Biking, Thinking, Dyeing

Friday night, the husband and I found ourselves in that strange but wonderful situation other parents occasionally find themselves in.

We were childless. At least for the next 12-24 hours (at our discretion).

Let the wild rumpus start.

I dropped the older child off for the weekend with his father while the husband sent the younger child off with Grandma for the night. After my dropoff, I hit the gym and hit the treadmill. With my feet. Repeatedly. I didn't pound it as hard as I did Thursday night, but I still managed to go 3.88 miles in 45 minutes (and burned 425 calories). Not too shabby. Again, I went with my strategy of a 5-minute walking warmup, followed by running as long as I could before I thought I might die, then walking no longer than 1 minute before running again, and forcing myself to run for at least 10 minutes before walking again.

When I was through torturing myself, I went home, cleaned up, and we went out for Thai food. It was awesome, except I asked for "medium" and got "hot," which meant my spicy basil and chicken stirfry was damn near painful to eat. No pain, no gain--I ended up leaving a substantial amount of rice on my plate (another first for me) because I was full. And because my mouth hurt too fucking bad to eat anymore.

Yesterday, even though we had no damn good reason to wake up at dawn, we did--7 a.m., to be exact. We got up, cleaned up, loaded up our bikes, and hit First Watch for breakfast. We haven't been to First Watch in ages, and since it is where we spent our first hour as a married couple, it's always been a favorite of mine. Again, I didn't eat everything on my plate (left some potatoes behind) because I was full and knew better than to stuff myself before our ride.

Fat and happy, we headed for Little Blue Trace trail. Our goal--to bike from one end of the trail to the other and back. No small feat, as the trail is 10 miles one way. But it's reasonably flat and well-maintained. It was a beautiful sunny day. It was also muddy as hell. And windy--a couple of gusts damn near took me and my new lightweight bike out--we rode the first leg of our trip entirely against the wind. There were times I wasn't sure I would make it. But about an hour and 10 minutes in, we reached the other trailhead and it was time to turn back. The return trip was a cakewalk by comparison--amazing how much easier it is to ride with the wind working for you instead of against. By the time we got to our car, we'd been riding for 2 hours and 10 minutes, and I felt like a rockstar. A muddy, sweaty, stinky rockstar.

We picked up the toddler and went home, where we showered and promptly collapsed into a sunburned heap on the sofa.

I spent the evening finishing the book I've been reading, and thinking about things. I've been contemplating the logic (or lack thereof) involved in "just living with" my mental state. It really does seem ridiculous, even though it's kind of my M.O. where my health in general is concerned--preventive or treatment measures are always too expensive, too time-consuming, too inconclusive as to effectiveness, too embarrassing, too damned scary, or just too whatever for me to either pursue them or keep up with them. I took allergy shots for years, but stopped because it was a real pain in the ass to go to the doctor every week for a shot. I took prescription sleep aids for a while (Rozerem is awesome) but stopped because of the cost (and haven't slept as well since). I haven't been to the dentist since the oldest child was 3 because that last trip was nightmarish and I'm scared to death to find out what kind of horrible shape my teeth are probably in now that I've had another kid.

My mental health is no different. If anything, it's worse. I have a lot at stake. I can't afford to pay "drug roulette" the way I've forced my kid to play. (Why would I make him endure it when I won't go through it myself? Because I'm still more or less functional--he was not.) I also can't afford to have psych records floating around with my name on them--my older child has a crazy, mean biological father who will, I'm sure, take me back to court to try to regain the custody he lost during our first go-round, and I don't want any paperwork declaring me crazy winding up as an exhibit. I don't have time to take my kid to his appointments, much less take myself to one. And we haven't been able to afford for more than one member of the family to require medical expenses.

But really...am I doing any of us any favors by just continuing to "live with it?" When I'm good, I'm pretty darned good, but when I'm bad, I'm useless. And with all my excuses and whatnot, aren't I just contributing to the stigma of mood disorders--the very problem I'm always soapboxing about?

Wouldn't it make more sense to get my shit together?

So I'm thinking about it and making some decisions. Decisions that I will keep confidential because, well, I want to. Until the judiciary no longer consider depression a hinder to one's ability to parent, I have to. In the meantime, I will keep on keepin' on (as the hippies say) and do the best I can.

I will also resolve to not forgetting sunscreen when I go biking on a sunny day. And I will dye my hair, because gray isn't sexy, no matter what all the old hippie bitches would have you believe.