My friend Bracha told me in Messenger that I should pick two tasks for the day and say fuck it to the rest.  Yesterday, I elected to take a shower and walk down the block by myself to socialize with some friends.  Today, I was able to build on by not only taking a shower but volunteering to cook breakfast at my own free will and go to the gym for the first time in a week.  Took me six hours to muster the courage to leave the house and I cried for 15 minutes in the locker room before my workout.  My cross training workout wasn't too bad.  I'm sure I'll be back to my regular speed in a week.  Running, on the other hand, was traumatic.  A week off managed to make me feel like it was my first day.  I haven't struggled to walk at a 4.0 speed in almost 3 years.  

What happened to me in a week?  

​Depression.

For a month, I've been off my game.  New York City's humidity threw me off severely and I felt incredibly miserable.  Nothing prepared me nor would I have guessed that I was pregnant.  My feelings about being a mother again overwhelmed me on a drastic level.

For most people, they're shooting rainbows and pebbles out of their ass, awaiting to tell all of their friends and family members who are possibly happy for them; this was not my case.  My marathons didn't concern me.  Unfortunately, I was already bearing several large fibroids for years that have been disappearing and reappearing for a while now.  In fact, I'm scheduled for removal at the end of the year.  In turn, this was a shock to me, especially since I was burdened with the hard question from my gynecologist months ago of which procedure I wanted to go for:  Myomectamy, Uterine Fibroid Emolization or hysterectomy.  

While I always wanted to have at least two children, my fibroids would not cooperate with me.  I spent several weeks being in gradually increasing, unbearable pain and once finding out my pregnancy, scared to take any medication.  After being rushed to the hospital, hearing heartbeats from my unborn children, Tuesday confirmed that I wouldn't be a second time mother in March 2018.  In turn, the last two posts about depression was in ode to my twins who aren't here with me.  I haven't been this hurt in an exceptionally long time.

Earlier on in my life, I learned that your facial expressions can dictate an entire conversation.  I was reminded through many interactions about my smile.  During my youth, I was told that I had a "goofy look" because my eyes would light up in a very zany way.  As a teenager, older men acknowledged my age and looked past it because to them, my tiny yet developing frame swayed my hips like an adult. Through my short stint of working at an acupuncturist office, I was instructed by my supervisor to control my expressions.  "You wear your concerns on your face and now, others are concerned for you."  At every step of the way, I was reminded that my smile doesn't belong to me.
​

I'll be frank.

I don't feel like myself and I really don't want to be around many people at this very moment.  It's almost like I am in a dark hole, barely lit and my path is clear but I don't have the urge to walk out just yet. Just because you know that you can save yourself doesn't mean that your body fully want to move.  A few steps feel like too many.  It's almost as if you are tearing at ligaments with each step.  Why not just stay here?  They can't break me anymore if I am stagnant.  

Unfortunately, this has been the most traumatizing two weeks that I have encountered in five years.  I am not naive and didn't think that I was immune to hitting rock bottom again.  Any of you fuckers who think you're above it because of a pay grade, don't have time to schedule it in or a level of prestige are sadly mistaken.  Depression catches us all.  It's almost as guaranteed as death.  

Why not go for a run?  Well, I had all of last week to do that and I puked right before starting.  In fact, my last 5K was this past Saturday.  I smiled in my peers' faces, solicited hugs and hoping that just maybe for a change, I could psych myself out of a nagging doubt.  Considering that I'm not much of a time whore, it was strange to me that I was struggling so horrifically for less than a hour.  In turn, I thought maybe my trip to the gym would be a boost in spirits.  Zilch.  Before I knew it, every ounce of me crumbled.  

You cannot obtain a running PR for depression.

Really.  Just a little louder for the ones in the back who cannot comprehend this:

YOU CANNOT AND WILL NOT OBTAIN A GODDAMN PERSONAL RECORD FOR DEPRESSION.

Oh, you're a sprinter?  Right.  I'm just an ultra marathoner who's used to being in the back of the pack.  Well guess what my slow but steady ass learned years ago and still have to remind myself as I type this:  Depression is a sport too.  Sometimes, you don't know when the course ends and a lot of us don't even know when we asked to participate in it.  We can guess when we're done with the race but most times, we don't know.  You can hit the runner's wall at 3 miles in and if you're like me, I function on auto pilot, listening to Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye and Luther Vandross on loop as I watch my life riptide onto the pavement.  It's messy as fuck.  I free bleed on the course.  Runner's trots everywhere.  And I'm not ashamed.  Why?  Because I'm human.

Out of respect for my own marbles, I do not feel that comfortable disclosing what brought me here.  I know that the elevator isn't completely going to the top at this very moment.  I wish this was just an expression.  While some of you are amused or inspired through my very abrasive thoughts, this is my interactive journal.  Typically it's long winded with sarcasm, a bunch of metaphors and like a straight shooter conversation with strangers.  If I am as transparent with you guys as I say that I am, I won't hide in my dark moments either.  The only thing I will say is that I'm grieving exceptionally hard.  I didn't write this out of pity or likes.  Please refrain from picking my brain.  I promise my responses will not be in troll form and I really don't want to apologize for me saying something incredibly atrocious.  Just bare with me.  

Before I go,  here's what I request:

1.  Take care of your health:  Mental, physical, emotional and spiritual.  It all matters.
2.   You're not a pussy if you cry randomly.  Be sad, happy and all in between without apologies.  Women especially find themselves apologizing for shit that you shouldn't be apologizing for.
3.  It's okay to NOT be okay.  You don't owe anyone an explanation either.
4.  When you see the light at the end of the tunnel and you feel fatigued as I do, take a goddamn rest for a minute.  Nobody can rush you out.  Just make sure that you eventually take your worn bones to the sunshine.  
5.  There's no PR for swiftly getting out of depression.  You aren't stronger nor weaker for it.  Your race; your pace.
6.  If you are feeling as shitty as I am right now, I wrote this for us.  I know that not everyone is as comfortable expressing their demons for public scrutiny.  Fuck whoever judge us.

Love and light,

Toya