Dysfunction Junction...

Dysfunction Junction, a funny term I name my childhood.

Ok, it was not always dysfunction junction. It was for some time, kind of like "Leave it to Beaver." I know this sounds weird, but it was. When we lived in Queens, I remember an elementary, idealistic childhood. I remember playing in the streets with my friends, Chinese takeout on Fridays, and ballet lessons. I remember feeling safe and secure. I remember parents that seemed like all the other parents on the block we lived on, working-class folks that lived a fundamental life. No frills, hand me downs, but very happy.

Then something changed.

We moved up, like the Jefferson's, to Westchester county.

It was a very different life. The expectations changed. My parents seemed very stressed out all of the time. Money was always the topic of conversation in our house. They bit off more than they could chew; they wanted to give us a better life, but at what price? Arguments were a daily occurrence. My father drank, my mother bitched, welcome to Dysfunction Junction.

My father would come home from work and fall asleep on the couch. I always thought this was normal until I got older. I realized that he was not just "tired" from work, but in fact, he was loaded from drinking all day. My mom grew quiet; her mouth was always pursed in a perpetual state of "pissed off,' and they did not really talk to each other anymore. They were like two ships passing in the night. The communication was always one-sided, one person talking at the other or yelling at the other, the other person looking past and nodding like they were listening; there was no listening, there was no anything.

I think when my mom met my dad, she had other expectations in mind. She had this suburban, stay-at-home mom, fix dinners, and PTA meetings. What she got was broken. Buying food consisted of the day-old meat section, dented cans, and moldy bread. The house was always in a perpetual state of disaster. Nothing ever really got fixed; it got ducted taped. The roof leaked, bugs got in, mold ensued, and misery followed.

We were afraid to bring our friends over. Furniture was whatever my dad found in the trash or brought home from the job. A conference table doubled as a dining set, a cot was a makeshift bed for my sister. This was normal for us, but not for our friends. We opted out of bringing anyone over. Most of my friends were affluent, they would look at our house like we were the Adams Family, but they shook it off for some reason. 

The arguments were frequent, almost nightly, and always about money and not enough of it to go around. These arguments would boil to ahead. One night my dad got so frustrated he took one of the kitchen chairs and smashed it so that it looked like a mangled up piece of pretzel on the floor. He would get so frustrated with her, my mom, that's what he did, he smashed things. Then after the boil, he would calmly go into the living room with his beer and paper in hand. Like the big pink elephant in the room, they would act like nothing happened, even though, as children, we would be scared and frightened.

My mom would cry, and then she would shut down. Who could she talk to? Her mother, my grandmother, never liked my dad. She looked down on him. What would she say? "I told you so." My mom was really alone. She would drink too. I guess if you can't beat em, join em, right? So there they would be, two bombed parents sitting on the couch night after night, ignoring each other.

The atmosphere was always oppressive to me. It was like living in a big dark cloud. Sadness, gloom. I hated it.

I remember thinking how excited I was when I turned 16. I could leave the depression; I could drive! I would venture out and not return until dark. Sometimes I would just drive around by myself, just so I did not have to sit there with them and watch them, two miserable people co-existing with each other.

My dad was not a horrible person though, he was kind, he was sensitive. He just did not know how to express his feelings; he was socially awkward, an introvert. He preferred the company of his books, music, or paper over people. My sister says I am a lot like him. I think she is right.

I have, in essence, turned into my father's mini-me.

My mother was outgoing; she was artistic. My dad never encouraged her to pursue her talents, and my mom did not have enough self-worth to say "screw you" to him and do what she wanted. So instead, she lived a life of quiet desperation.

My loyalties leaned towards my father. I am not sure why, but I think because he always confided in me. I realize now, in retrospect, I was his emotional spouse. He did not talk to my mom because my mom did not listen to him, but I was an open and eager recipient of his words. I ate them up; I loved having those words spoken to me because that was what I thought love was. I was his confidant, his favorite. I would agree with him, nod, smile; I loved that he looked to me like I was something special to him.

I resented my mother. I felt like it was all my mom's fault we lived in Dysfunction Junction. I would toss scenarios around in my head "If only she were kinder to my dad," if only "she was not such a bitch, things would be better." I blamed her for my dad's drinking, for why he was the way he was.

Years later, I realized It was a two-way street.

When my mother passed away, a friend told me that she understood why my mom ended up the way she did in the end, a sad, sad woman. She said to me, "Look at the era she grew up in; maybe she thought she had no choices." It dawned on me that perhaps this was the case. My mom did what she needed to do to exist, to survive. After a while, nothing seemed to matter to her; she simply lived, ate, dressed, and existed. There was no spark anymore; there was no joy.

I always thought that my mom could have made different choices. Why, if she was so unhappy, why did she stick around? Why not leave my dad? I think she stuck around because she was scared of the unknown. The comfort in dysfunction was all she knew. The box that she married was better than the one outside.

What would our lives had been like if she had left my dad? I don't know. Would it have been better? I look back and am grateful that I had parents, that I exist, that they decided to have me and raise me. But I also think about how unhappy they were. It makes me sad. I wish things were different now; I wish that they had moved on to other lives, even if that meant lives separate from us.

I wished there were no Dysfunction Junction to talk about, but this is what I know. This is what made me who I am. Dysfunctional? Yes, maybe, in some ways. But also a strong person, A person that can deal with drama and issues.

Turning 50

Today I turned 50. I am now officially a half a century old.

I woke up, had coffee, checked email and then realized it was my birthday, so uneventful. But then after a few minutes it started to sink in... 50. I am no longer in my 40's, for some, I am even considered old, middle aged.

I am not sure why I thought that turning 50 would be kind of traumatic. It really was not so bad, as a matter of fact, after I finished my coffee I realized how good I am with turning 50. I am good with my age, I am good with myself. I am in a good place.

As this milestone was creeping up on me over the last year or so, many things started to change in my life. Most notably, I stopped caring what people thought about me. One day, I woke up and realized that nobodies opinion mattered anymore. It was liberating. I started to focus on acceptance of myself as well. Acceptance of my flaws, my weaknesses, my mistakes. All of these things made up and continue to make up who I am as a person and that person is perfectly acceptable, beautiful and fabulous.

It is weird how this kind of happens to you as you get older. You ever notice those old crazy people that just kind of blurt out whatever they want? Now I get it.  It is not that they don't realize it, they just don't care. I am turning into one of those old people and you know what? I don't care either. I have decided to embrace my age for the first time in my life. I look back and I have no regrets, I look forward and I see nothing but more possibilities.

Now let's talk about running.

Running at 50. Does it feel any different? I don't think so, not yet. I have never been fast, but now I am heading into a brand new age group. This is very exciting to me and holds endless possibilities. I am not a super fast athlete by any stretch of the imagination but compared to my peers, women my age, I am a rock star.

At 50, the competition thins, the field is smaller, less crazy old women like me. In one way, I can look at this as easier to place in my age group, but another way to look at it as there are less people and far less women out there who are... like me. I am beginning to become an anomaly. A weirdo for some, a hero for others. Either description, suits me just fine.

Some women my age ask me, why do you do it? Other women smile and are amazed that I can do it. When I finished the Leadville Heavy half, and talked about it with my friends, most of them shook their heads and said "Crazy girl."

It doesn't feel crazy to me, as a matter of fact I feel like I am doing exactly what I should be doing. Running up a mountainous trail seems normal. It is exhilarating and makes me think, "Why did it take so long to do one of these races?"

I guess the reason was because I was always worried I would fail, I would not finish, I would somehow disappoint myself or others. Now that thought never crosses my mind. I know that I will always finish a race no matter what, even if that means coming in dead last. Dead last is still finishing something only a very small percentage of women can do and that feels amazing to me.

I finally signed up for speed training this year with my running group. For the last several years, I avoided signing up like the plague, so concerned about what people thought. I kept thinking, why? Why should a crazy older woman care about being fast? Will I be the only one there that is my age and will people think I am weird? Then of course the "Who gives a crap" part of my brain finally kicked in. I realized, it does not matter anymore. What matters is that I am doing something that I enjoy, that challenges me, that makes me a better runner, only for me and nobody else. Other opinions mean nothing anymore.

When I got there, low and behold, there were other crazy older women just like me! One, who was 61 and a Boston Qualifier. She ran slow, in the back, but did not care. I loved that there were others like me, others that were doing something for themselves too. Why focus on age? Why think that just because you are getting older that you should fade slowly away and forget about your goals and your dreams?

I look at myself in the mirror, I am slightly overweight, my belly hangs over my running shorts, things sag, things don't quite look as put together as they did when I was 25. I have varicose veins, I have cellulite. It is easy to compare, easy to look at myself and somehow expect that I should look different. I should look like I did when I was younger. My expectations are sometimes not realistic. Instead, I need to focus on appreciating my body for what it can still do, what I can accomplish, how strong I am. I am still running, I am still exploring, I am still challenging myself.

50? Bring it on! Who knows what I can still accomplish, the possibilities are endless. Maybe an ultra distance is in my future?

Grief and Running

Last Sunday my mom passed away.

It was not unexpected, she was sick, she was 83, she was depressed. She gave up on life.

To be honest, I was not sure how to feel about the passing of my mother. I wanted to feel sad but my emotions did not seem to be working. I felt disconnected from it all, clinical and matter of fact. All I felt was a deep sadness for the life she chose to live for herself. A life that was a mere shadow of the life she could have had.

She shut me out, she had a tendency to do this, and I accepted that this is how she wanted things to be. Instead of trying to break through, I focused on the bits and pieces that were good. The times that we got along with each other, the times she seemed happy. I had accepted her a long time ago and was a peace with that. I felt no guilt.

My relationship with my mother was, let's say, complicated at best. We had ups and downs throughout the years and for the early part of my adulthood I felt like an unloved and flawed human being in her eyes. I moved out at 20 and spent the next 30 years being punished for leaving. She never visited, rarely called me, and treated me like I was a distant coworker. She was critical and emotionally detached. It was not until much later on in my life that I realized she had deep psychological issues, scars and baggage caused by a lot of trauma that happened throughout her life.

I realized it was not me, it was her. Once I realized these things, I was able to accept her for what she was. We started to turn things around and we were able to have a good relationship with each other.

My mother ran black and white, hot and cold. That is the only way to describe her. She was very self-involved and incapable of true love or affection. I do not remember hugs, kisses, or the "I love you" that my friends got from their moms. I only remember a mother that seemed distracted and unhappy. She smiled rarely, she took pleasure in very little.

On Sunday, November 2nd, 2014, I ran the NYC Marathon. On Wednesday I flew in early to attend my mother's memorial service.

I felt detached during the ceremony. I guess they say everyone grieves differently. I looked at the pictures that were collaged together to represent her life, in each one she wears a smile but it is only superficial. She always smiled for pictures because she wanted to look nice. We all had to smile even though we never saw any of those pictures in our house after they were taken. They were squirreled away for "safe-keeping." When my sister and I cleared out her house we found boxes and boxes of those photos, all in pristine condition. The memory was what she cherished, people however, were pushed aside. It was telling to comb through all of those pictures and realize that they never were enjoyed. Nothing in her house was enjoyed.

A typical depression era child, my mom saved everything. So on top of all the boxes of pictures, there were old baby shoes, notes about our birth, knitted caps, baby rattles, dresses, hats, china, toys, boxed and wrapped carefully in every closet. We never saw any of those things growing up, she never took them out, she just wanted to hold on to them all, to keep the memory alive.

On the long ride back from Albany to NYC after the memorial, I broke down. I finally realized that my mom was indeed gone and that despite all of my hurts and disappointments with her as a mother, I would never be able to pick up the phone and talk to her. I felt angry at her and sad for myself. Then the anger changed to pity for her and pity for myself.

I ran the marathon because I had spent the last 6 months training for it. I wanted to finish it now more than ever because the marathon represented life and its possibilities. The extremes and what a human being can do if they put their heart into something. I needed to run it for myself. I needed to finish it and know that I was capable of accomplishing anything, even at 50, even overweight and even with big flat feet. I needed to feel my body push itself to the limits and run 26.2 miles.

But, I also wanted to finish it for my mom. It was not like she had any interest in my running, she did not. She had no interest in anything I did, unless it was something she could have input in. I accepted this and rarely brought up my interests when I talked to her. I realized that was who she was. So our conversations bordered around whatever she wanted to talk about. They were pleasant and easy going. We would talk about cooking or home improvement projects, she liked those things. The last 10 years or so of her life we began to have a good relationship. My sister used to say "You are really good with her Christina." No, I was not "good" with her, I was just more patient as I got older. She said hurtful things to me all the time but I tried not to let those things bother me. Instead I focused on how to relate to her, to try and enjoy her company and to try not to let her get under my skin. I accepted her for who she was. She was not the mother I wanted, but she was mine.  I did not always like her as a person, but I loved her for who she was.

But I also watched her slowly give up on life. She rarely exercised, rarely left the house. After awhile her muscles began to give out on her, she had trouble walking. She stopped paying bills, she stopped caring what the house looked like. Her phone conversations were curt at best. We intervened and found her in deplorable conditions. We had to make a tough decision and transition her to a nursing home. In the nursing home, she argued, she resisted any kind of positive treatment, physical therapy. All she wanted to do was sit in bed and watch TV... depression.

She did not return my calls, so I gave up. I live in Colorado, I felt helpless to connect to her unless I flew out every other week, which I could not do. Despite the fact that this was my mother, I had a job, a son, a husband, a life, a family that came first. I was able to visit a few times and help my sister. I hoped that I could connect to my mom through the phone but that never happened.

She wasted away and died several months after she got to the nursing home, but in my mind, she had died inside much earlier than that. When she went into that nursing home, she was just a shadow of herself. I knew in my heart that she was probably never coming out again.

I have a tendency of judging my mother, of thinking that she was weak, lazy, powerless but after my race in NY my dear friend put it all in perspective for me. She said, your mom did not have the same choices you did.

She was right.

I wonder now, what my mom's life would have been like had she been born into a different era? If she was able to be treated for her mental illness, if she knew she had choices and could feel empowered? Would she be the same person? I think in a lot of ways my mom felt trapped by a life that she thought she needed to live, by conventions that she felt compelled to fill. She was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole her entire life. I remember her talking about her dreams to me, what she wanted to do when she was younger. She was a musician, she was creative. I asked her if she ever wanted to have kids and her blunt response was "Not particularly." I guess another person would have been insulted by this but for me this response was very telling of who she was as a person. She was once a young vibrant woman who drove and had a drivers license when no other women did, she talked about the "business world" and working so she could be self-sufficient. She talked about dates and dancing with her friend Dottie, she talked about her bout with cancer, her traumas, her mom, her sister, her dad. She liked to talk about getting on the "L-train" and going to the city to hang out and meet guys. She was funny when she talked about these things. She wrote poems and music. She played the piano and she played the accordion. I know she wanted more out of life than what was offered to her. So she did what every other woman did, she got married and she had kids. She met my dad, and I truly believe for awhile the were happy. Then one day, they were not.

She went through the motions, she was efficient and provided for us as children but deep down inside she gave up, lived a small life of desperation and depression. It was not easy living with my dad, I loved my dad dearly but he had his own demons. My mom quietly dealt with things, shoved things inside, under the carpet, but she also confided in me, she told me things about my dad, about her life, things I had wished she had not shared but when it is all said and done, I am glad she did.

We had finally become friends.

I finished the marathon in a little over 4 hours. I am not fast and I did not care either. I just wanted to finish and feel alive. It made me feel better, during the run, I thought a lot about my mom, her life and our relationship. If she has her way, she will be up there with an accordion playing honky tonk tunes with a big smile on her face. I hope that is where she is. That for once, she is finally at peace and she is happy.

Brooklyn Marathon, The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

So it has taken me awhile to suck it up and write about this race... It required me to check my ego at the door.

Let's just say this was not my crowning moment in running history, as a matter of fact it was far from it. To be perfectly honest, it kinda sucked. There i said it.

So what do we start with first? The good? The bad? Or the ugly? I vote for ugly because it will keep you at least mildly interested until the end of the story, which culminates in the good parts. Does that work for you? Ok, let's begin...

Part one... the ugly.

So it started out as a pretty typical fall race, nice weather (not too cold, not too hot, in other words, in Goldilocks world, just right) but by about mile 2 I knew things were just not going exactly as planned. I felt slow, I never got my mojo on. I was not sure why but I was not feeling it. My legs felt like cement blocks and things began to fall apart. I knew the course was going to be a challenge when i signed up for it but a part of me (my delicate ego) thought i was going to conquer this one. How wrong i was! The course was several loops around Prospect Park (9 to be exact). The first 3 loops were shorter and then the next 6 were longer. I read about "the hill" in the park over and over again by previous runners and New Yorkers who ran that park on a daily basis but for some reason I figured I could handle it. Hey, I was a Colorado girl! I was used to hills, trails and altitude right? Ya, ok.

Well the first long loop was a piece of cake but by the time I got to loop number 5 i was literally in loopy loo ville. 150% grade each time, combined by 6 = kind of really sucks. At the start of each hill I found myself mumbling obscenities while other runners looked at me like I had lost my mind. All that went through my mind was, didn't I just do this already? Oh yea, that's right, yes, 4 times already! I started to feel defeated as more and more people passed me by. Usually I am in a zone and do not notice this as much, yea people will pass you in a race... duh. You are not going to "win" duh... but for this race it was all i could seem to focus on, obsess almost on who what where. Older, heavier runners seemed to whip past me.

By the 4th loop my knee started to burn, at mile 5 my ass joined in and by loop 6 my calf completely froze up. Seriously, it froze! I came to a complete halt. This was followed by me shuffling into the last mile like a walker with a grimace on my face.

I am a huge fan of the Walking Dead. Here is me at mile 25...

Only difference is that I did not have Rick Grimes shove a crowbar into my skull (not that it would have helped much). I vaguely remember mumbling "brains, more brains" about that time but for some reason I could not hear the sound coming out of my mouth, only heavy breathing followed by a little drool puddled on the left corner of my mouth.

Let's just say, this was not my race. Now, back to the ego thing. It is a funny thing the ego isn't it? Especially for us runners. We always assume that we are going to keep improving, keep getting better than before, another PR. We obsess about the PR and when that does not happen then we really have a hard time accepting it. For some reason, I thought I would beat my last time, hell even a BQ! But that did not happen. I did not even come close. My time was 4:42. All that kept going through my mind was, how did that happen?

I guess I could blame it on any number of things and in retrospect one or two of them would be the culprit, not enough miles under the belt or maybe too many miles, no speedwork, no hills, not eating right, too much walking around NYC the day before (so meandering around the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens for 2 hours was probably not a good idea right?), not good sleep, jet lag, and the list goes on and on.

For one thing, I have not been feeling it for awhile. Sometimes I forget my age. I am after all 49. I know this should not be an excuse, there are many amazing older runners but I have to cut myself some slack in that department right? Most of my 40ish coworkers can barely walk a mile without whining about their ass burning up so being able to run 26.2 in their eyes is like something between complete and utter insanity and a huge accomplishment.  I will take the latter.

So being disappointed in my time and of course accepting the fact that apparently something went array in my training was of course a tough nut to swallow. I had to check my ego, regroup and move past this. What did I get out of it?

Well for one thing, I was glad I finished it and I also have to accept the fact that no matter how hard I "think" i am training for a marathon, it is probably not good enough, at least for me anyway. I am not gifted. I also realize that what i lack in "giftedness" I make up in mental toughness and 9 laps calculated with rubber bands is probably not the best race for my mental sanity... period.

Ok, well, put that one on the shelf and focus on the next one. I have officially been accepted into NYC for 2014 and I am excited about this one because it will probably be my last NYC race. So now to focus on "thank you may I have another" instead of "brains, brains" and I should be good to go right?


Right....