Post-race depression? Breaking the cycle

I wonder if I’m onto something.

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I’ve been experiencing a general lack of motivation for many months that has had a serious impact on my ability to train.

At least that is what I thought until a few days ago. I was on my way to my therapist, who I’ve been going to now for a few months to help me figure out what to do about my bouts of anxiety and low mood. I have spent the last few months telling her about almost anything but my lack of motivation regarding sport. I’m sure I mentioned it a couple of times as a passing comment but not much more. While driving to my appointment, I was thinking about what the topic of this next session should be. And I thought maybe it was time to talk about my lack of motivation, as evidenced by my almost complete lack of desire to swim, bike, and run.

It was that last sentence that got me thinking. I’m not lacking motivation in general. I don’t lack motivation regarding my work, for example. I don’t lack motivation to go to my personal training sessions at the gym. I actually enjoy going to see Tom, partially because I like the challenge and I like feeling strong, and partially because he’s funny and makes me laugh, albeit usually at myself. Tom, for example, thought it was absolutely HILARIOUS that I’d like to work as a bodyguard. I think it’s hilarious that he thinks it’s hilarious. I’ll show you yet, Tom!

Back to depression.

That very short inner discussion made me realize that I’m not lacking motivation generally. There is something inside of me that has become very anti-triathlon.

A jihad against jihad (struggle)

I have been spending the past few months learning about the long-lasting effects of trauma. Everyone goes through traumas in their lives. I had always thought that I managed myself through my traumas quite well. If each trauma had happened alone, it is possible that I would have been able to get through each individual one without it having too much of an effect on me. But one trauma followed another followed another, and I am now seeing how their cumulative effects have been too much for me, no matter how strong I am and have been, to deal with them without them having a significant impact on my self.

I have suffered for a great many years from bouts of undiagnosed depression and anxiety. I emphasise the word undiagnosed. I use those two words because they are the only words I know to describe my states of being.

In the past month, I have come to realize that I lack the ability to express a range of emotions that would be considered normal in other people. It is almost as if I developed some sort of a protective mechanism against feeling happy, sad, angry, excited, afraid, or even loving or hateful. Instead, I repress these feelings as they start to emerge, with the result of two main feelings taking over: anxiety or depression. Instead of feeling happy or excited, I get anxious. Instead of feeling angry or sad, I get depressed.

This has highlighted to me a concept that is very ingrained within me: the concept of the personal “jihad” or the internal struggle.

Bound to my high school scars

I’m a 48-year-old woman and I still get regular nightmares about having to study for high school or university exams. I’ve been scarred for life.

I can’t imagine that this is how things should be. I’ve heard from several friends that they have similar nightmares. I’m thinking it might be safe to assume that there are lots of people out there who also have these nightmares.

I’d like to blame our educational systems for this. There’s just too much emphasis on test results. In most countries in the world, your entire future depends on the results you get on exams you take when you’re nearing the age of 18. Most 18-year-olds have absolutely no idea what they want to do with the rest of their lives.

When I was 18, I wanted to get into something sciency.

Putting up with an anxious friend

I’ve been through some rough times. Everyone has. My rough times are probably not as rough as most. But they are still my rough times. And I’ve been through them.

I can’t say that I dwell on them much anymore. But there’s one thing that I do remember often, and that’s how many friends stuck with me despite my rough times.

I’m not talking about the friends who gave me their constant support and encouragement. I’m not talking about the friends who would turned up at my house without invitation because they knew I wasn’t doing very well. I’m talking about the friends who put up with me for years while I dealt with anger and anxiety issues I wasn’t even aware I had.

The only reason I know now that I was an angry and anxious woman (and potentially depressed) is that I now know what it feels like not to be angry, anxious or depressed. (It’s wonderful).

I don’t know if my friends were even aware that I was angry, anxious and depressed. They might have thought that was just the way I am. Even so, they continued to be my friends and I love them for it.

Entitled to a Smile

Is this that I feel despair? Depression? Frustration? Loneliness? Just a general sadness? Or perhaps some combination thereof?

I find myself longing for normality. But I try to find my personal definition for what normality really is for me and I fail. Have I ever experienced anything remotely similar to what most people would call a normal living? Has anyone?

I look at my own life, my personal circumstances, and I see a story. I see a life full of drama, events, very high highs and very low lows. I look at my life and I see a unique story. Yet I know that every single person placed on this earth has a unique story of their own.

I am vexed by a feeling of entitlement. I am entitled to live a better life. I am entitled to find a job that I really love.