Runners High...and Lows

Warning: This blog contains content that is not suitable for the easily grossed out or offended.

I’m almost certain that OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) has some correlation to ADHD (attention deficit hyperactive disorder). In the world of psychology, the existence of two diagnoses at once is called comorbidity. I know this, because in a moment when I am sure that I was supposed to be focused on something else, I was obsessing about the coexistence of these two “disorders,” although I do not view them as disorders at all. Difference? Yes. Disorder? Only if I let it be.

You see, ADHD deals with one’s attention and impulsivity. It does not mean that I cannot focus. It means that it takes more effort for me to focus on what I am supposed to focus on. It means that I can become completely immersed in a subject and pay perfect attention without veering off at all. Unfortunately, that subject is not always what I am supposed to be focused on, and I have great difficulty getting back on track once I am derailed. I was fortunate enough to have a mother who is a psychotherapist and who taught me about how my brain works. I know all sorts of coping skills in dealing with ADHD, and I use them on a daily basis. Where ADHD deals with impulsivity, OCD deals with compulsion. Both deal with one’s abilities to say no to the urge to act on a behavior. Someone with OCD can get trapped in a looping cycle, where they actually cannot stop themselves from repeating the same behavior, routine, or ritual over and over. I have never been diagnosed with OCD, although I have rather obsessive behaviors (that’s for another blog), one of which has become running.

Hello, my name is Emily, and I am an addict. I have been sober now for twenty three hours, but I plan to get another fix before the end of the evening. My addiction is a dirty, sweaty place of black outs, vomit, rabies, urine, snot, blood, blisters, bruises, and dead animals. It wakes me up before 5 a.m. It has caused me to lose 29 lbs. since July of last year. If I have to, I’ll even bring my child with me when I need to get another fix. I leave my home every day, except for Sundays, in search of the rush, and I have even gotten friends and family to join me. I have to buy new paraphernalia every three months or my body hurts and I can barely walk. Running is the drug that has, like the dirty bearded man who wanders the streets of Dallas talking to himself, altered my mind, body, and especially, my sense of modesty.

Crossing the finish line at my first 10k, I was relieved. Relieved that the race was over. Relieved that I beat my goal time of one hour by nearly four minutes. And, to my surprise, I relieved my bladder, as well. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I peed myself. And not just a little bit.

I crossed the finish line, ran off to the side, turned to see Dave crossing the finish line, and it hit me. And it was not waiting on me to find a port-a-john. It was already beginning to run down my leg. So I did the only thing that I could think to do. I walked the three feet to the nearest curb, casually sat down, and answered nature’s call. Right there…in public…with at least a thousand people standing nearby.

“Come on, Emily. Don’t sit down. You have to keep walking, or you will get sore,” Dave coached me as he came walking up.

“Errr….I…um…can’t.” With my stare, I directed his gaze down to the stream leading from his beautiful bride (ha) down to the wet leaves that lined the curb.

“Oh…um…oh.” He was speechless. I can’t really say that I blame him. After being married for almost five years, there’s not much that I do anymore that really surprises Dave. But this didn’t count as one of those times.

I sat there and peed for what seemed like forever. Then, I did the most logical thing I could think of. I doused myself in water from an Ozarka bottle in an effort to hide that I had just popped a squat and peed in public. Sure, it was cold. But it was better than the alternative.

For my next race, I was determined that this would not happen again. I made sure that I did not over-hydrate. I used the port-a-john (something that was against my religion before now) TWICE before my race.

At mile four, my legs started to feel very cold. The tops of my socks didn’t feel quite right. I reached down and touched the hem of my shorts. Really? Yes, really. While I ran. And again in the grass at the finish line.

Most people would not pay good money to pee in public. But I’m not most people. I’m a runner. When I should be sleeping, I run. When I should be cleaning my house, I run. When I should be at the chiropractor, I run. When I should be resting because of a cold or a headache, I run. I’m addicted. I’m obsessed. I cannot break my focus. And it’s simply not a problem.