I hadn’t even got to the start line and was in tears. The London Marathon theme tune was playing in the crowded hall where I was collecting my race number: the same music that had sent me and my Dad on our way for my first marathon here in 2000.
Surrounded by people from all over the world, each with their own stories to propel them for 26.2 miles, it dawned on me that I wasn’t just going to get to the start, but finish as well.
That might not sound like an unusual goal for a marathon runner, but the journey to this start line was different from any other. It was a journey of countless marathons before I even reached the first mile.
The mental health benefits of running have been widely documented. When you exercise your body releases chemicals known as endorphins which mask pain and trigger positive emotions, often known as a ‘runner’s high’. Running has been shown to contribute to alleviating stress, as well as countering anxiety and depression. It can boost confidence, help sleep, promotes social interaction and can provide focus and the opportunity to set goals.
I have experienced many of these benefits too. Running has introduced me to some of the most important people in my life – including my husband – and many of my closest friends. There’s something in the simple act of running shoulder-to-shoulder with someone, footsteps falling in sync, that seems to promote a solidarity, a sharing of confidences and a building of friendships that I’ve rarely experienced elsewhere.
Although my love affair with running began many years ago, it was only in recent months that I truly realised how much it had helped me through the rough patches. An abusive relationship, work and family pressures, trauma, assault and loss; the times I lost sense of who I was and what I was doing.
The past year has been one of the hardest of my life. At my lowest point last year, I visited my GP in desperation. She suggested I read Ruby Wax’s ‘A Mindfulness Guide For The Frazzled’. I dutifully bought it, but couldn’t get beyond the first page. I was too frazzled.
I called the NHS talk therapy number my GP scribbled next to the book title, but realised this wasn’t going to help me either. My doctor suggested antidepressants. I tried them briefly and reluctantly, but they made me feel worse.
I was anxious, having nightmares or reeling with insomnia. I would catastrophise situations involving those I loved. I went to great lengths to avoid certain scenarios that triggered traumatic memories. I started seeing a therapist, initially paid for by work, then by cutting costs at home.
In those dark times, and even on the days that didn’t feel quite so dark, running was a real medicine for me. I often didn’t feel like heading out the door and had to convince myself it would help. Some days I ran to try to escape my thoughts. Some days I ran to process my painful experiences. Other times, I ran hard so my body hurt more than my brain. Because of the nature of some of the trauma and abuse I experienced, there were times that I felt like running was the only control I could exercise.
Almost every time I ran, I finished feeling better, more able to manage my mental health. However, I also learned to recognise if my running was becoming too much, if I was running too often, too far, too hard: knowing that it wouldn’t always be the answer. In fact, there were days when my anxiety became so acute that the thought of running made it worse.
I was fortunate to get a Good For Age place for this year’s London Marathon, but as soon as I did, I convinced myself I’d not be able to race. I started panicking about the crowds of more than 40,000 runners and even greater numbers of spectators, imagining something catastrophic happening on race day and how I’d be trapped, unable to escape. My anxiety became so acute that I couldn’t go for a long run or race without going to the toilet several times.
I pushed the marathon to the back of my mind, running for solace and solitude. In early April, I laced up my shoes and headed out without expectation. Tiredness from a new job and intense period pains would mean a slow run, so I decided to simply enjoy the peace and the sunshine. By the time I got home, I had run 16.5 miles and had one of my best runs in ages.
For the next few days, I questioned if I might manage to run London. With the encouragement of a small group of trusted running friends, I decided to do so, even though I was still scared. Some of those closest to me questioned my decision out of concern.
I was motivated by the opportunity to raise money for the mental health charity Mind, and decided to share the marathon journey I had been through and the way running had helped me. I wanted other people who were suffering to know they were not alone.
It’s been hard to admit vulnerability, harder still to ask for help. I have found support through my therapist and a small number of people close to me, but I have still felt scared and alone.
Even writing this isn’t easy. I worry how certain people will judge me. Will they suddenly look at me in a different way, or use it to undermine me? It’s still hard to talk about how I feel, especially because I’ve been used to putting on a brave face.
After sharing my intention to run, I received messages from strangers thanking me for speaking about my experiences. Friends, colleagues and family members confided in me that they too had been struggling. Others said they were surprised because to them I’d seemed like a superwoman, so adept at holding it together. To me, this made my journey even more important.
On 28 April, I completed the London Marathon, running the entire 26.2 miles. I spent the first few miles revelling in the atmosphere, trying not to panic about the crowds which were several deep in some places, but looking for the outstretched hands of the little kids whose faces beamed when we connected with high-fives.
On Tower Bridge, just before half way, I did feel like superwoman. Only then I didn’t feel like my cape was torn or stuck in my pants – the way I do when people call me that and I want to tell them they’re mistaken and how damaging that expectation is.
In that moment, I felt like as though my invisible cape was enabling me to fly. The crowds cheered and I held back tears of joy, smiling for the photographer before I breached the bridge and high-fived the smiling female police officer on the other side.
Later on, there were moments when I had to dig deep, forcing back tears of pain as I thought of running these streets with my Dad who had been fighting his own health issues. Then I stared at my left hand where I had written the word ‘stay’ – after reading the book ‘Mindful Running’ by Mackenzie L Havey, in which she quotes Alexis Pappas, the Greek-American long distance athlete, who said she used it as her mantra to keep focussed.
By the time I got to 20 miles, I was struggling. It was then that I channelled some of what I had learned this past painful year. I pushed forward, one step at a time, knowing I was choosing to get through this. I focussed on my breathing, every footfall, moving forwards even when others stopped. The Thames came back into focus and I thought about how my therapist had suggested I allow my troublesome thoughts to drift off down a mental river.
Turning the final corner away from the water and past Big Ben, then finally into the Mall, I crossed the finish line, hands and head held high. A stranger placed a medal around my neck, smiling. I had completed this marathon journey and though I knew there would be many more miles and marathons ahead on my journey to healing, I also knew that I could and had outrun the black dog.