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I can see rats scouring for food and drinking from brown puddles in the tracks ballast. The city growls over my head — a distant growl muffled by the concrete, almost a snarl, like something cold and foul spreading over the long stretches of stained walls, like a dark and wild beast curling up around me and breathing on my neck. A dark and wild beast silently trailing me. Stories about underground dwellers were already flourishing when the first New York City subway line opened in The expansion of extensive sewers and steam pipes systems had brought a newfound fascination with what laid below the streets.
But it was only in the s that the first widespread depictions of real-world tunnel residents appeared in New York. A New York Times article by John Tierney was the earliest to outline the phenomenon, looking at people living in an abandoned train tunnel beneath Riverside Park, along the banks of the Hudson River.
Collective imagination took over quickly. An instant hit, it chronicled the organization of those underground societies, describing compounds of several thousands where babies were born and regular lives were lived, with elected officials, hot water and even electricity.
However, the book was promptly criticized for its inconsistencies. A article by Cecil Adams further demonstrated that many accounts were perhaps more sensationalism than truth. Still, while the essay might have been inflated or romanticized, it was nonetheless true that the homeless begging in the streets of New York were merely the tip of the iceberg. This period is gone. That they spoke their own language. Creepy stuff, straight out of a horror movie… Most was made-up.
I personally never witnessed unusual stuff. Written in an abandoned crew room of the F subway line, these words were the reason I ventured into the tunnels in the first place, looking for the invisible, guided by local dwellers along the years to seek foundations of humanity in the foundations of the city. All the stories I had read about the Mole People before descending myself had two things in common.
They all showed simple human beings who were in no way comparable to the legends that had been told, and they all included a man named Bernard Isaac. I met Bernard Isaac for the first time in A place to find peace and take a break from the chaos.
Isaac was at the very center of the Mole People legend. His BA in journalism and his studies in philosophy had somehow led him to work as a model, then as a TV crew member, then as a tour guide in the Caribbean where he began smuggling cocaine to the States.
The father of two sons with two different women, he never cared much for family life, preferring to spend his smuggling profits on parties thrown at his Upper West Side penthouse. Soon he was broke, friendless and on his own.
By the late s, he was sleeping in the Riverside Park tunnel. The tunnel was known by homeless people since its inception in the s, when it was used by trains to bring cattle to the city before the freight operations ended. Its population, limited at first to about three or four individuals, quickly grew at the time Isaac settled in, evolving into small tribes of vagrants who built thriving shantytowns in the newly abandoned space.
Few risked getting down into the tunnel. But those who did go down called it home, and it became a haven for the destitute to unwind without fear of getting arrested or attacked like people on the streets often were. One day, three men asked Isaac for a toll as he came by the th Street entrance to the tunnel.
Soon interest came from all around the world. In the encampment, the dwellers had a familiar place to be, watch TV, read or smoke. Rules were simple but strictly enforced. Some, like Isaac, were at home in the darkness, and would not have lived anywhere else. Most who lived here did not consider themselves homeless. As word spread of the tunnel, a growing number of graffiti artists came to paint the seemingly endless walls that flanked the train tracks.
We dared to be ourselves. Some residents were still eager to leave, only to come back later. Another who attempted to go to the surface was Bob Kalinski, a speed addict known as the fastest cook east of the Mississippi, who could fry twenty eggs at a time when on amphetamines. A heart attack forced him to try his luck with the public housing system in He too returned in the following months.
The sense of belonging simply was too strong. The tunnel was a better place for him to be alone in freedom. I keep walking along the tracks. Jon must have passed out drunk, now, somewhere behind me. Every noise is threatening in the tunnel, and I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder, ready to face something too awful to name.
Was that a train I heard? The metallic vibration of a dragged chain? It smells like death here. The pungent stench of rotting meat. The smell of death all over now.
Are those eyes glowing nearby? I lean against the wall and try to breathe calmly, reminding myself this place is only populated by old memories and the occasional homeless person looking for a safe place to be. The rumbling feels closer. I see rats scurrying by, racing into the obscurity. Then I see the charred remains of an animal in the corner of an alcove — a raccoon maybe, a big rodent with liquefied flesh, burnt fur and missing limbs. I walk away holding my breath. The ground is littered with discarded books and magazines.
A broken crack pipe has been left on a cinder block. There is a garden chair, and overturned crates and buckets. A mangled teddy bear. His clothes are spotless, regularly washed at a nearby laundromat. Maybe talk to some people. An ex-girlfriend and a kid. He rents an apartment from a friend when his kid comes to visit, a clean studio in a gray Washington Heights building.
I nod and he goes into an abandoned service room, returning with two mugs. I hurt a lot of people. I collect cans, it keeps me busy. I do it all week long. The coffee is nice and strong. The streets are full of opportunities if you know where to look. I deal with what I have. The worsening quality of the local drugs means accidents are now more frequent than ever, with overdose-related deaths in In the buildings he helps maintain, he occasionally sells the tenants K2 — a form of synthetic marijuana that recently boomed across the city, especially in East Harlem where a homeless encampment was recently dismantled.
This is who I am. We both eat in silence. The incentives paid by the Department of Homeless Services to landlords renting out shelter units far exceed the ones given for providing tenants with permanent single room occupancy lodging. In , the average stay was days at the Freedom House , a homeless shelter on West 95th Street managed by private company Aguila Inc.
Conditions are appalling inside the Freedom House. Garbage piles up in the courtyard for rodents to feed on. Sometimes a TV is hurled out a window , or the police close the street after someone is stabbed in a fight. The NYPD regularly raids the place looking for people with outstanding warrants, targeting domestic abusers and failing to arrest the major dealers or car thieves roaming the area.
The year-old knows enough about shelters. She will never go back. She was sixteen when she got pregnant with her daughter Alyssa. Jessica was then diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder and admitted to transitional housing in Brooklyn.
She says that within a month, social services was badgering her to place her three-year-old in foster care. I called my sister and begged her to take care of Alyssa until I found a place of my own. But it was the right thing to do. At least she is with family. When she grows up I will explain it all to her.
She looks away, tears rolling down her face. Once her daughter was in the hands of her sister, Jessica was sent to the Freedom House where she stayed for seven months until Aguila notified her of her imminent relocation. She began sleeping in a subway tunnel after transit authorities made her leave her spot in the Herald Square station corridor on 34th Street, dragging her by her feet when she refused to stand up from her mat.
She spent about two months living in a recess by the subway tracks of a Midtown station, protected from the elements and from harassment.
She wrote a long letter to her daughter there. She never sent it. I miss you everyday. I love you so much. Soon she will give them to her daughter.
Trash as far as the eye can see. Brooklyn might be the oldest resident of the Riverside Park tunnel. Now fifty-four, she has been living here since , when she discovered the place by following feral cats. Like Bernard Isaac, she appeared in various films and documentaries. She has perfected her story for journalists along the years. Everything she relates is recited like a school lesson. Her stint in the Marines. The death of her parents and the loss of her family house. The kids lighting her cardboard shack on fire in the park.
Her boyfriend BK and their issues. The food bowls left at her door for the forty-nine cats she feeds. She is a tough woman who speaks her mind, and she has the unyielding attitude of someone who has trudged through life.
Her bandana and dreadlocks make her look younger than she is. That would be nice. The stew is surprisingly tasty. You never get used to it. After she finishes eating, Brooklyn shows me a pile of recycling bags filled with countless Poland Spring water bottles collected at a nearby bodega. Brooklyn is disappointed when I tell her I have to go.
She calls one of her cats as I keep walking to the south end of the tunnel. The whole place feels like a grave. A cathedral for the dead and the fallen. Nothing is left from the former shacks. Even the smallest pieces of debris are gone. A raw, burning power that some, like Isaac, will seek their whole life. Sane immediately sprayed the quote on the wall.
A train rushes by, almost silent with its unbearably bright lights, the air swelling around me as the cars dash past. This place is not for anyone to be , I think. I wait for dreams to come. Sleeping in the tunnel is an alien experience, but the sight of rain falling down the ventilation grates and streaking the chiaroscuro light is worth it alone, definite proof that poetry can endure anywhere. This is the final byproduct of the city.
This is a dark and wild beast inviting you to come closer because nothing will ever be all right, but she will always be at your side to keep you warm. Amtrak Police Captain Doris Comb started calling for more enforcement, effectively pushing the homeless out of the active railway. Different times were looming ahead. They feel rejected and decline assistance. Bernard Isaac still held a grudge against Comb eighteen years later, for having seized the universal key to the exit gates an Amtrak employee had given him.
Some flatly refused to cooperate and gave up all hope of being granted Section 8 apartments. Margaret Morton would later write in a New York Times article that this solution had been by far the most economical for the city.
As the photojournalist Teun Voeten would discover in , some of the former squatters later achieved normal lives again. There would even be success stories. Then there were the others. One would commit suicide, sitting in front of a running train. Another was found dead in his apartment. Another succumbed to AIDS. Bernard Isaac passed away in late , closing a chapter of an old New York legend. His ashes were sprinkled across a creek in his native Florida.
The legend was gone, but homelessness was more real than ever. According to Coalition for the Homeless, between 58, and 60, persons slept in NYC municipal shelters every month of , an all-time record since the Great Depression, with numbers increasing for the sixth consecutive year. There were 42, homeless children across the five boroughs in Everything else becomes a symptom. The cause is lack of affordable housing. The median Manhattan rent jumped more than seven percent in August compared to the same period in , while affordable housing placements fell sixty percent between and At the time of his declaration, only five people had been found living in the Riverside Park tunnel, but a different community was already growing on a nearby dead-end street dubbed the Batcave.
His Goya reproduction has been damaged by water. In a few years from now, it will be completely gone, washed away by the elements. Morning light is different in the tunnel — colder maybe, and whiter, casting long straight beams onto the rails.
Wind gusts make dust rise up in whirlpools. A blue jay flies past a grate. I wake up and New York slowly comes to life. Carlos lives holed up in an old sewer pipe of about six feet high by five feet wide near the south entrance to the Riverside Park tunnel. He is one of the few original dwellers who stayed. His house is small but very practical, entirely concealed by a metal lid he takes great care of pulling on every time he gets inside.
His electricity is tapped from an outlet further down the tunnel, allowing him to store his food in a refrigerator and have heat during winter. I read a lot. All kinds of books.
I read them and I sell them. The increased police patrols make his life less simple than it was a few years ago, but he keeps an upbeat attitude about it. Sometimes they try to make me leave. Carlos shows me where a decomposing body was found by Amtrak workers in , months after taggers had discovered it. Two femurs bundled in cargo pants, neatly laid into an old child stroller, with pieces of leathered skin still attached to them, and a skull standing on top of a nearby pole. We find the old man sleeping on a couch behind a safety wall.
Inside, a sentence is underlined in blue ink. We stay a moment at his side before I finally leave the tunnel, emerging from the wet ground behind a grove of trees. The streets seem slower than usual. Hurt just makes us hurt. And hurt lives in the land of the lost, and unites them in missing love and broken homes, for five cents a can, cans per day. The few Mole People left today survive in hurt. They are relics of a New York that was, and witnesses of a world so estranged that nobody truly remembers it anymore.
Most are too late for the topside life. How easy it would be to go away and never come back. But this is their city. This is their home. These are their minds wandering and their time slipping. Their hopes and their thirsts until the sun goes down. Away — to a place made of birches and wet leaves and blue afternoons and muddy clothes, a place where dark days would be foreign — a place for them and all the unseen, warm as liquor, where hurt would be sweet and love would be real.
Seventy-five years later, its gay stars are finally opening up. The hotel was likely decorated with muted colors in the modernist style of the previous decade. All available supplies needed to go toward the war effort.
The story was similar in baseball. With most of the Major League Baseball players deployed, executives decided to fill the gap with female players, paving the way for the A. When she told the story later in her life, she gave the reason: In Their Own League. Players had to attend charm school and wear lipstick on the field. Their uniforms had skirts instead of pants — not great for sliding, but deemed appropriately feminine by league owner Philip K.
Though it was never explicitly stated, historians and players alike say the rules were in place, in part, to prevent the women from being perceived as lesbians. Donahue was in Nova Scotia for the winter when she met Henschel, who was 19 at the time. The two women hit it off, keeping in touch when Donahue moved back to the U. The next day was her birthday. For seven decades the two told almost everyone, aside from their inner circle, that they were best friends.
For 70 years theirs has been a love story, originating in a time when the only love stories we were allowed to tell were those between a man and a woman. Try to ask most former players about the issue and they clam up. The players could have lost more than just their baseball careers if they had been open about their queerness. They could have lost their families, occupations, and reputations, too.
That stigma has carried on for decades. She was the first to start an N. She then played for the independent, otherwise all-male St.
Paul Saints and Duluth-Superior Dukes. Indeed, that same year, the book SportsDykes: Stories From On and Off the Field was also published. She understands today that talking about being a gay athlete is a double-edged sword, in a way. But this stereotype existed long before Borders was even born. Cahn in her book Coming on Strong: Gender and Sexuality in Twentieth Century Sports.
It was this perception of female athletes as unfeminine and unfeminine women as lesbians that led Wrigley, a chewing gum manufacturer and president of the Chicago Cubs, to insist that his players be appropriately feminine in appearance. When the affair was between teammates, chaperones would refuse to let the suspected couple room together and gauge the reaction of the players to confirm their hunch. In one case, the suspected lovers were so angry about being barred from becoming roommates that team manager Johnny Gottselig considered it proof of the affair.
In another case, a married player was rumored to have fallen for one of her teammates. Another time, Leo said that a married player was discovered to be in a relationship with a woman who was unassociated with the league. Leo claimed he notified her husband, who came and took her home.
However, many of the players came to the league quite sheltered. They often arrived from small towns or rural areas and were quite young when they left home. As a result, it was not uncommon for new or younger players to be completely blindsided by the relationships between their teammates. Dorothy Hunter entered the League in , when she was Well, I just thought they were giving me the gears because I was a green Canadian.
But many of the players were unattached. If straight players were married, many of their husbands were off at war or were left back at home on farms or in factories. It was in many ways the perfect environment for gay women to become involved with each other. But in some cases, the near-inability to date was a welcome reality. It made staying in the closet easier, because there was no time for dating and so there was no need to make excuses.
This was something that Borders discovered, too, when she was playing ball in the s. These restrictions kept some women out of the league altogether. One of those women was Dot Wilkinson, often regarded as the greatest softball player of her time — and perhaps all time. Wilkinson was a hard-playing catcher for the Phoenix Ramblers. She joined the American Softball Association A.
I never thought about anything else. Wilkinson was recruited to play in the A. But it was more than that. She also knew that the league was actively discouraging players from being perceived as exactly what Wilkinson was — gay. But she had another love, too.
Wilkinson and Caito played together for two seasons, until the A. I t is the obituaries that offer the most publicly available clues to some of the players who spent their lives with other women. The most telling evidence is often in veiled language or titles that are open to interpretation. She attended the mass tryout at Wrigley Field, becoming one of the original members of the league in During the season, she was traded to the Kenosha Comets. Her contract was not renewed in , forcing her to try out again.
After leaving the league, she became a physical education teacher. She is rumored to have impressed Babe Ruth with how far she could hit a softball, and it is said he squeezed the biceps on her arm when he posed with her for a photo. In the Brooklyn Dodgers invited Deegan and two other women to their spring training camp. If she were a man, she no doubt would have been a Dodger.
Deegan died of breast cancer in at the age of The two shared their passion for softball: Nusse passed away just six months after Deegan died, at age She was the first chairperson of the Players Association Board and two-time A. One of the best pitchers to ever play in the A. The girl from Rockford, Illinois, played 10 seasons in the league. In that time she threw three no hitters, had three win seasons, and had an unassisted triple play — something that has only happened 15 times in Major League Baseball since Cione spent her rookie year in with the Rockford Peaches and finished with an astonishing 1.
It was a treat to watch a game with her. She analyzed every play. Catcher Eunice Taylor and her partner of 45 years, Diana Walega, owned and operated a pet supply store for 40 years. Their obituaries, which are historical documents, offer us glimpses into their lives and are open for us to interpret.
In their younger days, they look like they could be sisters as they pose in front of a Christmas tree in a picture that might have been taken in the s. They each sport short, dark hairstyles and wear sleeveless turtleneck shirts. In another, they are perhaps in their 60s and they dance together in front of a fireplace.
They are both laughing. Their hairstyles have not changed in the decades between the two photos except to turn from brown to gray. They are ready to tell the world the truth about their relationship. Another photo shows the two of them doing what they had only ever done behind closed doors: Their eyes are closed.
But they hid this truth for as long as they did because, for most of their lives, they had too much to lose by coming out. She had ascended to a level that no woman ever had before. And then, she quit.
Borders looks out onto the field of women whose uniforms are streaked with dirt. My high school boyfriend and I made a bet: Neither of us was ready for what came next. You can go home on the following conditions: Because your life depends on it. I agreed, and stood behind the Plexiglass window by the nursing station, waiting for the bin that held all the belongings I had been required to hand over the day I checked in: As I threaded my sneakers and prepared to keep my promise by jogging home to the apartment I shared with four other Yale grad students, I remembered another deal, the one that started this whole mess.
The one I had made about a decade earlier with my high school boyfriend. A deal about sex, running and the Mormon Church. I fell for my first boyfriend when I was 15, arriving home from church on one of those sticky, Upstate New York, summer afternoons. After a morning of trying to be a good Latter-day Saint by skipping breakfast, putting on a dress, and spending three hours reading scripture and singing songs about how my body is a temple and the only person I should ever let inside it was my wedded husband , all I could think about was peeling off my sweaty pantyhose and stuffing my face with Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Then I saw him, running by my house. Up until that moment, I had ignored this boy, who had moved to our neighborhood the year before from Maine. But what I was seeing as I felt my stomach growl and my nylons riding down my crotch was a puberty miracle. He had transformed from a skinny, seemingly weak, invisible kid to a lithe, powerful athlete who ran with the joy and abandon of Pheidippides and the irresistible style and charisma of Prefontaine.
I was a goner. His natural, fluid, effortless laps over the rolling hills surrounding our neighborhood awed me. At that point I was getting clobbered as a field hockey fullback, desperately defending the goal against an onslaught of veteran hoss players. I was in the lineup because the team was short-handed that year and took anyone who would wear a skirt and hold a stick. Unlike my new crush, who ran for love of the sport, I used athletics as an outlet — a way to deal with the teenage sexual energy I urgently needed to suppress.
I was skinny, muscular and scrappy, but this never translated to excellence in any of my athletic pursuits. By my teen years, I had bounced around, a few seasons here and there, on every team imaginable: The insta-crush I had on my neighbor was mutual, and we quickly became obsessed with each other. I learned that, aside from running, my new boyfriend loved jazz and kissing.
He taught me to french while listening to hours and hours of John Lee Hooker records. I remember lying on his bed, stiff and resistant, a hair-trigger of curiosity, puberty and guilty self-loathing. His first lick — barely touching the inside of my lips and the tip of my teeth — was infused with the knowledge, beyond his years, that his only job was to keep me from bolting, to stay, and want just a little more. What a terrible, wonderful moment — to realize what I wanted was not to run away, but to stop and be still, to taste and be tasted, and to let someone know this secret about me that I was supposed to keep to myself for many virginal years to come.
I settled for his armpits — the only other place, besides his mouth, I could possibly justify as not being explicitly forbidden, and the one spot I could reach without actually undressing him. Taking his shirt off felt too wrong, so I pulled and stretched the collar of his v-neck t-shirt down to access what I wanted, chafing his neck and strangling him a little in the process.
We swam in Lake Ontario every chance we got because it was the one permissible activity that allowed us to gaze at and lie next to each other with the least amount of clothing on our bodies as possible. Though he continued to win races, and I aced my AP courses, we cared about little else than the next time we could wear our mouths out on each other. The two of us, together, mattered more than food. But what can matter more than sex? The first time my boyfriend tried to lift my shirt, asking me if he could just touch the places my modest one-piece bathing suit concealed, I shut him down and explained the rules governing my morality and chastity.
I had to explain that, as a true believer and follower of the faith, I was percent committed to: Or below my collarbone. And are you saying like…even no…premarital fingering? No going down action at all? He was devastated and incredulous. The only rules about sex his hippie parents had taught him to live by were to always give a girl more pleasure first than he ever expected to get in return; never give her any reason to fear or distrust him; and, most importantly, take every means necessary to avoid STDs and pregnancy.
But my boyfriend somehow loved and cared about me more than he loved sex, so he respected my rules. He just could not confine his competitive streak to running — he wanted to win my body over so bad. His creativity paid off.
I began to cross my own boundaries, and try things my church had never explicitly stated were wrong, but felt so good I knew they must be. I was thrilled to discover dry humping — how had my bishop not thought to scream from the pulpit that this was basically sex and should be totally forbidden?!
But these momentary, forbidden pleasures always morphed into aching guilt. My boyfriend started to see how tortured I was, getting excited, then disconnecting and withdrawing, over and over and over again. We started to fight. Why are you putting yourself through this suffering and denial of every urge and instinct? Why do you shut the juices down just as they are getting going?! What kind of crazy, dogmatic, cultish system would make you want to do such a thing?
I told him we should break up. That he would never understand. But instead of breaking up, he made me a deal: He would learn about my religion, if I would learn about running. Running was his church, the dogma behind his discipline, self-sacrifice and denial. He promised to try to understand Mormonism if I would learn to run.
I joined the track team for the first time as a high school senior. It was one of the few teams I had never tried; running was the hardest, least enjoyable part of every other sport I had played.
An athletic activity consisting solely of running felt like suffering, distilled to its most concentrated form. And unlike the mostly mediocre-with-random-lucky-moments-of-stellar-performance I managed in other sports, I was a terrible runner. Practices were torture sessions. Unlike almost everyone else on my team who had been doing this crazy shit since junior high, I had never run for more than a mile in my entire life. During the usual seven-milers we cranked out each day after school, my heart beat so hard I thought it would explode.
Though the girls on my team ran together in a tight unit, making sure to pace so that no one was left behind, my experience was not of comradery, but of loneliness. With my pulse rushing through my ears, my face splotchy and beet-red from the blood pounding in my head, I felt totally closed off, trapped, and almost deaf.
When I raced, I always crossed the finish line at the end of the pack, usually dead last. I barfed afterward several times. It took me days to recover from each competition. The real deal I had made with my boyfriend was to be tortured and publicly humiliated by the worst sport ever invented.
Self-will and mental determination ruled this sport. If I believed I could put one foot in front of the other, just one more time, and one more time after that, I would. Over a period of a few years, I watched his disdain and barely-masked tolerance of the woo-woo ways of Mormonism turn into tentative respect, and then full-fledged, brainwashed belief.
Many fateful stars aligned. Though he went to a Catholic university in the Midwest on a running scholarship, his academic mentor, the chair of the geology department, happened to be Mormon. My boyfriend was contacted by some amazingly handsome and charismatic Latter-day Saints missionaries. The local congregation surrounding his college became a welcoming and supportive family structure during the long, desolate Midwestern winters.
Eventually, he got baptized and left his running prospects behind to go on a two-year proselytizing mission to Thailand. When he came back, he was a completely different person — a boring, judgmental, and self-righteous young man. He gave away all his jazz records. The parasites he got on his mission ruined him for running forever. Our relationship, which had transformed over the years from high-school infatuation to deep adult love, did not survive the years of separation. We had both changed too much.
While he was off baptizing in Thailand, I went to college in Utah and became very depressed. Running became my lifeline. I ran alone in the foothills of the high Uinta Mountains as a physical means of out-running the psychic and spiritual crisis of my everyday existence. It was a way to stave off the pain and doubt underlying my efforts to keep believing the mantra I had been hearing my entire life: The race course wove through the desert surrounding the majestic Colorado River, and seemed like the perfect place for a respite from the hordes of happy Mormons surrounding me on a daily basis.
The vast, unpeopled landscape suggested a world into which I might escape. The race was a disaster. I felt like shit after the first five miles, and started to realize I was in real trouble about mile ten.
During the last few miles, I could feel my legs seizing up, but I was determined to finish. Twenty years later, I cried and peed through the entire last mile of the Moab Half Marathon; my chafed thighs burned more fiercely than the humiliation of urinating in front of my entire class while paying for tater-tots. Ironically, while trying to ace courses in how to protect the bodies and minds of everyone else on the planet, I failed to take care of my own.
I was also plagued by debilitating self-loathing: I had come to hate my body and the forbidden things it wanted. I hated myself for that weakness too. Looking out the window of the ambulance that drove me straight from the student counseling center to in-patient psych, I watched students on the sidewalk walking briskly, some breaking out in a trot, anxious to get somewhere they wanted to be, on time. T he week I spent at Yale Psychiatric Institute was one of the longest of my entire life.
The running deal I struck almost a decade before with my boyfriend had left me a triple-loser: My only consolation was that my roommate had some brain chemistry problems that were actually worse than mine. Anything was better than watching a hospital orderly hand my roommate a diaper, and trying not to watch what was going to happen next. And so, when they discharged me from the psych ward, a very wise but somewhat manipulative therapist preyed on my tenacious respect for God and promises, making me swear to take my Prozac and run every day.
I agreed to the Prozac because I was desperate, but I balked at the idea that 20 minutes of running would do anything at all for me. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and considered me.
It seemed like he was trying to decide if he should scare me, appeal to my sense of reason, or maybe lie to me about why I should do what he was asking. He had bigger problems, like my diaper-wearing roommate, to deal with. I ran home in the freezing rain. I ran all winter in that wet, stinging, snow that Connecticut winters spit down.
Sometimes I jogged in my jeans and Birkenstocks, too depressed to muster the strength to change into workout gear. But I did it. I took the pills. I ran the daily My brain chemistry slowly recovered.
The prescription healed me. I have been running, 20 minutes every day, for over 15 years because that therapist was right: I made it 11 months and three days before I felt like I needed to feel the suffering of real life again.
But like anyone who has reached the edge and gone over it, I live with a nagging, constant fear that my next breakdown is never far away. This desperation to titrate the delicate balance of serotonin, endorphins, dopamine and glutamate that my brain needs keeps me putting on my shoes and hitting the pavement or the treadmill.
I never manage a Zen-like meditative state, not even for a few seconds. I set my stopwatch for I really need a bikini wax.
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