Today should have been my 150th parkrun, but I walked off the course halfway through.

Today, for the first time, my mental strength was just as poor as my physical fitness and I just couldn’t find a reason to keep shuffling around the course. This wasn’t how my 150th parkrun was meant to be; my 100th was under 24 minutes, I didn’t want my next milestone to be 40 minutes of pain and disappointment. I’d thought of going the distance and just avoiding the finish, but I didn’t want the questions that would come with it, so I quietly strolled off the course and hid in the crowds.

As I was heading home a little later I realised this was a culmination of a period of declining physical and mental health and had to pull the car over for a minute to gather myself.

At the turn of the year, knowing I couldn’t be setting any running goals for a while, I set myself a different target for 2018. In the very first conversation I had about it I was told it was impossible and I’d never do it. I believed them, and haven’t taken a single step forward since. This story has repeated several times over the last few months, a series of failures has set a level of expectancy that things will not go well, in any circumstance, and I’ve reacted by avoiding trying.

It’s manifested itself in many ways. I haven’t tried training because I’m so unhealthy I can’t do it. Now I know the idiocy behind that statement, faced with that as a coach I’d be going bonkers about self-limiting beliefs and the like, but I can’t be my own coach because my brain works quicker than I can and not only plants the seed of doubt but waters it, nurtures it, helps it grow and presents me with a beautiful big tree of doubt before I have the chance to try and argue with myself. This has spilled over in to other areas of self care. I am eating utter shit, day in, day out, because why shouldn’t I?

– Can’t train? May as well get fat. Three stone overweight? Well you can’t train then. – 

As well as neglecting my physical wellbeing I really haven’t looked after my head. Without the mind-altering joy of exercise I’ve allowed the negativity, failure and disappointment to build until I no longer do any of the things I enjoy. Not only have I stopped reading things I like (replaced by a succession of self-help books that tell you page after page to “love yourself” and “be your best you” – fuck off mate, I can barely get out of bed some days), I’ve stopped writing, stopped exploring music, stopped getting outdoors and stopped socialising.

And then there’s my work; I get it, no one really likes going to work, but mine is destroying me or maybe it already has. My working situation is so ridiculous that in the last 12 months I’ve been chastised repeatedly for being too confident and now I’m chastised again because I’m not social enough. Just a small example of the constant chipping away at my self-worth and self-belief. What advice have I been given? “Just quit, something will come up”. Brilliant, I’m pretty sure being homeless and destitute isn’t going to do anything to improve my situation.

So where does all this leave me? How do I deal with the fear of waking up every morning and going through another day like the last? Well right now it leads me to this moment and writing it down for the first time. I’m sure I’ll be horrified when I look back and see what I’ve written about myself (I’m hitting publish without any editing) but I needed to make it real somehow, somewhere, so I can face it and have something to deal with. I’m scared of speaking to the doctor because if I told him what’s in my head I’m either ending up in a padded cell or addicted to happy pills, but that’s the first logical step. I’ve been avoiding it because even being signed off work for a few days is enough to make life very difficult (sick pay? no chance!) but after this morning I know I have to do something. When the one thing I could always rely on to be my saviour no longer works it’s not new running shoes I need, it’s professional help, so that’s where I’m headed.

Just to tone down the melodrama a touch, please rest assured that I’m not at risk of self-harming (unless it’s with another burger and chips), I’m staying one step ahead of that and dealing with things. I don’t need wrapping in cotton wool or watching and I certainly don’t need taking for a pint (alcohol is a depressant, don’t force it on people who are depressed!). I just need a little understanding that I’m not me right now, and I know that, and I’m trying to come back from it so please be patient and kind while I do.

x.