your foundations and to choose the primary cornerstones upon which you want to build your life.

ROLES

Once you have a clear, simple list of the things that matter most to you, take a look at what you do each day. What are the roles you play? Some of mine are:

Teacher

Athlete

Artist

Friend

Steward

Cancer Warrior

Student

Brother

Son

Neighbor

You might have roles that I don't: 

Parent 

Manager 

Employer 

Pastor 

Spouse 

Healer 

Hostess 

Caregiver 

Advocate

 You can probably just look at your calender or think about your activities from the past week and come up with a dozen roles that you play. 

Now for the hard part. Prioritize them. Which roles engage you the most? Which are you passionate about? What are the three or four roles in which you could best embody your values? 

GOALS

Next comes what may be the hardest question of all:

What ONE THING you could do to make the most positive impact in this role?

That ONE THING is your goal, and finding it can take a lot of thought. It might be something that's never occurred to you before, but I find that my own goals are often things I've considered and dismissed in the past because they were too hard, too time consuming, or too likely to fail. Some will pop right into your head. Some might require several days of contemplation. Here are the roles and goals that are in my windshield right now:

1. Athlete: Raise $10,000 for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA by running a marathon in 2015.
2. Artist: Earn $100 from my writing by the end of the year.
3. Friend: Have meaningful (preferably face to face), contact with another human being every day.
4. Cancer Warrior: Don't miss a single class or scheduled appointment because of depression.

STRATEGY FOR LIVING

I have smaller, more tactical short term goals that are milestones on the road toward my larger ones. I've actually been putting these into practice for the past few weeks: 

1. Get down to 245 pounds 
2. Read and write for an hour every day. 
3. Get out of the house every day.
4. Make LIVESTRONG at the YMCA my number one work priority.

We all have a lot of responsibilities: pay the bills; keep the car in good repair; wash the dishes; pay the taxes. All are important, some are even urgent, but keeping our primary goals always at the top of the list helps us to make daily choices that increase the fulfillment and richness of our lives.

Shall I stop for ice cream? Or call in sick? Or take a nap? Or ask this woman out on a date? When faced with choices, I can use this simple question to guide me: 

Will this action help me to embody my values, or will it lead me away from them?

In future posts, I'll talk more about how these principles are helping me to manage my mental health and increase the quality of my life. But I don't think this way of thinking is only for people with OCD, depression, anxiety, or other mental disorders. I think it is a strategy for living that can be helpful to anyone. 

Peace,

Pennsy

#475 Reboot

#reboot

The last couple of days have been a kind of a two-part reboot experiment for me.

For nearly all of February, I have been sick. Really sick.Cold. Flu. Fever. Dizzy. Sick as I've been since the bad old days, to tell the truth. And when you're a throat cancer survivor, those barking coughs and hackings can really mess with your head when they wake you up at 2:30 AM.

Of course, Murphy's Law being what it is, confusion and loss on the personal, financial, and professional fronts all hit at the same time leaving me feeling like the magical start of 2014 had been a God playing a cruel joke. No sooner did my lungs begin to clear, than I felt like the emotional rug was being pulled out from under me in about 6 different directions.

Well, all that stuff is sort of resolving itself now, some for better, mostly for worse, but at least I'm not sick in bed, letting it all just roll over me anymore.

Reboot Part One

I've decided to try to keep more of my personal drama offline in the future. Several things have happened over the past few weeks that make me think that I am hurting myself and  people I care about by being so candid about my day to day mental health struggles on the internet. I deactivated my Facebook account for a few days, then went in and took a look at the kinds of things I say and do there. It was an illuminating, and not always flattering picture. I've done some housekeeping. Made some promises to myself that I want very much to keep, and last night, I reactivated the account.

Reboot Part Two

Being sick in bed for most of two weeks really drove it home for me: I can not afford to take my health for granted ever again. Sounds like a pretty stupid thing for a cancer survivor to say, doesn't it? Nevertheless, that's what I've been doing. Sure, there were lots of reasons, and some of them were pretty good, but good reasons don't change bad consequences... I stopped taking care of my body, and I am weaker as a result.

And self-inflicted weakness is a luxury I can not afford.

So I dug out the passwords for my account on myfitnesspal.com. I've been walking every day. I've started logging calories. Every blessed one of them. I'm chucking the canned weight training plan I've been using, and have written my own program for the next six weeks I've started actually ticking items off my Outlook
Task list, instead of shaking my head at it and then rushing off to voice my half-cocked opinions about the Outrage-of-the-Day™ on Facebook.

Talk is cheap. And I can talk one hell of a game. But I have always needed to put a thing in words before I can put it into action. And action is what I'm doing now. It's the lesson that the Marathon taught me. You may not finish pretty, but you will finish if you just keep moving. And I've been sitting still much too long.

Fat Man Walking

Last night's walk was a beauty. It was great to get out into the evening air and to feel like my lungs were finally working again. I walked about 3.5 miles to the center of town and back. Went out today for about 4.5. It was early afternoon, but about 10°colder than last night. Uglier, too. I went through some of North Lexington's industrial district, which naturally includes the bars, bookstores, and "Gentlemen's Clubs" that seem to spawn around working men like mold on leftovers. I don't notice this stuff as much when I run, but walking through it made me feel sort of dirty. I think I'll not include that particular block again if I can help it.

Another difference between walking and running for me is that my mind keeps working when I walk. Not so much fatigue, I guess. Not so many endorphins. I'm not sure what the reason is. I just think more when I walk. About love. About the dogs I meet. About the groups of people standing on the street talking. About whatever I'm obsessing about at the moment. About how I can stop obsessing and just let myself be where I am. It's funny, but I find that walking... I mean the actual act of walking... requires a little more mental discipline than running. I suppose I'll learn more about that as I go along. In any case, I've walked more in the last two days than I've run in the last two months, and it feels good to be back on the road.

#474 The Fortress of Fat

For the past year, my body has suffered from neglect and abuse while I struggled to regain my mental health. Grief and loss threatened to consume me and I responded to that threat in some pretty negative ways. Ate too much. Drank too much. Exercised too little. The bottom line is, I gained almost 50 pounds since finishing my marathon in the spring. I wan't just running away from my sadness. I was building a fortress of fat where I could hide from it.

2013 had been a hurricane, and it had left my house in a pile of rubble. I was going to have to rebuild from the ground up.Late in the year, some things happened to help me reset the foundations. The time I was spending with my therapist was starting to make sense to me. I was coming to understand just what my values were, and to learn ways to make choices that were more consistent with the things that mattered most to me. I got the opportunity to play with an inspiring group of young actors whose energy and wisdom helped me to see just how destructive my behavior and my thinking had become. Important time spent with my dearest friend, though soon to be ex-wife, reminded me that though the nature of our relationship might change, true love abides. I spent a long, largely solitary Advent in prayer and contemplation, renewing my friendship with God, whose love and guidance I had taken too much for granted. I actually met some new people and started new friendships. And I squeezed into the workout clothes that used to fit me so well, and waddled my big, big butt back into the gym. On Facebook, I called it my #evolutionresolution

In spite of the extra weight, my cardiopulmonary fitness was still pretty good. Thanks to the classes I teach, I get about four hours a week of moderate exercise, and that was enough for me to maintain a strong heart and lungs, even with the surplus pounds. I was tempted to pick a race... always a great motivator for me... and start hitting the road hard. Then I mounted the treadmill.

Too heavy. Way too heavy. I was slow, my muscles screamed after just a mile or so, and my knees and hips let me know that banging them with such a big hammer was going to end very badly for all of us. I was not going to be able to run my way out of the fortress of fat. I was going to have to start somewhere else.

My old iron friends were calling me home. It was time to get back to the weight room. We had just launched a new program called MobileFit at the YMCA, and I had the Wellness Director type in my information. All the shameful numbers. Primary goal: Weight loss. Secondary goal: Strength gains. A magic combination. I should have seen it coming.

The computer giggled softly to itself, and started spitting out daily workouts that would make a Spartan cry for his Mamma. Cruel, hour-long weight-lifting sessions. Daily doses of cardio. I took the recommendations and amped them up even more. I shortened the prescribed rest periods between sets to keep my heart rate up and jump start my metabolism. I increased the progression of weight and reps to encourage muscle growth. I intensified the short walks to long jogs. I've been at it for about a month now, and when I stepped on the scale yesterday morning, I was almost ten pounds lighter than I was at Thanksgiving.

Now that's a lot of weight to lose in a short amount of time. I know that. And I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. But I'm a big boy. And I had been very sedentary. Given those two factors, it is predictable that the first few pounds would come off quickly. I don't expect to maintain that pace for long. But I am encouraged. I can do this. I can be strong again. The fortress of fat will fall. The Fat Man will run again.

I love to tell my people at the Y, "If you can slide back, then you can slide forward, too." Barbells and treadmills have no feelings to hurt. They will always welcome you back. Yes, I have failed myself. But that doesn't mean I can't try again.

Give up? I'll give up when I'm dead. Today, I have a date with a squat rack. And before I'm through the poor thing isn't going to know what hit it.

Peace,
Pennsy

#454: Fixing The Plumbing

Original image at Dreamstime

An old college wag used to charm homely freshmen with the line, "Oh, hunny... you're just as pretty as you can be." I was reminded of this when a dear friend at the Y counseled me to stop thinking about "getting well" all the time. "You just keep hammering yourself with that, and you'll never be able to move on." "Wow," I thought to myself. "I'm just as sane as I can be."

I once took a course called Education for Ministry. One of the most important parts of the class was the TR: Theological Reflection. It was a way of analyzing any issue within the biblical framework of Creation, Sin, Judgement, and Redemption. You start by looking at an event or story or scripture and ask, "what is that like?" You develop a metaphor, then through the lens of the paradigm, you find insights into the source material.

So, here is the story:

While driving today, I thought, "I'm having such a hard time isolating why I feel so badly. So, when was the last time I felt really well? Mentally?" My imagination began the long, slow rewind, and came to rest at the most shocking, absurd place imaginable. It is a sunny afternoon. The breeze dances with the curtains in the open windows. Outside, kids are screeching. Dogs barking. Birds singing. Inside, I lie on my bed, looking out into the bright, July air. I am shivering. Thinking of Mrs P. Of Shakespeare. Of running. I am dying of cancer.

I have often wondered why I didn't get depressed during my cancer. It wasn't until my treatment was finished that I felt the wait of loneliness and shadow closing itself around my irradiated heart. Suddenly my day was no longer about this treatment or this bag of drugs or this feeding. It was about waiting for October when the scan would show if I was going to get well, or have to fight another round. When the news of my clear scan finally came... that's when the real funk began. I felt hollow and empty. The battle that had been my life's purpose for so long was over. What the hell was I supposed to do now? After a few weeks of apparently grieving because I was not going to die of cancer, I did two things: I made a date with a therapist, and I joined a gym. 

And in many ways, this current episode feels like the last chapter of a story that started on that day back in July of 2010: the last time I felt really sane.

Now, to find a metaphor. I bounced a lot of ideas around as I drove. What was it like to have something not work, to know that it once did, and to have to figure out how to make it work again? My mind zeroed in on our old house on the North End of Lexington. The previous owners had been big on Do It Yourself, but not so much on Know What You're Doing. The plumbing in the house was a disastrous combination of materials and Jerry-rigged solutions to simple problems. Consequently, it would fail pretty frequently on two particular occasions: when we had guests coming over; or when we were preparing to celebrate a major holiday. Mrs P once rinsed and prepared the Thanksgiving turkey in a stationary tub in the basement, because my midnight efforts to fix the kitchen sink had resulted in a broken pipe and a flooded cellar.

When the plumbing would go wonky, it was always tempting to try a short-cut. Pour something toxic into it. Shove a straightened hanger down the drain. Grab a rubber mallet and bang the pipes in frustration. In the end though, only two solutions ever worked. You could either call Roto-rooter, or you could carefully take the whole mess apart, snake out the gunk, bathe yourself in whatever black ooze gushed out of it, and then put it all back together again. After three or four tries at that, if you were lucky, it all worked good as new again.

And there we have it. A psychotic break is gunked up mental plumbing.

Creation
As they were originally designed, the pipes carried water and waste flawlessly, smoothly, silently. The pipes were clean and balanced. They hung straight and true at just the right grade. Lots of fluid  moved easily with only gravity pulling it along toward the treatment plant and ultimately back to the ocean. You just didn't give them a second thought.

And that's the way a healthy mind works, too. Ideas and intuitions flow smoothly through the mind. Waste is carried away. Thoughts and perceptions are clear and move with quiet efficiency as the mind carries them along, learning, gleaning, observing, and then releasing them into the great, universal ocean of thought. When it isn't broken, you don't even think about your mind.

Sin
But sometimes, even well-designed plumbing can go south on you. Maybe you pour some bacon grease into the sink, or you accidentally flush a wash cloth or a toothbrush down the toilet. A block forms. Crud gathers. Hair. Cat food. Vegetable peels. Gunk. The space inside the pipe gets smaller. Less water can flow through, and because of the smaller opening, more pressure is created when it does flow. Joints are strained. Long runs are thrown out of balance. Eventually, the pinch point closes completely. Nothing can get through.

Crud can accumulate on the passageways of your mind, too. Memories of failures past. The dread of repeating painful losses. Shame for falling short and letting down the people you love. These little blobs start to cluster together inside your mind like balls of grease and hair in the trap under your kitchen sink. Ideas get stuck. Obsessive thoughts begin to grow. You begin to look for quick, easy fixes - toxic thoughts to pour into your brain and blow the clogs out. And finally, like the clogged pipe, your mind can have so much fear stuck inside that no healthy idea can pass through.

Judgement
And what does this sin filled world of plumbing look like? Wet. Dirty. Stinky. Cold, soapy water in the kitchen sink that won't drain. Black ooze dripping out at elbows and joints. Sewage floating in the bathtub. These are the consequences of allowing your plumbing to fill with sticky goo.

The mind also springs leaks. Good ideas trickle away unnoticed under the strain of keeping something flowing around the clogs. Soon, the smell of fear is so overpowering that nothing else can cut through. The focus is no longer on moving ideas, learning, observing, growing. Now all energy is focused on the blockage. Emotions explode outward, or are crammed inward in an attempt to force the negativity away. But as time passes, the clog becomes all that there is. The ball of fear not only stops healthy thought, it actually transforms it into fear. Unchecked, this once tiny clot of fear will consume the entire vessel. The mind grows sick and dies.

Redemption
How then, can the holiday dinner be saved? There is only one way, really. First, stop. Don't panic. Look. Listen. Touch. Smell. Where do you think the problem is? Now, get the tools you need. The wrench. The saw. The glue. The bucket. Rags. Lots of rags. Then, carefully, one step at a time, start taking things apart until you find the blockage. Assume that it won't be in the first place you look. Keep trying. Eventually, you'll get to something that you can reach in with a glove or a screwdriver or a snake and shove out into your bucket. Cold nasty gunk will gush out onto your glasses and up your sleeve. That's OK. That's part of it, too. Now, put everything back together. Careful. Don't hurry. Don't over tighten and break anything. Have Mrs P turn on the water upstairs. It will leak. You knew it would. That's OK. That's part of it. Gently start tightening things until the drips stop. Turn the water on hard, again. Of course it will leak again. Move the bucket and sit down on the step for a while. When you are calm, snug up the wet joints one more time. Keep it up, carefully, calmly, until the pipes run the way they were designed to run. Flawlessly. Smoothly. Without a second thought.

And wouldn't it be great if you could fix your sick mind with a screwdriver and a greasy scrub bucket? There are many more parts here. Stuff you don't want to lose. If you're smart, you'll learn the difference between a Do It Yourself project that you can knock out in a weekend, and a serious problem that you will make a hundred times worse if you try to fix it without help. And sooner or later, you will need help. You can't just ram a snake through your mind and shove damaging thoughts out the other end into a dirty pail. You need to go carefully. There's a lot of pieces, remember? Things you don't want to lose. Things you love. Things you're proud of. Things you can teach to someone who needs them. Getting rid of a clog of fear means identifying the thing. What is it made of? Loneliness? Failure? Humiliation? Judgement? You can't just close your eyes when you clean our your mind. You have to look at the stuff, like a surgeon snipping out cancer around an artery. You're going to have to see things for what they are. Phantoms. Ghosts. Booger Men that you made up in your mind so your fears would make sense. The Things That Might Happen that overshadow the things that actually ARE.

Sometimes it takes more than just cleaning out the junk thoughts. Sometimes you have to change the kind of stuff you're putting into your mind in the first place. Look for physical comfort in exercise instead of substances. Find stimulation from carefully crafted ideas instead of cynical sound bites. Embrace the creature God made you to be, instead of struggling to become the fictional character you think will please someone else. Will yourself to ask for help instead of insisting on going it alone. Replace self-loathing with self-respect.

And that's how a greasy clog taught me the way back to sanity. It isn't going to be easy. Pipes are going to crack and leak. My shirt is going to get ruined. Dinner is going to be late. But if I am careful... and humble... and gentle... and loving with myself, I will be able to clean away the phantoms and ghosts that are blocking my mind. I'm going to make mistakes. I'll probably lose some things that I treasure along the way. I may even feel like I'm going backwards, sometimes.

But I believe in that dying man on his bed who dreamed of running a marathon. I remember him. He was barely awake, but his mind was clear. He knew why God had created him, and he didn't let anything else pull his attention away from that purpose... not even death.

Here on my bed, when I look out my window, I see men and women with cancer. Some of them are dying. Some will beat it. Some are already gone. They are alone and afraid that life is never going to feel good again, that their bodies will never feel like their own again. They are out there, outside my curtains, waiting patiently for me to heal so I can help them find their own way. That's why God saved me. That's why I'm not going to let a sick mind kill me any more than some sick cells could.

Because I need them as much as they need me.

And one day soon, I'll have another tee-shirt in my wardrobe.

One leaky pipe at a time.

Peace,
Pennsy

#453: My All Too Public Private Life

I've entered a new stage.

My manic (or hypomanic) pole is characterized by grandiose thoughts and an over inflated sense of my own importance. Here, I am all courage and daring. Bold action, grand gestures. Good judgement? Not very often.

My depressive pole is dark and lonely, sad and hungry. Here is an angry place. A frightened place. I feel isolate from everyone here, even from God. Here, my judgement is even worse, because in this state of mind, it is impossible for me to choose at all. I might spend 15 minutes staring at the floor beside my bed trying to decide which pair of shoes to slip into.

But in this new place, I feel hyper aware. I see things in people that they might not see themselves. I see them afraid of me and the things I might do if I ever go really crazy. I hear them talking about me around corners and behind closed doors. I see them avoid me and cross the room of the hall. I hear them greet me with a smile, but behind their bright teeth, I can see entire monologues of judgement and condemnation being silently directed toward me.

Yes. I've finally made it. I'm in the crazy zone. I am paranoid and delusional. I rehearse imaginary dialogues over and over in my head. Today in the weight room, my mind was finally quiet. I think I know why penitentiary inmates lift weights. Not just so they can be strong and defend themselves, but also because weight lifting is the ultimate escape. You can't worry about anything when you lift heavy weights. You can't afford to be distracted for a moment or you can get very badly hurt. I found real peace under the bar. But then, I went to the pool.

I strapped on my flotation belt and tethered myself to a diving block. I started water running, jogging in place floating there by the side of the pool, and my mind began to race. Faces. Voices. Accusations. Betrayals. Mockery. Lies. Manipulation. I imagined confronting my accusers, flinging barbed wit at them, smashing them to bits with my incisive logic and immovable sense of justice. Before I knew it, my stomach was churning as violently as the water around me. And that's when I realized something terribly important about myself.

It isn't going to be enough for me to just look sane. I'm going to have to get well or I'm never going to be able to come back to work. I'll never really trust myself. I'll never trust anyone else. I'll never be sure that the things I do or say aren't coming from my disease instead of my reason. If I can't get well, I'm going to have to keep on lying about who I am and what I feel... and as it turns out, I really suck at lying.

But even worse than that. If I can't get well, I'll always have this suspicion that everybody knows, everybody cares, everybody is a little amused and even a little afraid of my feeble mental state.

I can't just sit tight until someone tells me that they think I'm all better. I need to be about the work of pulling the pieces of me back together again. Because I don't know how many second chances I have left in this life. The applause of strangers just isn't going to be enough, not this time. I need to work until I know that I am healed. Try and fail. Test the water. Accept the set backs. Do whatever it takes.

I asked myself in the pool today, "What if God is testing me? What if God takes away the Y? Could I accept even that if it were God's will?" I don't know how to answer these questions. Part of me wants to say, "Yes, Yes, Lord. Here I am. Do with me what you will." But then there is the part of me that asks, "What kind of monster gives you the happiest days of your life, then snatches them away for no reason? Are you a God who tortures your children? Who kills their parents? Who steals their sight, their health, their minds? Why would anyone ever want to serve you?" A lot of people wouldn't ask these kids of questions while floating in 10 feet of water, but I told you I was in a crazy place.

I don't know what the future holds. I don't know why God is allowing this to happen to me. I don't even know who I'm going to be when I wake up in the morning. But I do know a few things.

I love working as a trainer at the YMCA. Love it. It is the best job I've ever had. It gives me a sense of purpose and accomplishment that I have never found anywhere else.

I can't work as a trainer as long as I am consumed by fears and depression and distorted thoughts and delusions of grandeur or paranoia. I can't help anyone else if I am in constant danger of bursting into uncontrollable tears for hours at a time.

The only way for me to get back to the work I love, is to find myself again. Again? I wonder if there ever was a time when I knew myself. A time when I wasn't focused on pleasing the grown-ups, being the smartest guy in the room, winning the heart of the beautiful princess. If I ever find the real me, will I even recognize him?

I don't have a choice. I have to try. My work gives me more than just a sense of mission and service. It gives me a sense of purpose. For the first time in my life, I have a reason to be alive. I feel in tune with the creature God intended me to be when I'm working at the Y. For the first time in my marriage, I feel like I have something worthwhile to bring into the partnership. If I lose that... If I lose that purpose, that reason to get out of bed, that reason to be,  I just don't know how I'll go on living.

I am not fighting for my job. I'm fighting for my marriage. I'm fighting for my life. I don't care what it takes, how long it takes, or how much it costs, I simply have to get well. The docs killed my cancer. But only God can take this thing away. I'm going to need all the pills and shrinks and friends that He can send me in order to get well. And I can't stop until the sickness is really gone, or else driven so far into it's hole that I know I can manage it for the rest of my life.

I can't afford to get this sick again. Not ever. There is too much at stake. My friends. My fellow survivors. My marriage.

My soul.

Dear God. I am so lost here. Please help me to get well. Please help me. I'll do my share of the work. I promise, but I can't do anything without you. Please, God. Please.

Peace,
Pennsy

#378: The Law of the Pack

Mom always tried to get me to write thank you notes. For reasons I cannot explain, I resisted her efforts. Wicked child. I didn't know what to say. As if "Thank You," just wasn't original enough somehow.

I've always wanted to be impressive. Umpteen years ago, this blog started under the title Pennsyltuckian.  I started blogging to share my deep insights into God, the Universe, and Everything with a world that was starving for my wisdom and eloquence. The more I wrote, the less impressed I grew with myself. The more words I typed, the more I realized how little I really had to say. The truth is, I didn't know squat about God, the Universe, or Anything. Fortunately, God's wisdom had a course of graduate studies in mind for me. I'm still not nearly as original, wise, or insightful as I want to be, but I do have a PhD in Gratitude. Here's an extract from my dissertation.

I am grateful for the Pack. I live in a world that idolizes the lone wolf, the man who can stand on his own two feet. He think for himself, takes care of his own, minds his business, and keeps his own counsel. I tried so long to be that man.

Maggie

We had cats for years. Lions live together, but most cats are lonely people. Given her 'druthers, Maggie and Kizzie would spend their whole lives curled up in a warm spot, purring quietly, contemplating the mysteries of the universe and occasionally taunting the dogs through the baby gate. Their encounters with each other can be civil and affectionate, even tender, but they always carry a tinder-box in their back pocket.  They will hop up onto the bed when the mood strikes them, but neither is much for hugging. You can love a cat with all your heart, but the cat will always her limits.

Leader of the Pack?

Dogs live in the Pack. They hunt together, sleep together, raise their pups together. The dogs in my life have shown me how to love without limits. We play in the rain. We run in the grass. They have welcomed me into their world, though I can't do a thing for them except scoop dry nasty chunks of food into a bowl a couple times a day. It's a poor substitute for the game they were created to hunt and share in the wild, but they are grateful. I love all the creatures who share my home, but I will never be "one of the cats." The dogs have taken me in as one of their own. They even let me think I'm in charge from time to time.

Humans are slow, weak creatures. Compared to our brothers and sisters in the wild, we are not fast or strong. We can't see our food or smell danger. Our claws are short and brittle, our teeth flat and dull. The one advantage a human has is a brain. We're smart. And our ancestors were smart enough to realize that the only way for us to survive was if we lived together. We learned the law of the Pack. Mrs P likes to tell me, "Everything we do is better when we do it together." As always, she is right.

"We are the Duck!"

When I lost my job, I found a group of people struggling together to make it in the world. We traveled in small groups, trying to sell insurance to people who, for the most part, didn't want to see our faces, let alone buy our products. It could have been a lonely, depressing life - and the truth is, I sucked at selling insurance - but I found a pack who cared about one another. We understood one another's struggles, and when one of us was in trouble, the rest of us were willing to come to their aid. A few succeeded in the business, most of us didn't, but all of us found strength and love in that strange, wonderful Pack.

Stolen image, but this is what crazy feels like.

When I lost my mind, Mrs P knew she couldn't pull me back to sanity by herself, and that I couldn't help myself, either. She took me to the nut house. I spent 10 days there, taking pills, walking the halls, living without shoelaces or a belt. Afterwards, I was in an outpatient program for a month. I met with shrinks and counselors and social workers and big burly types who always showed up when one of us got out of hand. Those people were great. But the most important part of my healing happened in the big room in the middle of the ward, when all the professionals were in their offices doing paperwork, and the nuts would sit together and share our stories. We were depressed housewives, battered lovers, broken-hearted soldiers, grieving orphans. We had been fired, raped, dumped on, cheated on, and born with wired crossed in our heads. Most of us knew what it was to face the choice between life and death, and many of us had tried to choose death. Some of us had days when the pain of getting out of bed was just too great. One by one, we would stop by their room, like a little den, and offer to listen. We didn't have to ask how they were doing. We knew. All we could offer was our presence. The safety of the pack. There were no miracle cures in the nut house. We all went in crippled, and we all came out limping, but we were all a little stronger for the time we had spent together.

If you've been following FMR, you know my cancer story. I'm always blabbing about it. I wonder if people get sick of hearing it. But then I think of the people who might need to hear: the people who stare at the ceiling in the dark, worrying about a cough or a lump or a spot of blood that shouldn't be there; the people waiting for the results of tests that will change their lives; the people who haven't yet decided whether to fight or give up; the ones whose hope is fading; the weary cancer fighters who feel like old lions, left behind to die; the ones who love people with cancer, who don't know how to help and don't know how to keep fighting. Most of the people who hear my story won't need to hear it, but some will. That's my job. They are my Pack.

The Strong Eight - cancer warriors

My Wife. My Mother. My sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles. The friends who call and pray. The strangers who weep and nod in recognition. The church that never gave up on me, when I gave up on it. The theatre who played on my behalf and welcomed me back when the time was right. The Head and Neck Support group who shared my whole healing journey with me, from puking and oxygen tanks to my first half-marathon. The men and women at the YMCA, some vets of the cancer wars, some simply people who loved us, who came together to sweat and laugh and cry for joy at the life we have been given. The lady at the gas station who told me she was having a great day because "I'm a ten year breast cancer survivor." The man who had just had his prostate removed and was afraid he would never make love again. A guy who won the Tour de France seven times. A woman who had just been told she had started her third relapse of ovarian cancer. The people who take the time to read FMR. They are my Pack. You are my Pack.

And so this is Christmas: The Feast of the Incarnation. Believe what you want. Celebrate how you like. In my house, we celebrate the day God turned to creation and whispered, "You are my Pack. I am one of you. We are more whole when we are together. You are the source of love in my life, and I am yours. We each have our own stories. We live our own lives. But our lives are better because we are together."

Emmanuel.

God is with us.

And we are with one another.

The Law of the Pack.

Thanks be to God.

Peace,

Pennsy

#340: Sugar, Salt, and Shame... The Detox Run

I came home from rehearsal in a funk last night. We're two weeks from opening and all of our nerves are a little strained. That's perfectly normal. I should be used to it. But for some reason, I was edgy when I walked in the door. The house was filled with psychic noise. The back porch was filled with junk from the old house that needs to be sorted and mostly thrown away. The den was blocked off to keep the dogs out because they had gotten out in the rain and soaked one another in mud. The TV was playing. The washer and dryer were running. The broadband connection was down. I felt bombarded. So I did what any mentally healthy would-be athlete would do... I began eating garbage.

Let's see if I can remember all of it. Two crab salad sandwiches. Chips and cheese dip. Several glasses of lemonade. Half a pint of Hagen-Daz Rum Raisin. A glass of milk. A sleeve of ancient Thin Mints. Oh, and of course, I sat up watching TV until 3:00 in the morning. Sometimes I think it would be simpler to be a drug addict. This morning, I stepped on the scale. I was two pounds heavier than yesterday morning. Two pounds. That's a week's work washed away in an avalanche of sugar and salt.

So what was that all about? I don't know, a whole bunch of things, I guess. Brother's brave battle with cancer. Mrs P's struggles to keep up at work. The impending closing on the old house and the necessity to vacate asap. Dwindling savings. Self doubts about the play. I missed my run yesterday. And of course, the chaotic environment when I got home last night. It all adds up. A couple of miles on the road would probably have cleared my noisy mind, but it was dark and rainy, and I was still a little spooked by Sunday's tumble and redneck encounter. So I made a whole bunch of bad choices, and woke up to the consequences.

Even as I was stuffing poison into my mouth, I was remembering the bad old days before my cancer, when food was my only comfort, my hiding place. Eating soothed me, all 400 pounds of me. I would crunch away my problems and swallow my pain. It was a cowardly kind of suicide, but it was the way I chose. I suppose it's a positive sign that this time I recognized my behavior for what it was: an attempt to bury my worries with my drug of choice. It didn't help. And I woke up feeling ashamed of myself for backsliding into behavior that I was sure I had put behind me.

So, I went for a run.

I had a two miler scheduled, and I intended to press my pace. Now there was even more reason to work hard. I had toxins to sweat out. I decided to jog instead of walking my 30 second breaks. I wanted to see if I could keep up the pace without slowing down to a walk. I ran my first mile in 11:09, faster than I have ever gone before. I felt strong and clean. As I started the long climb at the beginning of mile 2, I realized that I wasn't running to get rid of fat and sugar, I was running to sweat out the shame. The realization spurred me on. During each 3 minute run interval, I pressed to increase my turnover, moving my feet faster and faster without breaking form by over-striding or bobbing up and down. During each 30 second jog break, I tried to glide, slowing down with each step to a pace just barely faster than a walk. I glanced at my watch a couple of times, but couldn't work the math in my head. I felt like I was covering a lot of pavement, but really couldn't tell how fast I was going. I didn't know until I got home that I had run the second mile in 10:59, shaving 10 seconds off of the personal best I had just set a few minutes before. Then I ran the last .6 miles at a 10:38/mile pace. The cool down felt fantastic. I had run reverse splits, each one faster than I had ever run before. My binge had not ruined me. I had not undone all my hard work. I had made a self-destructive choice, recognized it, and changed course. I had no reason to be ashamed.

Now, let's see about putting that back porch in order.

Peace,
Pennsy

Counting on the Fat Man

My weight was higher this week than last, 366 instead of 362, but then I had just done an hour and a half of cardio before last week’s weigh in. I could easily have dropped that much water weight and more with a long workout. This Sunday was weights, not running. It’s probably a more reliable number. I hope I’m not rationalizing this. I worked out five days this week, and ate pretty cleanly, mostly fruits and raw veggies at the meetings and fish, chicken, and salads at night.

I got a body fat detecto-gizmo on Amazon. It looks just like the one that they use at the gym and the readings are close enough that I feel confident using it. My body fat today is 33.1 which is a little lower than two weeks ago. I’ll try to set a consistent time to take that reading so I can get a decent baseline.

Mrs P is going to get out the tape tonight and we’ll do some measurements. Of all the numbers in my life, those are the ones I anticipate will have changed most radically. There is just no debating the fact that my body looks and feels smaller.

The big news of the week for me is that on Friday I ran a full mile for the first time since starting my program. I expected it to be more exhilarating than it was, but it was in the middle of a thirty minute run/walk so I didn’t really have time for a victory dance. Next stop, 1.5 miles without stopping. I just hope it doesn’t take another three months to get there.

Working out was a huge mental boost for me this week. I had all the stress I expected and more at work, but being able to pound it out in the gym really helped me to stay human and sane. None of my “spells” this week.

Back to the iron today. I returned to the weight machines to see how the week of resistance bands had affected me. To tell the truth, I felt a little weaker, but I was able to finish my sets by taking longer breaks between. I may try some combination of bands and machines to keep working the muscles in different ways

The ankle continues to improve, though my left shoulder feels a little sore. I don’t remember hurting it, just discovering that it felt a little queer. I’ll keep an eye on it the next time I do arm work.

Don't tell my horsey friend alykat, but I actually made my first trip to Keeneland this week and did not hate it. The grounds are beautiful. The athletes are beautiful. The girls are beautiful. I don't expect I will ever be a racing fan. I would much rather watch horses running naked in a pasture, but there are much worse ways to spend an afternoon in the Bluegrass than watching beautiful stuff while the guy next to you wins $200 on a $5 bet.

All things considered, a good day at the end of a good week. It’s nice to be the Pennsyltuckian.

Peace,
Pennsy

Caught from Behind -- for a Day

The Boogerman got me.

I am determined not to write a mental health blog or a depression diary or anything like that. There are plenty of great ones and my voice won't add much to that river of information.

Still, I am running for my life and that means acknowledging the things I'm running from now and again.

I am running from a bipolar disorder.

Yesterday, it caught me.

My reaction to my meeting with Brad really surprised me. Everything he had to say was good news, but it hit me as if he had said, "Give it up, Fatboy. You're going nowhere fast." I knew something was wrong in my head, but the Bipolar Boogerman has been so quiet since I started working out that I guess I dropped my guard. I've been taking my meds, and combined with the well-documented mental health benefits of exercise, I guess I figured I had the old man licked.

Looks like he can still catch me from behind when he puts his mind to it.

My mind was racing Tuesday night. No way I could have gone to sleep. I was up until 2:30 reading and writing. Mrs P made an appointment for us to take Molly to the vet Wednesday morning and by the time I woke up, I was certain we were taking her in to put her to sleep. She's a very tired, old lady and like so many big dogs, she has a lot of trouble with her hips. I latched onto the idea of losing her and crashed into the trough of the emotional wave that had kept me up so late the night before. I was a bear to Mrs P all morning, and by the time we were in the exam room with the doctor, I was breaking down sobbing as I told him about Molly's troubles. He and my patient wife discussed the science while I held my Golden Retriever close and prayed. It turns out I was the only one in the room with euthanasia on his mind. Doc and Mrs P arrived at a plan after considering several options, then Molly had some blood drawn and got her nails done. We pulled out of the parking lot with our little old granny dog happily gazing out the back window of my car.

I had lost all sense of emotional proportion and I knew I was screwed. I went back to the house and instead of just dropping the ladies off and going on to the office, I got my computer and went inside. In the living room, my heart was racing and I called in sick for the rest of the day. I had a good lunch, a Healthy Choice® frozen thing, then went to bed and slept for about nine hours. When I woke up, my dog was still alive, my wife hadn't left me, and I had been suitably humbled by my old nemesis - the Boogerman isn't melting away any faster than the fat man is.

This morning I feel much better. I'm sure my knee will appreciate the day off, and my thoughts and emotions are much more clear. Nobody is dying here. Not today anyway.

The fact that this episode hit so hard comes as a real surprise to me. I usually notice the warning signs and am better prepared. On the other hand, the fact that it passed in about a day is something I take as a very good sign. The old man may have knocked me down, but this time I had a really good reason to get back up, and that's what I've done.

The truth is, I have always had those reasons. A wife I love and who loves me beyond all reason. A job that challenges me every day. A house full of animals who teach me about affection and honesty. A workplace full of talented colleagues who teach me about honor and perseverance. Only now that the fat man is running, I realize that I might actually have a role to play in all that as well. I can be a person who is worthy to stand with all those people and even benefit them once in a while.

A fat man running is a fat man who has decided to stay alive for one more day.

It's good to be alive.

Eat my dust, Boogerman.

Peace,
Pennsy