The Unforeseen Battle

I’ve been told that if you don’t mind, then things won’t matter. A new spin on “mind over matter” if I’ve ever heard.

But what happens if it’s your mind that is mattering? What if you do mind?

After my crash, I was more determined than ever to get up, get going, heal, recover, and move on as quickly as I could. I reasoned that the only thing holding my back were my doctors; and that if I worked hard enough, if I pushed, if I believed, then I could get better in record time.

Three to six months, I was told. Twelve to Twenty-four weeks. 84 to 168 days. Don’t bother with the hours; it’s a lot. Trust me.

I decided to make it half that. Two months, perhaps three at the very most.

And with a lot of hard work, with a lot of effort, with a lot of patience, belief, and sheer will, I began to recover. I was told “no!” by a lot of people; many of whom didn’t trust my judgment with respect to the physical aspect of my recovery. But I fought through, and I continued to fight in spite of their lack of belief. My belief, my mindset is what mattered.

My back recovered daily, my core grew stronger with physical therapy, and slowly I returned to swimming, biking, and eventually running. It wasn’t easy, but with boundless determination I clawed my way to better health, focusing only on the physical aspect of my healing.

I thought the worst was over. I thought I was beyond the hard stuff. Through a horrific crash, through long surgery, through endless hours in the hospital, I had made it. I was convinced the worst was behind me, in my past. I had been given the green light to work out, to return to a “normal” training level, and to resume with my daily activities. Even though I retained a long scar from the crash and my nerve sensation wasn’t yet at 100%, my body was mostly (physically) healed.

It was the mental stuff that got me in the end.

And I was totally unprepared for what happened next.

It was tough to understand: I should have been happy, nay ecstatic, to return to the sport that I loved. But I wasn’t. I couldn’t understand the sadness, the sense of grief that encompassed me. And the more I thought about it, the more I puzzled over it, the worse it became.

Because unlike the physical aspect of healing my back, I couldn’t work myself into “good” mental health. I couldn’t take my mental outlook, the sadness that seemed to follow me around, and give it a set of ball balancing exercises or a long bike ride to recover. How do you force your mind to recover? How do you will your way to feel happy?

And the more I searched for an answer, the sadder and more depressed I became. It became a struggle to get out of bed, let alone leave the apartment. Physically I was healed. Mentally I was broken.

And the break wasn’t recent. It had occurred March 17 on a beautiful stretch of California highway. I was just so focused on the physical aspect of my recovery that I neglected the mental part.

One friend suggested that I was going through what sounded like a grief-reaction: I was mourning the loss of my former self. She listed off the stages as: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and eventually resolve; and then explained that I would hopscotch between the five, sometimes moving forwards, sometimes back. And that I should expect to repeat the cycle several times.

Great.

And then I really started thinking about what she said. I thought about my upbeat attitude for the first three or so months post-crash. Could that have been denial? Was I too afraid to admit how seriously I was hurt, how awful the crash and recovery process was?

I pondered that and moved on to the next one: anger.

I have always been afraid of anger, never wanting to rock to boat or make others think I’m upset. I’ve used anger in the past when I’ve raced, but don’t like the person I become. So more often than not, I’ll push it aside, bury it deep within my soul and push on. Even as a little kid, I would pretend everything was okay, never letting myself succumb to anger. Could I be doing the same with my recovery? Was I denying my anger as well?

I had never really gotten angry about the crash, nor upset about the damn bugs that blinded our sight. I never bemoaned the fact that Torry Pines Hill was one of the first hills that Liz had gone ahead of me down; she was being helpful and pointing out objects in the road. All weekend – being the heavier rider on the bombproof aluminum bike (with the triple ring, thank-you-very-much) – I had descended in front of Liz, my body weight and heavy bike combined to zoom ahead of her down the hills, while she geared out behind me. Even the Saturday morning Swami ride, with our double pace line at 45 mph down the canyon roads, I had been ahead. And yes – I got a clear view of her backside dancing up the hills, as the elastic between us broke during every climb.

But on nearly every downhill, I went ahead. Except for Torry Pines where I crashed.

And looking back, yes I’m angry. Denying the fact would be denying my true feelings. I know that it was an accident; but I can’t help but wonder what if I had gone ahead, what if there had been no bugs, what if we had taken a different route?

So denial and anger: check. Denying that I was angry: double check.

Next came the bargaining. I wasn’t really sure where this fit in, but realized soon that I was making deals with myself about recovery, workouts, and returning to every day life. “If I can hold a sub 7:45 pace running, the I know that I’ll be okay….” And so on, and so forth.

The problem was, after 12 weeks of non-running, my body wasn’t ready to handle any sort of time constraints or pace goals. The smart thing would have been to take off the heart rate monitor, ignore the mile markers, and just run for the pure joy. Instead, I watched my heart rate rise higher and higher, watched my splits grow slower and I became upset with myself; angry that I was no longer the athlete that I once was.

I kept flashing back to previous runs, especially to my Last Run in California. At the time I didn’t think anything of it. I remember the day was beautiful and bright, the rocky trail made for careful footing, and I had been nervous about a sore left hamstring. It turned out to be fine, and the run felt effortless, free, and fun. Had I known that it was going to be my last run for months, I would have enjoyed it much more.

Swimming and biking were different; I have never held the same connection with the two as I had with running. Running had always been my outlet, my source for inspiration, to clear my mind, for peace. But it rapidly became something that I would dread as one run after another failed to live up to my unreasonable expectations. Expectations that at the time seemed okay – but now looking back, were way off kilter.

And in the end it had nothing to do with my physical ability, and everything to do with my mind.

Eventually, I slipped into the stage of deep depression. Functioning became difficult and I pondered weather or not I wanted to continue with the sport. I threw away every award I had ever received, convinced that I would never win again. And even if I did, even if I earned a future plaque or award for participation – what did it matter? I didn’t do races to win; I did them for the experience. I did them because I loved the sport, loved the people, loved to learn, and loved how it made me feel.

But seeing the awards I had earned in past races did little to help my current state of mind, my depression; and I couldn’t bear to look at reminders of what I once was, convinced I would never be the same athlete, the same person.

I’ve always thought of depression way of viewing the world without color. I have suffered from this illness in the past; on and off throughout high school and a little in college. But this new depression, brought about by something as improbable as a bike crash, was different. It’s like living in a fog; you know the blue sky and bright sun exists, but you just can’t see it, can’t feel it.

The depression robbed me of my rational thought, of my passion and drive, of my ability to see the world in color. I sent emails to a few friends, asking for answers on “how to recover after an injury or crash” – and nearly all responses were identical: you have to want to return; you have to want to come back. You have to be ready.

And for the first time in my recent memory – I don’t know if I do. I don’t think I am.

Beyond the doubt and insecurity, beyond the pain and anguish, lies fear. I am afraid. At first, it was of not regaining my physical ability, of my sacral nerve never healing. But now, I’m afraid of my mind, of never being the same person that I once was. I am afraid of never having the same desire, passion, or fire. I don’t know how long this will last, but expect the healing process to be vastly different from the physical aspect of this journey.

I am depressed, angry, in denial, and fearful for a reason: because on March 17 I crashed my bike and broke my back. Anyone could understand that. But four months later, I am still shaken and still having flashbacks. And my mindset has changed. Yes, I am predisposed towards anxiety and depression, having suffered from both in the past. But this was brought about by a horrible accident.

Just as my body was broken, as it turns out – so was my heart. And a bit of my soul.

And if it’s one thing I’ve learned, is that I have to listen to myself. Even though the back is much better, and my nerve sensation is slowly returning, my mind – my mental state – is just beginning the healing process.

So where does this leave me?

Well, for starters I’m giving myself some time off – a bit of a break. I’ve decided to not race in Chicago and my late-season schedule is on hold. When I do return to racing, I want to make sure that it’s for the right reason, and not because I feel that I have to.

Training for now is on a day-to-day basis. Some days I feel great, and others not so much. Jen has been extremely patient and understanding, and I don’t know how I could get through this without her incredible support.

I am frustrated by my inability to see clearly what lies ahead. I wish there was a simple solution; I wish I could snap my fingers and make everything better. But I can’t. And I know that one day I’ll find meaning in this. It’s just hard to think about the future when surrounded by a self-induced foggy state.

I am talking to someone about this, and I know that what I’m going through is chemically induced. Without going into too much detail, I’m getting the help I need and am learning how to deal with these emotions without stuffing them down or denying the fact that they do exist. In addition, I’ve realized that expecting myself to hit pre-crash time goals while working out is setting myself up for failure and more depression. My body has never had to recover from a broken back and nerve damage before; this is all new. So I need to give myself a literal break – be kinder and gentler to myself and realistic of my expectations.

I have never recovered from a broken back before; therefore it is unrealistic to expect that I’ll hit my pre-crash times.

It is hard to watch the world pass by and feel that I’m stuck, a helpless and hopeless cause. And while I am so happy for friends and fellow-Bloggers with their triathlon season and with their successes, a part of me is beyond sadness at the season that I didn’t have, jealous at how everyone else can carry on with their lives as though nothing happened. The rest of the world is outside, happily at play while I’m stuck inside, trapped in the fog of my own mind. I want to shout “Look at me, I’m here! I want to be just like you!” but the world keeps passing by, oblivious to my struggle. I am trying to stay upbeat and positive, but lately that has been increasingly difficult. Please accept my apologies.

For now, I’m taking things day-by-day. I know that it won’t be easy. If there were a physical way to mend my mind, to fix my broken heart and repair my soul, I would do it. But it isn’t a matter of willing my mind healthy, of pushing the sadness away. This takes something more; and I don’t know just yet.

So this is where it stands, another part of My Journey.

I write this blog because I want to remain true to my feelings. Daily observations, thoughts during workouts, funny things – all facets that constitute this blog. But there are serious things as well, parts of my life that I wouldn’t normally discuss with people, but somehow when put in writing, seem to make sense, that make me feel better. And its true to who I am.

I know that I’m not the only one out there, not the only person who has ever gone through something like this. And it helps me in writing it, in getting my feelings out. Because one of the big parts of my recovery – the physical and mental parts – are figuring out what’s happening and why it’s happening.

Knowing what I know now – that I’m going through a depression brought about by a bike crash, has given me hope that I didn’t have before (I found out). At least there’s an explanation for my behavior, a reason why I’m feeling the things that I am. So as I embark on this journey, I’ll do my best to remain true to myself. And be understanding with my feelings, with my recovery. Because I know that it won’t be easy.

Then again, life rarely is.

Thanks for reading – I appreciate your understanding and support.