(Trying) to Run away from depression

The frigid Colorado winter had come to an end, and buds began to sprout on trees above my orange bathroom-dyed blonde hair. The air finally smelled sweet again, and I got to wear my favorite fabric shorts with an oversized sweatshirt. No longer able to hide behind cargo pants and blue jeans, I was faced with the reflection of my pale legs. I love my Capitol Hill apartment, but every morning, I curse the bedroom wall with floor-length mirrors. 

Despite the 75 mg of antidepressants, a well-balanced (ish) diet, and a crisp 8 hours of sleep I get each night, I remember my brain is prone to sadness. The winter doesn’t help. About a month ago, one morning, before work at the coffee shop job I got because corporate America slapped my ass and called me Sally, I looked into those bedroom mirrors. I saw my shit hair dye job, my chubby legs, and belly hanging over my sleep shorts. While Chili Jason sat outside the sliding bathroom door screaming for his half portion of Frisky’s Wet Food, my head screamed, ‘you ugly bitch’. 

I remember this day vividly, I go into work and my work best friend is there to say goodbye. While I was left to work a double in the shop lobby in downtown Denver, Amy left for Washington. Throughout the excruciatingly long day of asking tech bros, ‘How are you doing today?’ and receiving a reply of ‘small americano,’ I went crazy. My eyes still burned from the morning farewell; the mental image of my chubby winter body lingered in my head, and people continuously asked for Iced Vanilla Oat Lattes, their voices laced with vocal fry. 

I dragged myself up the three flights of stairs to my apartment after work, saddened, tired, and weak. I sat on the yellow couch I had just inherited from Amy, and I cried and cried. The three gingers I live with, Chili, Gumbo, and Grace, sat around me and watched. Through tears, I explained, God, I hate my body right now, something needs to change. Of course, right as I find a work best friend, she moves. And jeez, who’s playing the saddest Taylor Swift song, Evermore?

“Would you like to go to Planet Fitness with me in the mornings?” 

No. 

“You’ll make other close friends at work!” 

Not like Amy. 

“You need to turn off this song; it always makes you cry.” 

BUT IT FEELS GOOD!

The next day, I began the Couch to 5K program and signed up for the Colfax 5K on May 17. Yes, I know a 5 K won’t fix how much money I make, or how rude customers can be, or even bring Amy back to Colorado, but it might help alleviate my self-loathing. 

It’s week three of running, and I can say with complete honesty, it works. On days that I wake up early and hit the cracked sidewalks of Denver, the rest of my day lacks anxious thoughts. It becomes clear, no, the coworker you’re with today does not hate you. Yes, your family back in Kansas City does miss you. And gosh, are you guys witnessing how beautiful the sun makes the Cash Register building look? It pains me to say, exercise does help mental health. 

Growing up on volleyball teams, playing all seasons, I never needed to develop willpower to work out because I always had coaches expecting me in the gym or my parents reminding me that they had paid $2,000 for this club team. As I grew older, it became harder to motivate myself to move because there was no one to do it for me. I also have a Sims 4 login, so why lift 20 pounds when I could do it in a virtual game as a blonde-haired look-alike who makes $50,000 with a cheat code, has a mid-century modern mansion as a young adult, and doesn’t need to work as a barista to make money for plane tickets home. The temptation was far too grand. 

At the time, I deleted Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok, and even Pinterest from my phone. I know, how much damage can chicken recipes and nail designs do to a girl, but I had to quit cold turkey. It was as though I had hired a whole demo team to clear out the cobwebs of winter and renovate myself. I had a lot of downtime outside of work, now that I wasn’t scrolling, so I would sit on the couch and stare. I would walk around the kitchen and stare at things. I frequently looked at my plants, observing their leaf patterns and watering them as needed. It’s not rocket science to see I was underwatering them, but give me a break, I am a depressed person, and it was winter.

With each stomp on the pavement, I can feel myself getting watered again. Music has been sounding better; it's almost as if I can taste the bass line. I bought a few new pieces of clothing, feeling cute and strong as I watch my calf muscles firm up. I toned my hair, leaving the once-brassy strands with a cool, purple tint. I started listening to Remi Wolf instead of re-listening to sister albums, Folklore and Evermore. It’s been helping my hips move with joy over that deep gray melancholy. I haven’t been wearing makeup, because what is there to mask right now? Pimples come and go; nobody will remember them. Less metaphorically, I’d rather not rub mascara straight into my eyeballs with all this pollen dive bombing me. 

I must admit that I’m nervous about the race. Please, God, let me be able to finish. Completing the first tangible goal in adulthood will give me a sense of accomplishment. And jeez, that’s all this girl needs right now, a sense of achievement in this tiring life. If I can’t find a non-shit job in my career, can hardly pay for a weeks worth of groceries, and drive around the city in my 2006 Ford Focus with the muffler hanging on by a wire (a literal wire my dad put on 4 years ago), I can at least finish a 5k. 

I had to push down the feeling that this goal was weak in comparison to others who run half-marathons, get promotions, or are getting married this year. But as the old saying goes, comparison is the thief of joy, so won’t you all let me be excited? Because I am, and I may even buy myself a new pair of running sunglasses before the race. I panicked after a particularly sunny morning run, and chose the fugliest, cheapest pair I could find. I think the middle-schoolers who walk to school while I’m running in those glasses at the same hour are scared of me. Or they’re making fun of me, which, honestly, is way worse. 

Progress isn’t Linear

My run this morning was conducted in the hot sun, with the voluminous birth of spring gnats swarming my sweat beads, and I was aware of each step I took. My breathing seemed to be grasping at straws, finding it hard to draw in a deep breath. At each step, I could feel my calf muscles tightening and restricting, even though I had done my stretches. I don’t think the experts know what they’re talking about; stretching doesn’t work. Why would they lie to me like that? 

The day started decently brisk, so I opted for bicycle shorts with a black sweatshirt. I tied my hair up into a braided ponytail, a hairstyle I used to call a d*ke braid when I was in high school. I was a very ignorant young individual. If only I could tell that brat now, be careful, you’re going to grow up to be one of those d*kes. 

No matter how many days I go sweating profusely in sweatshirts, I always forget that the sun is a mile closer than I’m used to. I was hitting the pavement hard, trying to push and push the minutes by, sweat rolling down my nose, into my ass crack, and pooling under my bra line. Maybe one of these days I’ll learn to wear a T-shirt and, heaven forbid, just have chilly arms for a few minutes. 

Spring is my favorite season; I love the sprouting foliage and the bird songs that linger on late into the evenings. However, I know one thing I hate about spring. The fucking bugs. I suspect some kind of scientific fact behind this, because I swear bugs are drawn to me. I’ve been stung by bees, hornets, and too many wasps to count. Gnats love to fly around my ears, making me irrationally angry, a trait I learned from my dad. Bugs don’t need to be flying by your ears, and it’s normal to freak the fuck out when they do. Mosquitos are also drawn to my sweet skin. Every summer, my family and I visit our cabin in Minnesota, and if you know anything about Minnesota (the land of 10,000 lakes), you'll know that mosquitoes love being near water. Mosquitoes treat Minnesota like their own personal Cancun resort, and they’re teenagers getting to drink for the first time. And I’m the margarita. When I was about three or so, I got so many bites on my bald head, my dad would sit there and scratch my bumps until my eyes would roll back. And here I was, thinking there wouldn’t be bugs to fly around my head because, duh, Colorado is so dry. Wrong! 

The worst part of the run was how aware I was of my steps. I’ve found that when I hit my best times and the best strides, it's when I’m super distracted. I’ve been alternating between a podcast that talks you through the training and music. Today, I chose the beloved 1989 (Taylor’s Version) to power me through. Little power did it offer, unfortunately. Each step burned up to my thighs, my old New Balance shoes slammed down hard on the concrete, and my ankles tingled with the pressure. I couldn’t get my mind off of it. Caught up in my discomfort, I forgot to put my shoulders back, pump my arms in rhythm, and even forgot to put a smile on my face, as the podcast reminds me to do. 

I was nearly over with the run, only five more minutes to go, when I felt like giving up. Every time I get home from a bad run, Grace always reminds me that progress isn’t linear. I roll my eyes and say ‘sure,' but I'd rather avoid dying on a 2-mile run. Nearing my dramatic death with a firetruck red face, I looked around the neighborhood to keep my eyes up, eyes locking with a garage code box to an apartment. On the box, in light gray font, read, “Linear.” I smiled at that point. How funny, tiny, insignificant signs can somehow make you want to keep going. I was excited to finish it; I was excited to reach my street and sprint to my front door, as I do after every run. I was excited to get inside our little apartment and see Grace and say, “I had the worst run, but I bet Saturday’s run will be a lot better.” Because once I get through today’s run, I can do it again on Saturday. I am stronger than I was before the run. Maybe I’ll remember to keep my shoulders back, smile, and just wear a damn teeshirt.

To routine or To not routine

Time has been flying by me lately. As I sit here, the clouds of an impending 3-day thunderstorm are rolling in, their clouds chasing north across the city. Each day has felt like a blink, and each evening I get to myself, I feel like it’s being stolen. 

I saw this pie graph on Instagram, maybe 8ish years ago while in high school, and it has always lingered in my mind. It was a pie graph divided into hours in a day and what activities to fill your time with. There was socializing, work, good sleep, recreation, and exercise. I tend to focus on work and sleep in the winter months, whereas I’m currently trying to push as much exercise and socializing as possible. I am spending days seeing friends, running, and keeping my schedule of trying to participate in life. Maybe it’s because I’m having so much fun participating, but this full daily schedule is making time go by too quickly. 

It seems that any downtime I have, I am either going for a walk, going for a coffee, organizing a bookshelf, or redecorating the balcony. I’ve been reading a book or two a week because I have a Goodreads goal that I refuse not to reach come December 31. I’ve been calling my sister weekly, talking for hours while I get a few hours of deep cleaning in. 

On Saturday of this past weekend, I filled every hour with an activity or errand, and the few hours I had of downtime, I opted to clean both Grace’s and my car. Like, girl? Sit the hell down?? 

I’m no psychoanalyst, but I am very self-aware, and this all seems like a lot to me. I wonder where every to-do box is checked, where every duck is in a row, and where each person in my life is accounted for. Am I truly satisfied? Or am I reaching an unattainable goal? Maybe I will be happy if I complete every box in my head? Or is this just life? Is life just a never-ending to-do list? At the end of the day, I’m 24 and I’m just trying to figure this all out. 

Sometimes, I miss the days when I wasn’t planning my months. Sometimes, I miss spontaneous parties at my college house, not knowing who I would be kissing that weekend, and the feeling of ambiguous uncertainty. All that to say, at the end of the day, I am exponentially more stable now. I have two cats to feed twice a day, I make color-coded grocery lists, I pay a wifi and electric bill, and am lucky to have a partner who loves me more than anything. 

When things in my life start going smoothly and I find a successful routine, as I have now, I fear it scares me. What is frustrating is that there were days when I’d dream of a life like this. Not hungover every morning, owning pets and a homey apartment, and good sleep where my roommates aren’t screaming late at night. But this little voice in my head always wants to sabotage all of this. It tricks me into thinking uncertain spontaneity is true happiness. It’s this constant back and forth where I just need to find a center, a middle ground. Not too spastic and unreliable but also not too rigid and angsty. 

I can’t count how many times I’ve gotten to this point, where I’m super scheduled and routinely where I beg something exciting to happen to me. What exactly would be exciting, you may be thinking? Sometimes, I wish that drama would start in my life between friends or that somebody would get spontaneously fired at work. Other times, it's darker wishes, like getting into a car accident or somebody in my family getting sick. These thoughts of wishing something ‘interesting’ would happen to me are intrusive and damaging. When I sit on these thoughts, I don’t want to cause harm to my loved ones. This is usually the signifying thought pattern that wakes me up. 

I’m the healthiest I’ve been in months with more exercise, fewer dark thoughts, seeing my friends frequently, little to no binge drinking, fewer tears, and excellent sleep. So, who is this dark passenger sneaking into my psyche, trying to fuck it all up for me? Is this a cry for attention that I don’t self-fulfill? Is it mourning over the passing of exciting adolescence? I understand that deep down, mental illness can’t cure itself, and no matter how hard I try, I’ll always feel it a little bit. But it’s frustrating, simply put. I get angry quickly, cry over dropped keys, and slam my phone when I can’t get an app to work. No matter how bad I want to be normal, predictable, and sane, I will always be me. I am with quick emotions, fast judgments, and all-too-readable facial expressions. Maybe that scares me the most: no matter how I try to work on myself, it will still be me. Please don’t take this as I loathe the person I am. I’m funny, I’m kind, I’m charismatic, and I am empathetic. It just sucks that you can’t outrun the person you are. 

After all this, I still don’t know the answer to this eb and the flow I am running through. Is it more noble to just shut up and follow the well-oiled machine? Or is it righteous not to be anchored by these mundane expectations of adulthood? 

Master of none

I’ve spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, feeling zero passion, zero inspiration, and feeling like I am not contributing to society. I stare at the popcorned ceilings, wondering why I’ve never felt inclined to any particular skill or craft. This isn’t even a new, struggling 20-something problem either. I’ve had nights like these for as long as I can remember, since adolescence. 

When I was young, I tried all the sports like you do. I tried softball and was too scared of batting and the potential of getting hit by the ball, so I quit that. I tried basketball, but it was too short to accomplish anything. I tried dance and liked that for a while, but I was just okay. I then tried volleyball and became obsessed. I was short, so I got the stand in the back. In middle school, I tried hard, worked my way up to the A-team, and even started playing club volleyball in the winter. I was decent and carried my weight on a team until I didn’t. My stellar performances turned to mediocracy. I then quit my senior year before I got a banner with my face on it in the auxiliary gym. 

I was pretty good at math and English in school, finished all my work, and got exceptional grades. But I was never a brainiac, which became abundantly apparent when I took the ACT. Yikes. You can work hard, but you can’t fake real smarts. 

I loved shooting until you couldn’t make money with passion art projects outside of college. Moving away from home taught me that the only real money I could make as a photographer was real estate photography or family photos. That creative flame quickly burned out, and now I’m left as a once-upon-a-time photographer. 

I got jobs in corporate America, working in marketing and schmoozing my way into any position I could get. If my boss needed something I wasn’t trained in, I would teach myself and accomplish the task. I was decent at Photoshop, design, copywriting, and running ads, but I never seemed to outshine the competition. I was never considered essential. 

I’ve always been medium beautiful. Not gorgeous, not ugly. Not breathtaking in either way. I’ve cut my hair short, grown it long, dyed it brown and pink, and worn thick eyeliner. I’ve worn slutty clothes for attention and I’ve tried to be the quiet mysterious girl reading at a coffee shop. 

I’m nice enough, but nobody would say, ‘Oh my gosh, she is so sweet. ’ I’m funny, but I’ve never been considered the funniest in the room. I’m good at comforting friends, but never the first to call.

I sit on the sidelines, cheering on others' success. I like and comment on their LinkedIn posts. I call them to tell them how proud I am. I envy these people around me as they become nurses and art directors, get thousands of dollars worth of raises, buy houses, and wake up most days with ambition. 

How do I find that in a life that I’ve coasted through? Passion escaped me long ago and has only come back in tiny cracks of light. Honestly and truthfully, I don’t remember the last time I was passionate. I’m a slow runner, make average money, and craft adequate latte art. I have the friends I have, but I find it hard to create new ones. I am a good enough partner, but nowhere near wife material. Maybe that’s why I’m so lost. Traditionally, women my age would get married and have one or even two children by now. Yet here I am, doing tearful soul searching that women have at 50 when they’ve become empty nesters. 

Looking back at my previous endeavors, I try at something until I give up. I’m a big, stupid, mirrorball that hangs on ceilings—spinning, turning, and trying to shine out from different spots. An area will catch the light until it turns again, moving onto another piece of mirror. I try to be the funny one, I try to care, I try to write this blog consistently. I wish somebody would hold out my hand and place a slip of paper in it. What I’m meant to be will be written clearly in black ink. And it will be concrete, doable, and attainable. It won’t make me stay up at night, I’ll stop feeling inadequate, and I’ll feel passion when my eyes open in the mornings. 

It’s weird, being a master of none. Sometimes, I have the idea to open a coffee shop, sometimes earn a livable wage as a miserable corporate American employee, and sometimes, I start a blog to write down my thoughts. It’s as though I can do everything, yet I have the confidence and drive of a small mouse. Maybe I think too much but perhaps you bitches aren’t thinking enough. Well, you probably are thinking about this, but not saying it out loud. And you’re not writing it on a public website, so I applaud your effort to preserve privacy. But I’m not the only one with existential crises on Wednesday afternoons, right?

Maybe one day I’ll find a passion or something I enjoy doing. Yes, I enjoy my hobbies, but I don’t want to live a life just for my hobbies. I want to create, be known for my craft, and be on the path to mastery at something—something, anything. 

No, you’re not sicko mode

This story begins in my dorm room, with the taste of freedom on my tongue, energy full of rebirth and possibility, and my high school friend sitting on her bed opposite mine. The exact moment I first tried it is blurry, but I remember buying it. With Mo Bamba bumping through the speakers, Rachel and I drove 5 minutes away from campus to a smoke shop. We went with a darling tear-drop shape and bought multiple sticky and fragrant juices of different flavors. 

We brought our device back to the dorms like we were smuggling weed across state lines. We sat on our hand-me-down rug, passing the teardrop back and forth. Tiny vapor clouds swirled and danced around the concrete room as we giggled. We laughed at the fun feeling in our brains, the nicotine taking up space over oxygen. How cute and funny, huh? 

We promised only to keep it on hand when we were together, getting drunk at frat parties, and not to let it get out of hand. It’s no shock to anyone that this goal lasted only two weeks. News flash, nicotine is an addictive chemical. Did y’all know that? Soon enough, we got our own, bringing it to classes, hitting it in bathroom stalls, and cultivating a full-blown addiction. 

A silly and fun moment when I was 18 has caused irreversible damage, thank you, Maddy. I’ve quit and failed multiple times since then. I’ve gone a year without it, then got laid off, and the first stop I made was a vape shop. It’s like this stupid crutch that loves to make you think it’ll make everything okay. I promise, it makes almost nothing better. 

Vaping when under stress, dealing with anxiety, or when crying is the quickest way to avoid emotional regulation. Instead of finding what helps you heal and learn, you take a puff of Watermelon Ice and numb it.

I started vaping again almost a year ago, when I was laid off. Now it’s been a new vape every 3 weeks, taking $28.99 out of the checking account. It’s been camping, ensuring the vape is charging in the car on the way to the site to ensure it doesn’t die over the weekend. It’s been hitting the vape after hiking a rocky mountain trail, making me light-headed due to elevation. It’s running off to the bathroom at family functions or dinners with friends. 

During my running journey, I didn’t even stop until yesterday morning. I went on a 1.5-mile run in the rain, feeling good about myself. I got home and fixed a Liquid IV on the balcony while it was raining. Of course, not forgetting to bring my Banana Ice vape out with me, like a stalker. Vapes follow you everywhere, btw. To give myself some credit, I would monitor my beats per minute until I reached under 100 BPM before hitting the vape. I’m not psychotic, ok? Yeah obviously I’m kidding, it’s insane to monitor your heart rate to suck on some chemically flavored air. I came inside, cold from my wet clothes, and it just hit me. It’s time to quit AGAIN. And I say again because nicotine is that bitch that always finds its way back to you. It’s like this hex on your life, always making your way back to each other. Like Peeta and Katniss in Mockingjay, I always make it through the hard times to find my star-crossed lover again, a GeekBar. 

I threw the yellow plastic cube into the trash can and took a steaming shower, feeling my best in a while. I was on a high after practicing physical self-control and positive free will. The first day went great, even though I had a shift at the coffee shop. Meg at the front desk likes to have a bowl of Lifesaver mints out, but the last time I had checked, she had the blue kind out. You’re pretty insane if you don’t prefer the green spearmint kind. Anyway, I ask Meg to take some mints and she informs me, SHE GOT SPEARMINT!! Thank you, Meg! I sucked on those shits the rest of the workday until my tongue was raw. 

Today has been agonizing, to say the least. Thankfully at work, my coworker Zoe brough me mints to suck on. Everybody say, thank you, Zoe! But seriously, everything has been making me feel so angry, it’s as though my veins are filling with red-hot lava. I almost jumped off the balcony when one of Chili’s hairs got into my eyes. When Grace asks me where something is, I get homicidal. When autocorrect tries to anticipate what I’m saying in a text, I want to throw my phone at a wall and watch it shatter into a million pieces. However, my mom said that when my phone breaks, I have to start my own phone plan, so I would never do that. And hey Grammarly, no, I don’t want your suggestions. You may think you’re helpful, but each time I write a killer joke and you try to change the format of the sentence... I think about writing a death threat to your CEO. Does your CEO even know I just quit vaping yesterday? 

I don’t know how successful this endeavor will be, but like all great philosophers say, it gets harder before it gets easy. This philosopher is notably known as Grace Sather. Also, while we’re at it, Grace, you have this and this to clean, stop touching me, and stay out of my way. I know you’re reading this because I make you read all my writing. I don’t hate you, I just miss my flavored air. 

If I fail, I can say good riddance to healthy lungs. If I am successful, coolio! If you’re thinking of quitting, do it! Be as miserable and evil as I have been today, it’s so fun. And if you’ve never vaped, don’t fucking do it. Save yourself while you can. Don’t be like 18-year-old Maddy and try it for fun while listening to SICKO MODE. You’re not sicko mode, you’re not cool, and you’re setting yourself up for 6 years of addiction.

The Whole of You

This past week, Nights by Frank Ocean found its way into the queue on the Bluetooth speaker. I hit, face-first, into a brick wall of nostalgia. Physically, I was in my present body, but mentally, I was sitting in the car with the one friend I had hung out with during my senior year of high school. I was in the passenger, parked at a grassy field late into a purple night. A cheap gram and icy winter air reddened my eyes. Every time I hear that song, I find myself sitting in that fabric seat. I see the browned grass through the frosty windows, I feel the bass rumble the car, and I can see his eyes through his black glasses. It took me a moment to remember his name. Our friendship didn’t last once the novelty of getting high in a sedan wore off. 

Finding myself frozen eight years later from a single song got me thinking, even from a short-lived friendship, he will forever think of me and see that 17-year-old sitting in his car. He will forever think of me as a lost, little, depressed girl about to graduate high school. Even after all these years, I still see him as the 23-year-old who got high school girls stoned. I’ll see him as the 23-year-old who dated an underage girl and went to her prom.

This fleshy, somatic memory got me thinking, there are a thousand versions of me from every person that knows me. Maybe a song will come on when they’re at work and remind them of the juvenile version of me sitting in their passenger seat. Perhaps they’ll be scrolling on Netflix and scroll past my favorite movie, remembering secrets I’d told them when I was 15. Possibly a date on the calendar will pass, whether it's my birthday or a long-forgotten anniversary, when they think of me. Maybe they’ll remember how coldly I dumped them, or how much I love my birthday. 

It’s a daunting thought, knowing there are books written about me that have since ended. Revisions aren’t welcome, and annotations were never assigned. What if my longest friend from elementary school to senior year, only remembers how I chose a boyfriend over seeing her until we were no longer friends? My party friends from college won’t know I eased up on drinking. Acquainted observers from my early teen years will remember the idiotic shit I spewed. My 2015 yearbook documents me in the Young Republicans Club, forever documenting a version of me that I’ve moved so far past. The dudes I hooked up with in college will forever think they were giving me the time of my life, all while I was having an internal sexuality crisis and wishing it would end. 

I find it aggravating and uncomfortable sitting with the fact that I’ll never get to explain myself or provide any context. They will always have their definition of me. They have their psychoanalysis, they have their opinions, and a specific moment in time will surface when they hear my name. It’ll be me they think of, but frozen in a past version of myself. Does my name give them a stomachache? For some, I hope there’s not enough antacids in the world to settle the sourness. 

It’s addicting to identify the multitude of versions that are out there and how scary that can be, but some moments are precious as they are, and don’t need more chapters to have a good story. To my best friend in middle school, I hope she remembers watching Titanic at sleepovers, obsessing over our favorite One Direction members, and watching the Justin Bieber movie premiere in theaters. My best friend from first grade might still have our red heart friendship necklace in an old box somewhere. Perhaps when she catches sight of her half, she freezes and is taken back to wearing plaid jumpers and playing with Barbies. 

To you, reader, I hope I haven’t introduced a new concern to keep you up at night. It’s a sobering thought that there are differing versions of you. What I find both frustrating and freeing is that there is only one accurate copy of you. It encapsulates the entirety —your reasons, your hours in therapy, your tears, your bouts of dancing, your truth, your values, your breakup haircuts, and your doubts of faith. Literally only you can see all the revisions, all the edits, all the annotations, and all the mistakes that make up the whole of you. How special it is that the only person who truly knows you, the entirety of you, is yourself. But gosh, how terribly boring would our lives be if there were not a multitude of versions, stages, and selves? 

Growing Pains

During my senior year of college, I invited my little sister, Annabelle, and little brother, Jameson, over to my apartment for a sleepover. We did blindfold makeup, made popcorn from scratch with kernels, and stayed up late. In the morning, they had to head back home. I watched them pull out of the parking lot in Annabelle’s little blue Mazda, which made an awfully loud screech. I remember being overcome with an intense feeling of guilt and dread that I hadn’t felt before. 

I tried to make sense of the guilt days after, remembering my sobs and tears. The feeling of a heavy chest and the inability to stop crying. Why did I feel this way, and why did it hurt so much? I’ve traced this guilt to losing the job, as I was a close older sister and protector by proximity. When they left, I wasn’t there to help anymore. I was there when 10-year-old Jameson cried to me after a basketball game and told me how much he hated being the worst on the team. I was there when Annabelle would sneak into my room late at night to have a sleepover and stay up late laughing. 

Pain is relative, and if only I had understood that feeling would never leave my body and would only get exponentially worse in the years to come, I would’ve counted my blessings. Annabelle and Jameson were only a 40-minute drive away, then. We went to each other’s graduations, birthday parties, and frequent sleepovers just because. I watched them go from babies to toddlers, annoying kids to my closest friends. I was around for all of it. 

On a muggy morning in August, Annabelle, Jameson, Grace, I, and my mom packed up three cars full and drove the eight hours to Colorado. I drove my Jess, my little maroon Ford Focus, in all her glory of no A/C and a shitty Bluetooth connection. Annabelle loved me enough to endure the ride with me in the passenger seat. I was excited, I was about to get the keys to our new apartment, and the promise of a whole new life ahead of me. We moved heavy furniture in, we cursed at the dry heat, we dropped glass, and lay on the cold hardwood. Saturday night arrived to bid us a final farewell. This particular night altered my emotions and brain chemistry, permanently, I fear. I don’t remember crying as hard as I did when I watched them drive away from my new apartment. When they left, it was quiet, and I was left in these unfamiliar four walls. I sobbed and sobbed, feeling so alone for the first time in my life. 

After three years, I wouldn’t say it’s ever gotten easier. Each time we part ways stings as much as the first time. I’ve found a perfect spot to avoid this deep sadness, and it’s a week-long visit. After a week, we get fed up with each other, as families do, and I’m excited to get back to Grace and the orange boys we live with. In days like this, I feel deeply that Grace is my family too, and coming home to them is as sweet as honey. The exceptions are short trips. 

Last week, I turned 25. I tend to place a lot of pressure on my birthday to be perfect, with the cutest outfit and the most unforgettable party, but I felt a sense of calm this year. Grace and I went to dinner, and I got spaghetti and meatballs, of course. I drank an impressive amount of Pinot Grigio since getting off work only a couple of hours before. Bestie Alyssa was in town, and I was drunk, calm, and happy. After dinner, Grace and I lingered at the apartment before heading out to a fancy wine bar. I was singing karaoke on my cheap microphone, having probably consumed my fifth glass of wine and feeling tickled pink with what a good day my birthday was turning out to be. 

Then my mom walked in the front door of my apartment, causing a complete mental stop. I cried, we hugged, and she got me a Dolly Parton mug. Tracy and I often discuss how obsessed we are with her. 

We make our way to the wine bar and sit down in a dimly lit booth. My smile wouldn’t relax beyond a belated status, and I couldn’t stop tearing up. To make things more insane, my older sister, Lily, and Annabelle walked up behind me. With a weakened neck, my head fell into my palms, unable to comprehend what I was actually witnessing. From an outside perspective, you would’ve thought I hadn’t seen this group of women in years. I saw them in person two weeks prior, on vacation. 

This visit felt particularly special for a few reasons. For starters, Grace and the girls held this secret for three months, and Grace is terrible at lying. I was onto them, though. I’m a sleuth at heart. Secondly, I hadn’t been able to celebrate a birthday with them in two years after spending the first 22 with them. This trip ultimately felt surreal because the three women I love most in my life chose me. They spent money on plane tickets, got a B&B, and waited months for a surprise just for me.

I’ve never felt like I was wanted or missed to the degree I felt then. The whole weekend was overwhelmingly fun, busy, chaotic, and perfect. We rode horses, and they listened to a lot of Chapel Roan. Annabelle and I even got to have a sleepover. On the last sleep, we ordered an excessive amount of Chinese takeout to the B&B. We got our servings, glasses of white wine, sat around the tiny coffee table, and turned on rerun episodes of iCarly. We laughed at the same scenes that made us laugh back in 2012.

On Sunday, they had a later evening flight out of Denver. We spent the day at the park, playing volleyball and board games. The dark, sad part of my brain wouldn’t let me forget they were leaving that night. I would push away the feeling and tell myself to just appreciate that they were sitting right next to me. After we spent the evening making homemade spring rolls, playing Quiplash, and listening to old Justin Bieber in the kitchen, it was time to order an Uber. We walked them down the three flights of stairs with their suitcases and gave final hugs before they climbed into the car. I do something funny when the departure situation arises— I never let them see me sad.

I didn’t cry in front of them, then. I hugged, smiled at, and waved until they turned the corner of my street. When the brake lights disappear, the deep wave of guilt washes over me. I feel terrible for moving far away, I feel abandoned being left here, and I just hope they had a good time. I recount each moment I accidentally snapped at Annabelle or got annoyed at their loud voices trailing over one another. When I got back into the apartment, I cried for half an hour, my chest aching, my throat dry, and they hadn’t even reached DIA. 

Monday, I cried in segments throughout the day. I would watch TikTok or read my Kindle to distract myself. When I walked into the kitchen, I saw their leftover donut holes from Jelly Cafe, and I would break down again. I’d look at the decorations they put up for my birthday and sob. Later that evening, Grace and I were at Safeway getting groceries for the week ahead. I wore sunglasses inside and was off and on, sobbing. I think I even cried myself to sleep, missing those three people who had quickly come and gone. I was overly grateful, I was overwhelmed with serotonin, and I was nursing a three-day hangover from all the white wine. 

It’s Friday now, and I can say I’ve worked 30 hours, managing to not break down to tears on the clock. However, to say I’ve been sensitive this week would be a grave understatement. I’ve cried to Kitchen Nightmares, I cried at several points in this week’s episode of The Summer I Turned Pretty, and I sob to TikTok edits. I can say I only cried a handful of times while writing this.

To put it another way, as I grow older, I have been able to make sense of these emotions. I know I feel things exponentially stronger than other people I know. What some might see as odd or inferior, I find my strong emotions to be an asset. Instead of seeing people or situations, I feel. Good or bad, I feel it in my chest, in my toes, in my fingertips. When I was in college, I wish I could tell younger Madeline to keep feeling it. I cried for my young siblings because I love them so immensely. I cried for them because I do feel guilty for moving away and growing up. I wish I could stay their protector forever. I wish we could live in the same house again and never have to watch them drive away or get in another Uber ever again. But, as has happened since the dawn of time, families grow up, move away, and form new families. I’m finding peace with that sentiment now. But I’m always going to cry myself to sleep the night we part, because I love my people that deep. 

plantar Fasciitis

Lately, I’ve been feeling this itch to get back into work. Don’t get me wrong, I love when people scoff in my face, tell me they ordered their drink iced, not hot, and the plantar fasciitis that stings after a double. Seriously, doesn't that sound like the dream? However, I am taken care of. I have health insurance, I have 40 hours, I enjoy my schedule, etc., etc. But I feel like I could be doing more. I want to write some copy and design pages again. I want to be the girl in the stylish outfit, ordering coffee before she goes to her cushy office. I want to make enough money to get a car made in the past ten years, at least! I want to drive to the Grand Canyon alone, I want to drive home for Christmas instead of being stuck at DIA for six hours of delays, and I want to avoid being scared that my engine will implode. 

Corporate America is no noble feat and will not solve all of my worries, but I’d like to use my degree before Trump drafts me into the war or before the swollen lymph nodes on my neck put me in my grave. I want my writing to be recognized by like-minded people, not just shared on my Instagram story. I want to say, “I’m a writer!”, not “I’m a barista, and write in my free time.” Because, curse me, but I think I’m a pretty decent writer. Sure, I’m not mind-blowing people or changing lives, but I’d say this shit is enjoyable enough. 

To put it simply, I was scrolling through posts and job listings on LinkedIn today. As I scrolled deeper down and the doubt grew hotter in my gut, I saw a post from a girl around my age. It was one of those LinkedIn posts with thousands of likes (bots, I bet) and fake bullshit inspiration. 

There in the paragraph read:

“You’re on the right path.”

Newsflash, Katey McBoringson, you’re not my therapist and you’re not God. How do you know if I’m on the right path? 

Do we think that, having been laid off from corporate jobs twice and worked hourly at coffee shops twice in three years, I am on the right path? Does she understand the mental gymnastics it takes not to take being laid off twice extremely personally? Being laid off once, I get. But twice? Is it my smile? My pants? My humor? My dependence on coffee? My lack of fully understanding the business I just started gaining experience in? 

I go through the motions day-to-day until I get that itch to get back into my career. I review job listings and update my resume. I connect with people on LinkedIn and envision myself being a copywriter or marketing assistant again. Each time I apply, I only receive decline emails. The light at the end of the tunnel grows smaller and smaller until I give up. And besides, I make good money now and am happy enough. Who cares about my goals, career, or future?

I’m not feeling like I’m on the right path anymore. It feels like a force is pushing me down a path. Some force unbeknownst to me, with no change in the future, and no hand outstretched to help. Each time I try to change the path I’ve been following for over a year, the fire gets squashed. 

So here I am and will be indefinitely, limping down this path with pins and needles from this goddamn plantar fasciitis. 

I quit

Strava. I quit Strava. Jeez, dramatic, I know, but I have to grab your attention somehow.

For those of you who have resisted the sudden boom of runners on social media, Strava is an app that tracks your runs, including the route, mile times, and duration. Seems harmless enough, right? WRONG! 

When I started running back in April, it was just me, an Apple Watch, and the trainer I listened to. I was running intervals of walking/running, and even just breaking a sweat was a success in my mind. I was taking my progress slowly, following the Couch to 5k plan. I listened to a podcast by a British guy who talked the listener through each run with fun anecdotes and words of encouragement. I was just happy with each step on the sidewalk.

As my endurance improved, the distance I ran increased. One warm spring Saturday, Camille and I went on a run at Sloan’s Lake. Afterward, she said she’d tag me in Strava, which I didn’t have at the time, but that afternoon, I downloaded it. This was around the time I started running 1-2 miles non-stop, so it felt like the natural next step. Initially, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I was adding people from high school, friends in Colorado, and running influencers I liked. I enjoyed tracking my runs, seeing them all accumulate on the calendar, and feeling a sense of accomplishment. I loved seeing my miles get shorter, the distances I was running get longer, and physically capturing the progress I was making. 

I would get back to my apartment from a run, sweating, out of breath, and red-faced. I would immediately stop the tracking and log my run in Strava. Standing with shaky legs, I'd add a cute caption, include some photos I’d taken on the run, and even take a selfie or two. Hitting post, I’d get kudos on the uploads from some of my connections and feel a sense of pride. I’d scroll through my home page and send kudos to my connections. Woo-hoo! I was officially part of the running community! 

Then I started, as I often do, to compare myself to them. It didn’t matter if it was an old friend who had been running their whole life, a running influencer whose job is to post on Strava, or even people in my everyday circle. I would see their mile times, sometimes significantly faster than mine with their caption: Today’s run sucked, slow miles! There would be a damn awkward silence between me and the phone. If I had run some of these “slow” mile times, I’d probably have a stroke at 24. Every run became this weird addiction, competing with others on an app. When I’d see my run did better than somebody else’s, oh my god, I acted like I’d won a gold medal. When I’d finish a run and the mile was slower than usual (god forbid you run slower in 100-degree heat), I’d mentally beat myself up. 

This morning, I decided not to track my run and just go with the flow of my body. Run as far as I felt good, run as fast as I could tolerate, and enjoy my audiobook. A few times, my mind would wander from the mystery novel in my headphones (None of This is True by Lisa Jewell)(3/5)(would not recommend) and think about just how good it felt. It felt like when I started running, not worrying about anyone else but me, putting one foot in front of the other. I wouldn’t use this run to compete or scroll through to see if I was better than everyone else for running on a holiday. It’s all just some serious bullshit. If you're someone who enjoys using comparisons to push yourself, by all means, get this app. I’m not one to yuck another’s yum. However, this dish serves me a sour main course with a side of gloom. 

Even though the Apple Watch I use is an old hand-me-down and doesn’t track accurately, it’s all I need. I need to know relatively how far I’ve gone and make sure my heart rate doesn’t send me to an urgent care. I can honestly say that I’m more excited to go on runs now because, full-heartedly, I’ll be doing it for myself and only myself. I used to say I was going on this journey to better myself, while secretly scrolling through Strava and becoming bitter about not being able to run a half-marathon. I can’t say the running is for me, and then try to make the perfect post at 7:30 am in the summer sun, sweat dripping off my nose, and my heart rate at maximum capacity, all while still standing on the sidewalk. Just take off the headphones, listen to the morning doves, stretch out the hamstrings, say hi to dog walkers that pass by, and go upstairs. Finish the run like god intended and stop letting an app control me. 

P.S. Camille, don’t beat yourself up over introducing me to Strava. I would have gotten to it eventually, and you happen to have an extremely sensitive friend. xoxo