The Overnight Walk and The Morning After
My life's been a mix of late of doing spiritual practice work, online and in workshop with T. Thorn Coyle, working on yarn and jewelry, despairing and planning to send out my resume once again, the birth of my sister's first child, and overshadowing the whole thing: preparing for the Out of the Darkness Overnight walk.
Since the last week of January, when I signed up, I was hit or miss on my personal training. When I started, I couldn't walk a mile, but by the end of it, I was doing three mile cycles. In the D.C. weather. For the uninitiated, that was an early summer of 87F and 54% humidity, the Monday after Memorial Day. That day, I only did a 2.45 mile training walk...at 11am. In retrospect, not my brightest moment. My skin gave out before my legs did, and I was positive that MY FACE WAS ON FIRE. Figuring I had sunburn, I went home preparing to look in the mirror and see myself the red of a freshly boiled lobster. Apparently, it only felt that way, because I was fine. i congratulated myself and figured if Florida needed me during the zombie apocalypse (and they were slow shamblers), I'd be ready!
That training would serve me in good stead. Turns out that last Saturday, the temps were in the low 90Fs, with humidity somewhere in the 70th percentile. I felt bad for my partner, fuschia, as she had not lived in the area for years and I am sure she had not planned on trying to breathe underwater for most of the walk. We wisely spent the time before opening ceremonies hiding out in the local Whole Foods, hydrating, catching up, and soaking up the air conditioning while we still could.
The walk itself is a stunningly emotional and comforting event. There is no doubt why we are all here. Honor beads of various colors are offered to denote why you are walking: in support of the cause, for a loss of a friend, a child, a spouse, a first responder, or a personal struggle. People wear their loss on their backs, their shirts silk screened with images of their loved ones and dates, words and messages written out to celebrate the lives of those they lost. You are surrounded by stories. They lay above and beneath the interactions as you walk, a ready introduction for some that is already up front and when you walk, more stories come out--those of the past, the present, the everyday, the grief, and the healing. The compassion, the kindness, is vast, as are the ages and abilities of those who walk. I saw older folks, kids, folks with canes and one electric chair, the super athletic, speeding ahead, and the slower paced, myself among them. There are quick stops every 2 miles, with bigger rest stops with snacks every 4. All stops had hydration stations and portable toilets, and thank god for 'em. See, it was supposed to cool down to 70F in the evening.
That. Did. Not. Happen.
It may have reached the low 70s sometime after midnight. Which was better than what we started with, but I am getting ahead of myself. The walk went from George Washington University to downtown and around the Lincoln Memorial, the Capitol building, the WWII Memorial, and continued through Dupont Circle to end up back at GW. Total miles were 15.something. The breezes around the tidal basin were wonderful. Those 30 second DC stoplights--very helpful actually, a brief pause that kept me from overdoing my pace and assisted me with frequent hydration stops...which eventually led to peeing every two miles, but there are worse alternatives.
I really wasn't sure how I'd do. If you went by the training regimen in the Overnight guide, I was woefully under prepared, but I had gradually built myself up to 3 miles (and often I felt I could do more), and I was going to try for it no matter what. I wanted to see what I could do, despite the ghosts of judgements of my family regarding my health and weight that were part of the stories of my own depression that I carried with me.
Know what? I'm strong and pretty fucking awesome.
The first four miles were not that bad at all. By mile 6, I was getting concerned because I was getting some foot pain on my right foot. Now, I have wide, C feet. One foot is 1/2 a size bigger than the other. Usually I wear a size 8.5 and do fine in running shoes. (And believe me, with all the shoes I tried on, I had the best I could find for this event that worked with my feet.) However, my feet were swelling and my middle toe was killing me. I did quick stops to loosen and take off my shoe, but at mile 8, fuschia and I were both feeling hurty due to the fact that our slower pace was not giving us more than 5 minutes at the later rest stops. So, at mile 8, we made the wise decision to take a sweeper van to the midnight snack. This shaved off 2 miles from the walk and would allow us a good hour rest time to recover and have a chance at finishing the walk. It was a great decision, and I rested, iced with the outside of foot with my steel water bottle (it worked great!), and felt great after the break.
fuschia was not so lucky, though. She was hydrating just fine but her body was not used to the DC heat and somewhere after midnight snack, between that and the next quick stop, she started feeling nauseous. We got some assistance at the rest stop and she told me to go on ahead and she'd meet me at the end, it was ok and she wanted me to go on. I was apprehensive, but she seemed ok then, and I went on to continue. (Hell, I was proud of her for being able to ask for and accept help, rather than= push through the thing.) So I continued the walk. On the way, I was responsible for the beginning of the zombie apocalypse scenario discussion in our section. You're welcome. (And yes, fast movers are much, much worse.) Also, I helped a friend with blisters who was going to just limp on to the next rest stop. As blisters are an issue of mine, and I was doing fine, I sat her down and gave her my blister pads so she could GET to the next stop. (I am still glad she decided to stop then, after that. Her poor feet!) Dr. Scholl's blister pads--awesome acrylic sealing bandages that take all friction away. Miraculous. Seriously.
By the time I made it to the last rest stop, which was some place after mile 13 but not yet at 14, there were 2.something miles to go. I felt fine and I knew, with wonder and excitement, that I was going to finish the walk. Until fuschia texted me that she was throwing up and going to the ER, and then it was "fuck that, my friend is in trouble" time. (I do feel bad, though, cause I think I was a bit out of it and started texting "Do you need me to go with you?", sent it, realized how dumb and asshole that sounded, and then sent the "Where are you, I am coming to find you" texts immediately after. Brain catching up with its own, MOVE NOW! response.)
It took a bit but I found her and she was already starting to hurl. This would go one for about 3 hours straight, in the ER, and I am glad the intake nurse took matters into his own hands before I had to become a forceful jerk. See, the ER was hesitating on taking her back, no idea why, as they did not seem busy in the front of the house at all (like, 2 people in the waiting room, if) but she was going into shock and I think the nurse bit back some choice words before wheeling her to Urgent Care himself so the night shift nurse could put an IV in her and start the anti nausea meds. (Of which...it took a lot.) Thank you, awesome intake nurse and Urgent Care staff! You saved my friend and made it so I didn't have to be a dick. We went home around 7am and both of us spent the next day passed out until the late afternoon, and fuschia continued recovering on my couch.
All in all, I figured I did about 12 miles. I feel confident that I could've finished. I am elated how...easy it felt (well, at least until mile 7, which I and my fellow walkers were sure was a lie and was really 3 miles long). I had screaming muscles in my training walks and barely made 2.3 miles at times. (Walking alone gets bad for me around 1.3/2 miles.) After the walk here, I was stiffening, but I felt pretty good. Oh, save for the two blisters I discovered on MY feet while at the ER. Oops. Says something that I didn't know they were there until I took my shoes off. i thought the skin was only irritated from my shoe rubbing.
My real out of the darkness moment came after the walk, when I called home. My dad was his usual I-don't-know-what-is-going-on-but-hey!, joking self and bantered out, "Are you mentally ill?" (I think that was what he said, hard to hear--and he is hard of hearing so maybe it's a genuine misunderstanding). I said "no". He then congratulated me and said, "Keep it up and you'll start losing weight!". I am sure, readers, that he meant well. It's one of those CONGRATS!FAIL! things he wouldn't even consider.
My mom congratulated me too, then immediately went on to her fears about how she thought I would have been the one to end up in the ER, because "I am in bad shape."
She said that. "You're in bad shape and..."
Really?
REALLY?!
I actually laughed at her and said, "I walked 12-13 miles and I'm in bad shape?" She just changed the subject to my joblessness and her worries about me having no social security and all her next fears about what I was doing wrong. I cut the conversation off, saying I just wanted to tell her about the walk, and she said I did a good job (I think) and we hung up.
And I realized, hard core, that what they see will never change. It only does when I lose lots of weight (and then they pull the "isn't this nice and you want to keep being healthy so you aren't like you were again"...etc.) They have bought, lock, stock, and shit filled barrel, that being fat is completely unhealthy, you will die, are not sexy or loveable, etc. and having a great job and looking good is all that will save you from certain unhappiness. (Not that their personal lives have shown this to be true. But hey, children of alcoholics. What do you want?)
I said to B, Jan, and fuschia afterwards, "I think what she meant was, 'My shape is bad'. I should say that, next time. Not that it will help, really."
Yesterday, I went through my own absolute rage at my response of "no" to my dad's joking comment, the rage and grief at the way I've been seen...and talked about. The fact that I spent most of my life with low level, untreated depression, and later, anxiety. (now treated). That I had suicidal ideation at varying times in my life, severe depression in college that they still say was me just playing online games and slacking off. The galling realization that I still did some of this for their approval as well, and that that part of the venture failed.
It will always fail, to a point. I am not saying I am entirely unrecognized or unloved, that's not true. But they see what they most care about or want to see, a lot of the time, and they don't realize the damage it causes.
I have to revise my own self image as someone who is strong and athletic after all. They hardwired some codependency in me and I have to keep ripping that out with my teeth, if necessary.
I'm 5'6, 233lbs, and I am in great fucking shape. Also, my shape is fucking great, too.
I am strong, can lift 100lbs, and I can walk 12 miles in the dark. In the summer. In DC heat.
I'm a badass. And these are my first steps out of the darkness.
Since the last week of January, when I signed up, I was hit or miss on my personal training. When I started, I couldn't walk a mile, but by the end of it, I was doing three mile cycles. In the D.C. weather. For the uninitiated, that was an early summer of 87F and 54% humidity, the Monday after Memorial Day. That day, I only did a 2.45 mile training walk...at 11am. In retrospect, not my brightest moment. My skin gave out before my legs did, and I was positive that MY FACE WAS ON FIRE. Figuring I had sunburn, I went home preparing to look in the mirror and see myself the red of a freshly boiled lobster. Apparently, it only felt that way, because I was fine. i congratulated myself and figured if Florida needed me during the zombie apocalypse (and they were slow shamblers), I'd be ready!
That training would serve me in good stead. Turns out that last Saturday, the temps were in the low 90Fs, with humidity somewhere in the 70th percentile. I felt bad for my partner, fuschia, as she had not lived in the area for years and I am sure she had not planned on trying to breathe underwater for most of the walk. We wisely spent the time before opening ceremonies hiding out in the local Whole Foods, hydrating, catching up, and soaking up the air conditioning while we still could.
The walk itself is a stunningly emotional and comforting event. There is no doubt why we are all here. Honor beads of various colors are offered to denote why you are walking: in support of the cause, for a loss of a friend, a child, a spouse, a first responder, or a personal struggle. People wear their loss on their backs, their shirts silk screened with images of their loved ones and dates, words and messages written out to celebrate the lives of those they lost. You are surrounded by stories. They lay above and beneath the interactions as you walk, a ready introduction for some that is already up front and when you walk, more stories come out--those of the past, the present, the everyday, the grief, and the healing. The compassion, the kindness, is vast, as are the ages and abilities of those who walk. I saw older folks, kids, folks with canes and one electric chair, the super athletic, speeding ahead, and the slower paced, myself among them. There are quick stops every 2 miles, with bigger rest stops with snacks every 4. All stops had hydration stations and portable toilets, and thank god for 'em. See, it was supposed to cool down to 70F in the evening.
That. Did. Not. Happen.
It may have reached the low 70s sometime after midnight. Which was better than what we started with, but I am getting ahead of myself. The walk went from George Washington University to downtown and around the Lincoln Memorial, the Capitol building, the WWII Memorial, and continued through Dupont Circle to end up back at GW. Total miles were 15.something. The breezes around the tidal basin were wonderful. Those 30 second DC stoplights--very helpful actually, a brief pause that kept me from overdoing my pace and assisted me with frequent hydration stops...which eventually led to peeing every two miles, but there are worse alternatives.
I really wasn't sure how I'd do. If you went by the training regimen in the Overnight guide, I was woefully under prepared, but I had gradually built myself up to 3 miles (and often I felt I could do more), and I was going to try for it no matter what. I wanted to see what I could do, despite the ghosts of judgements of my family regarding my health and weight that were part of the stories of my own depression that I carried with me.
Know what? I'm strong and pretty fucking awesome.
The first four miles were not that bad at all. By mile 6, I was getting concerned because I was getting some foot pain on my right foot. Now, I have wide, C feet. One foot is 1/2 a size bigger than the other. Usually I wear a size 8.5 and do fine in running shoes. (And believe me, with all the shoes I tried on, I had the best I could find for this event that worked with my feet.) However, my feet were swelling and my middle toe was killing me. I did quick stops to loosen and take off my shoe, but at mile 8, fuschia and I were both feeling hurty due to the fact that our slower pace was not giving us more than 5 minutes at the later rest stops. So, at mile 8, we made the wise decision to take a sweeper van to the midnight snack. This shaved off 2 miles from the walk and would allow us a good hour rest time to recover and have a chance at finishing the walk. It was a great decision, and I rested, iced with the outside of foot with my steel water bottle (it worked great!), and felt great after the break.
fuschia was not so lucky, though. She was hydrating just fine but her body was not used to the DC heat and somewhere after midnight snack, between that and the next quick stop, she started feeling nauseous. We got some assistance at the rest stop and she told me to go on ahead and she'd meet me at the end, it was ok and she wanted me to go on. I was apprehensive, but she seemed ok then, and I went on to continue. (Hell, I was proud of her for being able to ask for and accept help, rather than= push through the thing.) So I continued the walk. On the way, I was responsible for the beginning of the zombie apocalypse scenario discussion in our section. You're welcome. (And yes, fast movers are much, much worse.) Also, I helped a friend with blisters who was going to just limp on to the next rest stop. As blisters are an issue of mine, and I was doing fine, I sat her down and gave her my blister pads so she could GET to the next stop. (I am still glad she decided to stop then, after that. Her poor feet!) Dr. Scholl's blister pads--awesome acrylic sealing bandages that take all friction away. Miraculous. Seriously.
By the time I made it to the last rest stop, which was some place after mile 13 but not yet at 14, there were 2.something miles to go. I felt fine and I knew, with wonder and excitement, that I was going to finish the walk. Until fuschia texted me that she was throwing up and going to the ER, and then it was "fuck that, my friend is in trouble" time. (I do feel bad, though, cause I think I was a bit out of it and started texting "Do you need me to go with you?", sent it, realized how dumb and asshole that sounded, and then sent the "Where are you, I am coming to find you" texts immediately after. Brain catching up with its own, MOVE NOW! response.)
It took a bit but I found her and she was already starting to hurl. This would go one for about 3 hours straight, in the ER, and I am glad the intake nurse took matters into his own hands before I had to become a forceful jerk. See, the ER was hesitating on taking her back, no idea why, as they did not seem busy in the front of the house at all (like, 2 people in the waiting room, if) but she was going into shock and I think the nurse bit back some choice words before wheeling her to Urgent Care himself so the night shift nurse could put an IV in her and start the anti nausea meds. (Of which...it took a lot.) Thank you, awesome intake nurse and Urgent Care staff! You saved my friend and made it so I didn't have to be a dick. We went home around 7am and both of us spent the next day passed out until the late afternoon, and fuschia continued recovering on my couch.
All in all, I figured I did about 12 miles. I feel confident that I could've finished. I am elated how...easy it felt (well, at least until mile 7, which I and my fellow walkers were sure was a lie and was really 3 miles long). I had screaming muscles in my training walks and barely made 2.3 miles at times. (Walking alone gets bad for me around 1.3/2 miles.) After the walk here, I was stiffening, but I felt pretty good. Oh, save for the two blisters I discovered on MY feet while at the ER. Oops. Says something that I didn't know they were there until I took my shoes off. i thought the skin was only irritated from my shoe rubbing.
My real out of the darkness moment came after the walk, when I called home. My dad was his usual I-don't-know-what-is-going-on-but-hey!, joking self and bantered out, "Are you mentally ill?" (I think that was what he said, hard to hear--and he is hard of hearing so maybe it's a genuine misunderstanding). I said "no". He then congratulated me and said, "Keep it up and you'll start losing weight!". I am sure, readers, that he meant well. It's one of those CONGRATS!FAIL! things he wouldn't even consider.
My mom congratulated me too, then immediately went on to her fears about how she thought I would have been the one to end up in the ER, because "I am in bad shape."
She said that. "You're in bad shape and..."
Really?
REALLY?!
I actually laughed at her and said, "I walked 12-13 miles and I'm in bad shape?" She just changed the subject to my joblessness and her worries about me having no social security and all her next fears about what I was doing wrong. I cut the conversation off, saying I just wanted to tell her about the walk, and she said I did a good job (I think) and we hung up.
And I realized, hard core, that what they see will never change. It only does when I lose lots of weight (and then they pull the "isn't this nice and you want to keep being healthy so you aren't like you were again"...etc.) They have bought, lock, stock, and shit filled barrel, that being fat is completely unhealthy, you will die, are not sexy or loveable, etc. and having a great job and looking good is all that will save you from certain unhappiness. (Not that their personal lives have shown this to be true. But hey, children of alcoholics. What do you want?)
I said to B, Jan, and fuschia afterwards, "I think what she meant was, 'My shape is bad'. I should say that, next time. Not that it will help, really."
Yesterday, I went through my own absolute rage at my response of "no" to my dad's joking comment, the rage and grief at the way I've been seen...and talked about. The fact that I spent most of my life with low level, untreated depression, and later, anxiety. (now treated). That I had suicidal ideation at varying times in my life, severe depression in college that they still say was me just playing online games and slacking off. The galling realization that I still did some of this for their approval as well, and that that part of the venture failed.
It will always fail, to a point. I am not saying I am entirely unrecognized or unloved, that's not true. But they see what they most care about or want to see, a lot of the time, and they don't realize the damage it causes.
I have to revise my own self image as someone who is strong and athletic after all. They hardwired some codependency in me and I have to keep ripping that out with my teeth, if necessary.
I'm 5'6, 233lbs, and I am in great fucking shape. Also, my shape is fucking great, too.
I am strong, can lift 100lbs, and I can walk 12 miles in the dark. In the summer. In DC heat.
I'm a badass. And these are my first steps out of the darkness.