Finding A Way Out of the Dark

 

When things don't feel OK, in training and in life, seek help

 

By Clay Reynolds

 

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Often times when people speak of ways to make those who are battling depression feel better, or normal, they say: “It’s OK to not be OK.”

 

As I have battled a long, excruciating battle with depression, I have pondered that go-to statement. Is it really OK to not be OK?

 

If you had a fever, most people suggest you seek out treatment or medication. You would take care of yourself. If you broke your arm, you wouldn’t just live with a broken arm, you would seek out medical care. If you were dying of thirst, the natural response would be to seek out water. So why, when we find ourselves losing a battle with our own mind, does it suddenly become “OK”?

 

First, I am in no way saying that depression is abnormal. Depression is, unfortunately, very normal and very real. It is something no one should feel ashamed to talk about. I have just become exhausted of seeing kids suffering daily without help because they are simply too scared or ashamed to seek out assistance. The attitude toward depression must change if we wish to stop seeing young people cut their own lives short.

 

When I think about depression among runners, I immediately think of Madison Holleran, a young track star from New Jersey and a freshman at the University of Pennsylvania when she took her own life in January 2014. As I read more of her story, I was heartbroken in a way I still can’t quite put into words or understand. What if someone had gotten to her sooner? What if she had someone to relate to? Maybe then she would still be here.

 

Madison can’t be brought back. But through her story, we might be able to gain a better understanding of depression among not only athletes, but all young people suffering from this awful disease. About 1,100 college undergraduates commit suicide each year, according to the Jed Foundation, a nonprofit that works to promote emotional health and prevent suicide among college students.

 

Madison isn’t the first reported case of suicide or suicidal attempts in the world of running.

 

There was a famous incident during the women’s 10,000-meter final at the 1986 NCAA Track and Field Championships in Indianapolis. Collegiate record-holder Kathy Ormsby of North Carolina State was two-thirds of the way through the race when she suddenly ran off the track without stopping. She ran out of the stadium and then onto a nearby bridge crossing the White River. She dove off head first, 40 feet down. The fall paralyzed her from the waist down.

 

Last May, the running community in Arizona was left grieving when state cross country champion Marcus Wheeler of Corona del Sol posted clues on Twitter about his suffering before killing himself with a gun at school.

 

As I read more into the increasing occurrences that are left out of the media, I became increasingly frustrated, but when many of those cases began to hit home, I decided I was done with being silent.

 

I now wish to share with you the story of my own battle with depression, and how it shaped me into the runner and person I am today. My sole motivation behind writing this is to help people. If a single person reads this, relates, and finds some peace of mind, I consider it worthwhile.

 

I want to make it abundantly clear that I do not, in any way, have all the answers. Every day I come up with more and more questions about why things are the way they are and why the world is the way it is. I couldn’t possibly know all of the factors at work in the lives of Madison, Kathy or Marcus, nor could I know what contributed to their choices. However, I do know what goes on in the mind of a runner suffering from depression.

 

I began my first year of cross country as a fifth-grader, and I absolutely hated it. Why in the world would anyone want to do this? I participated in order to remain fit for basketball season and this remained my motivation until my sophomore year at Shakamak High School. Throughout junior high, I was a fairly good basketball player for my area. In rural Indiana, basketball is king.

 

I dreamed of a chance to play college and professional ball, as many young athletes dream of doing in their favorite sport. When I reached high school, I soon realized that being 5 feet 8 and 125 pounds soaking wet wasn’t exactly to my advantage. You can probably guess where this is going.

 

During my sophomore year, my passion for distance running was growing. I idolized Steve Prefontaine, loved short shorts, and admired the elite runners of our area and across the state. I loved it. During every run, I knew I was bettering myself. It was easy, measureable progress. If I ran faster at this meet than I did last, I was improving. I was hooked. Although my NBA dreams were crushed, I felt as though I had found a more than adequate supplement. The more I ran, the more I loved it, and the more I loved it, the more I ran.

 

My junior year rolled around and I had some huge shoes to fill. My team had graduated a strong senior class, and we were looking to win our third consecutive conference title. The pressure was on me to go from our team’s sixth man to the first. At this point, I didn’t have the drive or motivation to do it on my own, but I had one driving force behind me: my girlfriend. I didn’t know it at the time, but this driving force would, in turn, uproot problems from my past and escalate them to an all-­time high.

 

Like my position on the cross country team, my relationship was a whole new world to me. Even though I had done everything right to get into the relationship, as well as my position on the team, I immediately began to fumble my confidence in both areas. In the mass confusion of changes and new roles, I became convinced in my mind that I had to excel at something to be loved or cared for. This mindset never left me, but as the season went on, my team won its third straight title and I advanced to Semi State as an individual. It was the perfect season and it left me hungry for more, but my need to excel in order to feel worthy of love never left me.

 

The winter of my junior year was by far the hardest time of my life. With my relationship and season ending, I felt as though I was good for nothing. All I had was running. At the time I would say I was an average runner at best, and that didn’t sit well with me. I felt as though as long as I remained an average runner, I would remain a bland, average person. In my mind I was the most unappealing person I knew. Being average didn’t cut it for me. I upped my mileage to a level I had never before sustained, and ran at an even harder rate. My progression was tremendous. But as I was reaching the greatest physical shape of my life, I was in by far the worst mental shape of my life. I had pretty much quit eating, was working out as much as possible, and I developed a poor body image. For instance, I often compared my body to that of Galen Rupp, and quickly, I began to hate myself. There I was, 17 years old, and angry at myself for not being in equal or greater physical condition than an Olympic 10,000-meter silver medalist.

 

Where did this attitude come from? Honestly, I’m still working on that. I think part of it came from my own expectations, but who knows how such ridiculous comparisons began to seem fair in my mind? All I know is that I didn’t feel good enough.

 

As the winter dragged on, I closed myself off from everyone. I quit spending time with my friends. I was bitter toward my family, and running completely consumed me. I was obsessed with my training. The combination of 70-­mile weeks and the lack of a healthy diet not only caused my body to break down, but also my mind. I would panic and cry if I had a bad run or workout. I would send myself to bed hungry because I was afraid of gaining weight. Although running was destroying me, I still felt as though it was all I had. If I wasn’t running, I was thinking, and thinking hurt me more than running. My mind was destroying my confidence and my overall enjoyment of life.

 

It’s funny how we hold on to the things that hurt us the most. We become addicted to our sadness because it becomes our everyday norm. It was after a few months of this cycle that I began to consider suicide.

 

It was everywhere I went and it felt like a way to end my suffering. I often thought of how easy it would be to just close my eyes while driving to school and end it. The thought terrified me, but it was always there. It was an escape route.

 

Looking back at the winter of my junior year, I see it as a blur of pain, confusion, suffering, self­-deprication, and deterioration. This is where I realized that anxiety, depression and suicide, all of it, was all too real.

 

My junior track season started off nearly perfect. I was in the best physical shape, but I was also in the worst mental shape of my life. Throughout the regular season, I was very successful. From an outsider's perspective, no one would’ve known the silent battle I was fighting. I managed to survive to conference, and won both the 1,600 and 3,200 meters, both with personal-best times. I finally felt slight confidence in myself. I was reunited with my girlfriend, a double winner in my conference meet, and looking forward to a great postseason. It was on my cool-down when all of that changed. I felt a very sharp pain in my left calf. Soon, I was out for the remainder of the season.

 

I was devastated. All of the torture I had put myself through seemed meaningless and wasted. Even though I had one of the best track seasons in school history, I felt worthless. This was the peak of my disgust with myself. I not only considered quitting running, I considered giving up on everything and everyone around me. I felt as though I had disappointed everyone that mattered: my friends, my family, my coaches and teammates, my girlfriend, and worst of all, myself. This disappointment ate me alive for the next month. I hated running. I thought, “Why would I do something that caused so much grief?”

 

On one particular night during my break from running, I texted my cross country coach and told him I was done. In the back of my mind I knew it wasn’t true, but at the time I felt as though I truly was done. I remember his immediate reaction being one of sarcasm, but when he realized I wasn’t joking, he took what I was saying to heart. I told him how I felt about my track season and how I never wanted to feel that disappointment again. I told him about my battle with depression throughout the past half year. I even told him about my thoughts of suicide. To this day I consider these few texts to be among the most important turning points of my life. Instead of blowing off what I was saying, he related. He talked me through it, and adjusted my training to compensate for my lack of mental focus and readiness. Although training through the summer while continuously battling depression was tough, I endured it. The mileage was much lower than what I had put in during track season, and I came into my last cross country season slightly unsure of myself. I remember deciding instead of stressing over my new, redesigned training, that I would just go with it and trust my coach.

 

As the first race rolled around, and speed workouts began, I realized how much I had improved. My speed workouts were proving to be very successful, and I began to get some confidence back. As the season went on, I continued to feel stronger, both physically and mentally. I had great success in the regular season, eventually leading to my first individual cross country conference title. The experience was great, but nothing topped the feeling of believing in myself. For a while, I even forgot I was depressed!

 

Unfortunately, my postseason was again hampered by an injury. I had to cut back my training to the point that I lost some of my fitness. I fought through the pain, but unfortunately my season and high school career ended at Semi ­State. One thing, however, was different: I didn’t hate myself for it. I didn’t consider my season a failure. Yes, many tears were shed, and at the time I felt completely heartbroken. But I realized, thanks to my great coach and teammates, that I had a wonderful career and season, and that even if I hadn’t, that didn’t make me any more or less me. I was still the same guy who they trained with, laughed with, suffered with, cried with, and learned to love.

 

Life is hard. Bad times are inevitable. Depression is real, and it sucks, and is terrifying. I can’t promise you that there is an end to the suffering completely; there will still be bad days where you wake up and feel worthless and overwhelmed. What I can promise you is you are not alone. For every person that is suffering, there is a handful that can relate and help. If you can find the bravery in your soul to seek out assistance, you will be helped. The worst mistake you can make is to suffer in silence. Just as the sick patient receives medication, if you are suffering, there is help available to you.

 

People who have survived suicide attempts after leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge often regret their decision the second after they jump. One survivor stated, “I instantly realized that everything in my life that I thought was unfixable was totally fixable, except for having just jumped.”

 

It is not OK to not be OK. Get help. Find consistent happiness. Fight on. There is a light at the end of that seemingly endless tunnel, my friend.

 

I tell myself the same thing.

 

Clay Reynolds

[email protected]

 

 

Editor's Note:

Clay Reynolds is a senior at Shakamak High School, a rural school in southwest Indiana. He composed the essay above as a classroom project and decided to send it to DyeStat as way to amplify its message and reach wider audience.

 

He believes that his own situation is improving.

 

“I’d say I’m going pretty good now,” Reynolds said. “There are days that are good and occasional bad days. But even the (worst) days are not really as noticeable as they once were. I’ve got a good support group around me.”

 

Reynolds said that in order to feel better he needed to let go of his obsession with training and learn to take more time off.

 

“I’m really focused on relaxing about my training,” he said. “This week I’m hitting 50 miles. Last winter I hit 75 miles and that’s when it was rough.”

 

A new guitar class, he said, has also helped.

 

If you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255).