The black sky was pixelated with the neon lights of the city below it. South Korea, known for its advanced technology, was entirely encompassed in this electric energy. I don't remember more than this, and as the night wore on, the sky itself melted into a blur. I had spent the last twenty hours traveling from Russia, where I had spent a month teaching English in orphanages, to Seoul, South Korea before flying across the Pacific Ocean back to the United States. The eighteen-hour layover was supposed to be a much-welcomed break; the opportunity sleeping in a horizontal rather than seated position had never sounded so appealing. But it was not the relieving break I was looking forward to. At the young age of fourteen, I was plagued with severe lower back pain due to a strained ligament. I had been playing volleyball competitively for the past four years and grown considerably taller during that time. Because I was so young, I was unsure of how to respond to this pain or if it was just a part of puberty and the growth process that was never mentioned in textbooks. I was afraid to tell my parents and coaches because I was worried that I would have to quit a sport that I loved and was decently good at. In Russia, my body was put to the test. I walked everywhere, carried orphans on my back, and was constantly bending over to pick up craft supplies off the floors. This added stress on my lumbar vertebrae took its toll. Sleep-deprived and emotionally exhausted, I managed to make it to South Korea in one piece, limping slowly and carrying my backpack in my arms to alleviate the stress in whatever way I could. I remember walking into the hotel in the heart of downtown Seoul, the jade-colored, marbled floors…and then waking up in my bed to floor-length windows. The leader of the trip sat next to my bed, attempting to explain what had happened in the lobby. I had blacked out on the floor for a few seconds, but because of the extreme pain in my back, I was unable to stand up. I was carried to my room by my team leader and given some pain relievers so I would be able to walk again in a few hours to catch the next flight. What I did not realize was that I was given Vicodin, a potent narcotic similar to morphine. Why my leader had it to begin with still remains a mystery to me today, but that day changed my life for both better and worse. 

Months passed by slowly after that summer. I started my sophomore year of high school and regularly saw a chiropractor for my back. While I never could get my hands on pain medication that was as strong as Vicodin, I remembered the exact sensations I had felt. Vicodin is used in the medical world as a universal prescription pain reliever. It is a concoction of acetaminophen, a fever and pain reducer, and hydrocodone, a synthetic opiate that triggers the same receptors in the brain as heroin. While the human brain already produces its own form of opioids, these receptors are stimulated in response to pain and the opioid neurotransmitters block the pain sensation. Opiates like Vicodin are dangerous because not only are they doing the job of chemicals that the brain naturally creates, but they often cause extreme feelings of euphoria if taken in larger-than-prescribed amounts. As the opioid receptors grow used to the excessive amounts of Vicodin or any other opiate in the brain, the desired high and feelings of elation demand a more substantial amount in the future to feel the euphoric effects.

I was frustrated that I could not figure out an unconventional way to stumble upon more Vicodin. However, I still felt the need for another pill to fill the hole that the synthetic opiate had left, even if its replacement would not be as strong. With little success in relieving my pain through the chiropractor, I resorted to taking copious amounts of ibuprofen, roughly fifteen to twenty capsules per day, simply because it was conveniently available and no one would question a young girl taking ibuprofen. I had a list of excuses I could use should I ever be suspected of abusing it. I noticed very few side effects and I was pain-free. Still, if I missed the four-hour mark to take another dose, I would begin to feel sick, the pain sliding down my spine to settle in its familiar nest of discs and nerves. While this back pain was relatively manageable, my academic obligations were slipping through the cracks. While I was never pegged for a genius, I did well in school and kept it as my top priority, even above volleyball. 

Towards the end of middle school, my parents had begun to notice that I became extremely distracted while doing any kind of task, particularly those related to school. While I always managed to get my work done, it took an ungodly amount of time: three hours for a ten-question math assignment, two hours to read a chapter of biology, rewriting sentences over and over in an essay because I would lose my train of thought. At the age of fifteen, I was taken to a psychologist and diagnosed with ADHD. ADHD has become one of the hallmark disorders that is often detected in children, especially in the last thirty years or so. The fifth edition of the Diagnostic Statistical Manual (DSM-5) provides the symptoms that must be present for diagnosis: the individual is easily distracted, often forgetful of daily activities, often loses things necessary for completing assignments and other interests, usually has trouble holding attention on projects or play activities, often has problems with organizing thoughts and planning courses of action, and often does not follow through on instructions and fails to finish schoolwork, chores, or duties in the workplace. These red-flag inattention indicators, along with the manifestations of hyperactivity and impulsivity like talking excessively, fidgeting with objects or when sitting still, being always "on the go" as if the body is operated by a motor, often interrupting and intruding on others, and blurting out the answers to questions before they are completed, led to my diagnosis of ADHD. I learned from my parents that when I was in elementary school, I was consistently reprimanded for my inability to be quiet and focused, but ever since middle school, I had learned that it was not "cool" to be sent to the principal's office daily. I resorted very quickly to be as silent as possible in class. Still, my capability of being distracted did not change. While my frontal lobe was not even close to being fully developed at the age of fifteen, ADHD has been known to slow the maturation process even further, meaning that I would be susceptible to impulsive decision making and inattention for a more extended period than my peers.

As more and more children and adults have been diagnosed with this disorder, additional research on the best treatments is continually in the works. The most common treatment of ADHD is through stimulant medication. This can include methylphenidates, such as Ritalin, Concerta, and Daytrana, or amphetamines and dextroamphetamines, like Adderall and ProCentra. Methylphenidates, the category of medication that my psychologist recommended, can hold back the reabsorption of dopamine and norepinephrine, allowing for increased attention span as well as the reward and motivation to do so. While there is no doubt that these stimulant medications can be addictive, it is only in large quantities that this excessive amount of dopamine and norepinephrine can become a complication. Common drugs like Ritalin, when taken at the appropriate level, only bring the actual amount of dopamine to a normal range, rarely causing an overabundance. Dopamine is a famous neurotransmitter that is derived from the amino acid tyrosine and manufactured in the multifaceted brain regions of the hypothalamus, substantia nigra, and the adrenal gland of the medulla. This neuropeptide is always in high demand because it can improve mood, enhances the fluidity of movement, and aids the sympathetic nervous system (SNS), which is liable for increasing heart rate, pupil dilation, sweating, and a host of other protective mechanisms. 

Because I was diagnosed so late compared to most children, my parents were wary of putting me on medication. Naturally, the psychologist asked what drugs I had taken and was currently taking for the sake of medical records. While I did not disclose the one-time Vicodin high I had experienced, I did explain how often I was taking ibuprofen. My parents and psychologist were shocked as high levels of ibuprofen are known to mangle the lining of the stomach and intestines. Because I was so young, the effects of my current dosage, if I continued, would be irreversible. Ibuprofen is a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug (NSAID). This drug works by inhibiting the production of prostaglandins, hormones that instigate inflammation and pain in the body. Hearing all of the potential adverse side effects scared me enough to promise to lay off of the ibuprofen for at least six months. At about this time, my psychologist informed me of a few techniques to help me in school, as well as providing me with a pass to give to my teachers, allowing me to take as long as I needed on tests and lengthy assignments. With my academic crisis averted, I began to focus solely on healing my back. But it was hopeless. Every medical professional, chiropractor, or person who had suffered from back pain claimed that I needed extended rest, which I translated to quitting volleyball. This idea devastated me, but I understood that I should not be having back problems with another 60 plus years of life ahead of me. This was my first experience with depressive-related symptoms. I felt empty without spending two hours playing volleyball every day. Food was tasteless, sleep was fleeting, isolation was more desirable than being around my friends; is this was it felt like to have the world shift on its axis? 

I grew up in the protective bubble of a private K-12 private school. While the external world was kept from crossing that threshold, the halls were breeding grounds for ostracization. Success was valued above all else, especially in sports. As a member of the state-title-clad, varsity volleyball team, while only being a sophomore, I was untouchable. Until I wasn't. I loved having grown up with my best friends, but the word “privacy” had no meaning to me. In a mere three hours, the whole school was aware that I had quit volleyball; it took a few weeks for my peers to realize that my special treatment in class was due to a mental disorder. I began to be heavily teased in class because of my ADHD, even though I was required to complete the same amount of work like everyone else. Some of my classmates went so far  to say that it was because of my unconventional thinking that I quit volleyball. The constant synaptic firing and social isolation left my head spinning. I had never experienced anything like this before. And I didn't know how to handle it.  

Melancholy crept up on me with the approach of winter. In the dark, it was able to move swiftly and in silence. I had nothing to fill my time after school, so I would lay in bed and recall the horrors of my day. I desperately tried to fade into the shadows that the lockers cast on the hallways, hoping that I wouldn’t be bothered if I was never seen. While my back pain was slowly being alleviated, a new pain was finding its way into my mind. I felt as if I had done something to deserve both a physical and mental ailment. I became fascinated with the thought of death. If its inevitable arrival was the only thing that I could be certain of in my life, why couldn’t it just happen now? In my mind, the world was no longer spinning. Suicidal ideation was a constant companion in the months that followed. Yet, there was never a point where I wanted to cease to exist altogether. I just wanted my current life to be over. I desperately wanted to live, just not in my current body or at the present moment. That’s the cruel trick of suicide; it doesn’t give you want you crave most. 

In the spring, I was desperate for activity. My muscles ached to be in motion and I figured that a rush of endorphins would be a welcoming experience for my troubled brain. While endorphins have long been thought to produce the sought after "runner's high," scientific research has now begun to show that it is actually endocannabinoids that are responsible for the elated post-run feeling. Endorphins are too large to run through the bloodstream, but they do cooperate with endocannabinoids to relieve pain and create a space for euphoria. These cannabinoid receptors have an overarching influence on mood, memory, appetite, and the sensation of pain that all runners seem to be familiar with. While endorphins might not be the only chemical responsible for causing a pain-relieving high, their role in regulating emotions is significant. As a polypeptide created in the pituitary gland and scattered all throughout the central nervous system (CNS), it is responsible for responding to stressors throughout the body, like the well-known “fight or flight” reaction. If endorphins are not functioning properly, moodiness, anxiety, and depression are known to manifest. It is very possible that my body was suffering from a lack of endorphins to help relieve pain and stress, allowing depression to surface.   

The only problem I faced with attempting to play a spring sport was to either endure my intense loathing of running or be subject to more mockery from my peers if they were to see my lack of coordination with a soccer ball at my feet. With the latter subjecting me to an unnecessary social suicide, I was forced to embrace the crack-of-dawn running practices of track and field. My only goals for the season were to do the bare minimum that my muscles required of me to feel like I was doing something beneficial for my body and to have no attention whatsoever given in my direction. I failed miserably on both accounts. The 400-meter time trial on the first day of practice just about granted me the death I desired. My body crumpled to the ground, my muscles outright refusing to carry my bones one step further. In the days that followed, the coaches spent the practices with their heads together putting together relay teams. One Monday morning, I could see my head coach running towards me from across the track. I always ran alone, so there was no way I could convince myself that she was going to be running towards anyone else. Instead of stopping when she got to me like I prayed she would do so I could take a break, she sidled up next to me and continued running. 

“So, the coaches have been discussing the relay teams for this year,” she started. 

"It's okay, Coach. I really don't mind not being on one. I'm new to running, so I don't want to let anyone down." I felt the need to stop her right there; she didn't need to take time out of practice to make sure that I was okay not making the team.

Acting as though she didn’t hear a word I said, she continued. “And we’d like for you to be on the 4x800 meter team.” 

“You just have to trust me on this, Grace. You’ll be fine.” 

For the first time, I felt like I had found a semblance of a cure for my self-diagnosed depression and ADHD, without the help of a tangerine-colored bottle. Science has demonstrated numerous times the effects of exercise, which bear a likeness to many drugs like methylphenidates. Exercise serves as the ignition for the manufacturing of the same neurotransmitters as ADHD stimulants: dopamine and norepinephrine, with the addition of serotonin. The endorphins produced by running are best explained as "nature's antidepressant." Not only did running give me a break from social anxiety and my thoughts for an hour a day, but it also gave me a constructive outlet for my eternal energy. I noticed that I was much more productive and was far less sidetracked with arbitrary stimuli at school, especially if I had track practice in the morning. Although my brain and body were still fairly new to running, confidence was sparked that I could maybe continue on this path to unlock more natural benefits for my atypically wired brain.

In the year that followed, my life remained relatively stable. My symptoms of depression did not leave entirely, but I had learned to mask them well. I researched as much as I could about Major Depressive Disorder and decided that medication would be the only way that I would feel better for good. I began to believe that I was powerless against my thoughts and that with the aid of psychotropic courage, I could find myself again. It is hard now to convey the exact emotions I felt during the high school years. While I knew that my neurological experience was inherently different than those around me at that time, I desperately wanted to believe that I was not the only one who felt desolation so deeply. It wasn’t that I was hardwired to always feel hollow; I felt incapable of finding joy in anything. I was told over and over again that “Everyone feels sad sometimes.” When compared with my own life, “sometimes” was a drastic understatement. If I felt sad almost all of the time, what did that say about me? If I was unable to control how my own brain spoke to my body, how could I possibly attempt to control my external environment? The hour of the day that I spent running was the closest form of peace that I had experienced since I had begun high school. And yet, I still managed to convince myself that this feeling was encountered only because I was no longer in pain, unaware until recently that it literally changed the chemical makeup of my brain. 

Senior year was a whirlwind. With my depression worsening, I began to run more to provide a healthy distraction. I still was paralyzed by fear of admitting that I felt as if my internal world was crumbling. I kept bottles of sleeping medication next to a small whittling knife under my pillow. In a twisted way, it gave me great comfort to know that I had a way out of the world if it became too painful to endure any longer. While many experts say that it is not possible to be addicted to physical behavior like self-harm, it is still seen as a poor idea for a coping mechanism. In my moments of overwhelming numbness, I needed a surefire way to know that I was alive. Deep down, I didn’t want to believe that I was capable of hurting myself. But with my self-diagnosed, sub-par level of organic endorphins, I needed assistance to reach the normal range.

Interestingly enough, self-injury produces the same flood of endorphins and endocannabinoids as running. In the winter, when I was not running, the lack of these uplifting, palliative chemicals rendered me desperate for an alternative. As the winter melted into spring and running started up again, my impulse and demand for self-injury began to fade away.   

At the end of my senior year, I made the spontaneous decision to sign a letter of intent to run for the University of Alaska Anchorage as a part of the Cross Country and Track and Field teams. After setting multiple school records and receiving several state titles and honors during my short, two-year career of running, my coaches encouraged me to continue to pursue this new passion I had developed. As I leaned farther into this seemingly punishing sport, I pushed what remained of my social life to the side. As the lone senior girl who ran, I became more isolated than before; if whoever remained in my disintegrating group of friends did not run, I never saw them. It became very apparent to those around me that I would rather spend my time running than pretend to enjoy conversation with my peers. 

The first two years of college proved to be the most trying time of my life thus far. In the fall of my freshman year, I clung to the hope that my troubled mind was stimulated by the toxic environment of high school. Armed with hidden dreams and an frequently overblown work-ethic, I struggled to change the pessimistic view I had adapted for life. My feeble attempts to change my perspective were shattered by a hip injury that had me sidelined just weeks before my inaugural cross country season began. With the bursa sac of my left hip joint inflamed, a condition known as bursitis, the intensity of my workouts dramatically decreased. I already felt less experienced than my older teammates, leaving my brain to expertly catastrophize this minor setback. As the left side of my body fought to heal under the weight of training, my right hip was strained due to the inadequate compensation of my body. I was directed to run on the AlterG, a 75-grand, engineering masterpiece (to which I would owe much of my collegiate career), as a way to maintain mileage and fitness while running at 50-90% of my body weight. Again, I found myself alone with nothing to do but run. That fall, with the women’s team qualifying for Nationals in Florida, I found myself at home. The stress to heal was mounting as the track season rapidly approached, my melancholic state was spreading right along with it. 

In late November, my father underwent shoulder surgery and faced six months of recovery time. He was given a plethora of medications to relieve pain and induce sleep, outcomes that were very appealing to me for different reasons. I desperately needed a distraction from the pain that I experienced from not being able to run, which had been the only saving grace I had known over the last two years. With my mask stripped away from me, I was unable to appropriately cope with my tidal wave of emotions. With prescriptions being refilled every few days, my parents unknowingly and easily fueled my growing addiction. My father was given a prescription of codeine sulfate, an opioid agonist and a cough suppressant in the same category of Vicodin. Codeine sulfate is so potent that it is not allowed to be given to any individual under the age of eighteen. While I considered codeine sulfate to be on the same danger scale as Vicodin, I did not realize how risky my drug-taking behavior had become. Sensations of pain are relieved when codeine sneaks across the blood-brain barrier and binds to unobstructed opioid receptors. Little did I know that I was on the verge of becoming hooked on the most commonly abused opioid in the world.  When mixed with other medications, codeine sulfate can have extreme side effects such as sweating, rashes, dizziness, vomiting, and in worse cases, death. I was subconsciously toying with death as I began my mornings with a concoction of codeine sulfate and methylphenidate, ADHD medication that I stole from my brother. While I could have easily been put on medication for my own ADHD, I thought that admitting that I needed the help of extra neuropeptides was a form of weakness. My warped mind convinced my body that taking drugs not intended for me was safer for my external image so long as no one found out. And no one did. 

“Grace, you’re limping.” My teammate Mariah, a well-seasoned senior, had gained my respect over the last few months. As a high school standout from Alaska, Mariah shared the same tenacity to do well as I did, despite not having as many opportunities to run against the higher competition of the lower 48 states. She was always my constant encouragement in workouts, where she would push me from behind or tap her hip as a signal for me to move up next to her during intervals. Concern laced her voice now as she slowed down her cadence to run beside me. 

Unable to fight back the tears as a searing pain shot up my legs, I stumbled to an ineffective hobble. "I don't know what is going on," I choked out. At this point, I was visibly shaking, a flood of anger and fear surging through me. "I literally just need my legs to hang on for another 36 hours." Just a few days earlier, I had informed my teammates of my intention to give my body a couple weeks off after the end of this meet (if I didn’t make it to the national meet). This was not the break I was anticipating. 

That night broke me in more ways that I would like to admit. One of the school athletic trainers made the trek down to Oregon with the team and spent hours of her evening trying to mend my crippled shins. My whole body felt numb. As I lay on the floor of her room, I remembered the feeling of staggering back to the hotel a few hours earlier, rehearsing how I would tell my coach that I could barely walk, let alone run. Two days ago, three hours before our plane took off for Oregon, I had had one of my best workouts since joining the team, to the extent that my coach made a point of pointing it out to me. Before messaging my coach to explain myself, I snuck back to my room to grab the bottle of codeine sulfate I’d brought with me. I had only planned on using it to calm my nerves before the race, but this was emotional and mental stress that I was not prepared to deal with. Taking twice my usual dosage, I prayed that this would make my current nightmare disappear, that I would wake up and race just like I had planned. My coach’s words stunned me to silence. “How is this possible? You were running fine two days ago! Hell, you ran yesterday! You mean to tell me that you all of a sudden can’t run? Get control of your mental state. Focus on staying hydrated. Fuel well. Nothing is wrong, you are just paranoid. Remember, running is mostly mental and you have to prepare yourself for battle tomorrow.” 

I never expected to be dismissed in such a way. Mariah and a number of my teammates who overheard our conversation were astounded at the way he had treated me as if my pain were an excuse to not race. Why would I sign up for a collegiate sport and agree to be paid to do it if I never wanted to race? It didn’t make sense. Why would I lie about something like this? I could see the frustration in my coach’s eyes. Here before him stood a girl who showed signs of the most popular buzz-word in all athletics: potential. He had made her well-aware that she had it, but she had been plagued by injuries since she started wearing the green and gold. Her drive was there, but she was weak mentally; she let fear define her running ability and her training. I stayed in my room for the rest of the afternoon; I didn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. I just cried and took medication every few hours. I limped down the hall to the trainer’s room again that evening and let out the rest of my tears as she dug with her metal tools into my taut muscles, trying to break apart the scar tissue that had formed in clumps on my shins. She positioned electrical pads that were hooked into a transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulator (TENS) machine onto my lower legs, sending electrical impulses through my legs to break up the knots even further and relieve pain. Around 9:00 p.m., my coach poked his head in the door, assessing the aura of the room before he quietly asked how I was feeling. I had barely opened my mouth to respond before the athletic trainer assuredly explained that everything was being done to make sure that I could run the next day. It wouldn’t be pain-free, but it was possible. The only limiting factor was how much pain I would be willing to endure. It was at this moment that I wished I was faster at the shorter events like the 800 or 1500 meter. Having to run two or four laps would certainly be doable, but twenty-five laps for a 10k and twelve for a 5k seemed daunting. If I could barely run two miles at a slow jog, how could I run more than six miles as fast as my legs could carry me? The truth was my legs couldn’t carry me anymore. Their breaking point was long overdue. 

After another discussion (that certainly felt more like a lecture) on how I only needed to focus on today and not let the nerves get to my head, my coach returned to patrolling the hallways. After his footsteps faded down the hall, my trainer sat down across from me and paused the electric current from pulsing through my legs. As she held my gaze, she said, “You can’t run tomorrow. And you shouldn’t run for the next two months. I know I’m not a doctor and we haven’t taken an X-Ray yet or thought about an MRI, but I know overuse injuries when I see them. You likely have stress fractures in both shins.” I knew the implications of stress fractures: no weight-bearing activities for weeks, if not months, hours of rehab, getting comfortable treading water in a pool. This is not how I envisioned my summer starting. I stabilized my body with the wall as I limped back to my room later that night. I returned to the trainer's room in the morning for more treatment before spending the day at the track. Before I collapsed onto my bed, I quickly swallowed a few pills while my teammate was in the shower. I could barely feel my legs at this point as they had been pumped with several anti-inflammatories and then flash-frozen for the better part of three hours. The only thing that needed to be made numb now were my emotions; I was feeling far too much. I didn’t sleep that night; it could be blamed on the narcotics or the pulsating pain of a dull ache that slowly returned to my lower legs or the cyclical rotation of worst-case scenarios of tomorrow and the days that would likely come after. 

Even though the sun never slept during the Alaska summer, I felt more detached than ever before and rarely left my bed. I allowed myself to exploit the excuse that I was simply minimizing the risk of weight-bearing by laying down whenever possible. The only aspect of my life that had remained a constant had been stripped away and no longer a guarantee; pills quickly filled the void. I clung to the someday of being able to run again. In the heat of late July, I took my first steps on what felt like new legs. While my body inherently remembered how to move efficiently, retraining my mind was much harder. My procedural memory, controlled unconsciously by my brain, was much more adept than I had given it credit for. If I were to take an MRI of my brain, I would expect to see an intricate web of white matter connecting a variety of brain regions responsible for movement related to running, allowing for more fluid coordination. When skills are learned, the primary motor cortex is adjusted to allow stronger attachments of the nerves that traverse through the spinal cord to prime motor contraction. At the beginning of this new skill development, the center for movement planning, the pre-motor cortex is working diligently to make sure that each action happens when it is supposed to. Once a skill is mastered, there is very little activity in the pre-motor cortex as the plan of action has become so rehearsed that it appears automatic. However, the cerebellum remains active throughout the entire process of movement because it is the epicenter coordination of movement and of motor learning influenced by cognition.

While I had expected an elated return to running, my muscles were more responsive to fear than any other stimulus. I was paralyzed by the thought of injury; I lost my desire to push myself beyond the familiar zone of comfort. I grappled with the fine line of control and trusting that my body could handle the intensity of the competitive atmosphere. As my fitness was rebuilt, brick by brick, I felt a lessening need for liquid courage or its circular-shaped counterparts. With my first true cross country season nipping at the heel of September, I began increasing the miles in an attempt to match that of my Kenyan teammates. The ease of the fast-paced training runs a couple of times a week had fueled the idea that maybe I could be one of the top runners on the team this fall. At the start of the season, dreams were shared and goals made for the next nine months; we were in this for the long haul and knew the work that we had to put in to make it to the Big Dance of the NCAA. The coach that had brought me to tears just four months earlier had a complete rejuvenation of personality and empathy for his athletes. He built us up daily with seemingly impossible workouts and endless encouraging words. While I had always tried to follow his instruction the year before, I understood that I needed to trust him and his training program now more than ever if I wanted to continue down the path of improvement. He began commenting on a recurring theme that manifested in all of the intensity workouts: I was running tense. With shoulders hugging my ears, arms essentially stationary at my side, and tight hips that allowed for minimal leg extension, I was waiting for disaster to strike. 

While I had learned to expertly ration my narcotics, my cache was depleted and not being restocked. As my father began to celebrate the approach of his one-year mark of shoulder surgery, I did not share the same feelings as my own yearlong anniversary approached since I had consistently begun using drugs. I knew that the prescriptions would not be coming in as frequently as they did before. The silver lining of alcohol proved to be an easily accessible substitute. Because I was underage, I had to rely on my sub-par relationships with teammates and other acquaintances in the running community who were older than me to get my hands on copious amounts of the mind-numbing liquor. While I would've rather spent the late nights alone, I sacrificed my desire for isolation and faked relationships to distract myself from my own thoughts and broken body. As far as the world around me could tell, I was living the quintessential college dream. But I had given up. Apathy was crippling and spreading from one aspect of my life to another. By December, all I wanted to do was quit running, quit school, quit breathing. If I hadn’t even hit the “real adult world” yet, how would I survive that? It didn’t take much to convince my exhausted brain that I wouldn’t survive, so I might as well end it all now before I reach a new level of disappointment. 

I wallowed in my self-pity through the fall and into the new year, until I was cleared to run. With fresh, recovered legs (again) to ring in the New Year, I resolved to “be better” during the upcoming year. This goal encompassed my running, my addiction, and my entirely too-pessimistic attitude. I had to admit to myself I could not run as many miles as I had been striving to in the previous months; my body was fragile and could only handle the bare minimum. With the desire to overachieve stifled, I began to focus on the quality of miles I ran instead of the quantity of the miles. I met with my coach in his office to discuss goals and training for the upcoming season. At the end of the conversation, he explained that if I wanted to see any improvement from the previous track season, I would need to lose weight.

While no one wants to hear those words, especially if it is tied to performance, I took it much better than I thought I would. I needed a distraction from the gaping hole I was left with without the aid of narcotics or alcohol to fill the void; I craved to fill the emptiness with something I could control. Thanks to the prefrontal cortex, the brain is wired to weigh and control decisions that affect the surrounding environment. When faced with certain experiences that are not warranted, humans try to grasp on harder to what they can control before that too slips from their grasp. The lack of self-possession that I felt so deeply was at the very core of my melancholic state and deficient happiness. The months of drinking myself every night, coupled with not running as much as I would have liked didn't do my body any favors. Little by little, the weight fell off as I continued to focus on the little elements of fitness like sleep, taking proper supplements, and watching the portion sizes of meals, even healthy ones.

I wasn't running as much as I wanted to, but I felt the strength returning, the love rekindled. My coach, knowing that my body and mind still had growing to do, informed me that I would not be returning to run the 10k this season. I would be running the 3000-meter steeplechase instead; it was the event that he told me last year I would never run because I was too “injury-prone.” The 10k was a brutal race that I was relieved to have escaped from, but the door was left wide open for fear to creep in: what if my coach was right and I was injury-prone? It wouldn’t take much at this point to have some other muscular or skeletal imbalance cause a chain reaction of damage. And then my coach would be right. I had been afflicted with injuries for ten out of the last seventeen months. At this point, my body was used to dysfunction more than anything else. My coach’s only goal for me for the track season was to not run scared. It’s a weird goal to have at the collegiate level where most athletes have their sights set on being All-American or on a certain spot on their team. But again, my path was unconventional. 

I was confident the entire stadium of people could hear him screaming at me from across the track. It was the most he had ever talked to me during a race and the first time I got a hug from him after I finished. I was sopping wet, but it was the happiest I had been after a race in years. “So, I guess I need to work on my barriers, huh?” I said, looking up at my coach’s eyes hidden by sunglasses. 

“Are you kidding? The race officials have to refill the pit because of you. You might as well have cannon-balled into it!" Normally a response like this from him would have caused me to freak out, but I knew he was joking. He said he was proud of me, that I raced well and I would learn more and more with each race I ran. I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I had no reason to be afraid, I just did exactly what was asked of me. It didn't go as smoothly as it could've, but sometimes that isn't in my control. In the couple months that followed, my time in steeplechase improved to the point where I was on the cusp of qualifying for nationals. I was shocked; not only was this a new event for me, but I didn't feel as fit as I could've been had I not been sidelined by injury. The conference meet marked the end of my track season and I began to feel like my old self again. 

In mid-May, I made the decision to forgo my remaining eligibility at UAA to focus on my studies and my personal running goals outside of the collegiate circle. My coach, who I had grown to respect, made the decision to retire and I did not have the desire to run for someone else. People assume I quit because my legs gave out and my spirit burned out, but it was just the opposite. I kept the promises I made to myself in the new year to focus on healthy alternatives to the addictive substances I grew so dependent on and the substitute I leaned on the heaviest was running. I haven’t taken one pill since December of 2018. While I do drink, I do so very cautiously. The knife beneath my pillow was returned to its drawer in the kitchen. 

While I credit my deep desire to change my life by the renewal of my mind, I owe much of my present life to running. Part of me feels like running saved my life, but I know that it is a much deeper operation than that. I left the team because I value every step I am blessed to take when I run. Not only are the physical aspects unparalleled, but it deepens the connection of duality between my mind and body. With my brain now receiving its necessary amounts of dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, and endocannabinoids, I was forced out of my corner of isolation into a group of like-minded people who understood the joy that stems from running. Many of these people have become my closest confidants. Today, my runs intertwine my dreams and my thoughts; this is where these individual aspects have melded into one. Here, on the heavily wooded trails that my feet define more and more each day is where I feel all of my symptoms alleviated. I couldn’t risk injuring myself again for the sake of collegiate training racing. 

Over the two years I ran for UAA, I learned more about my body and mind than I ever had expected. I felt most in tune with myself during the team long runs every Saturday morning. I looked forward to the thirteen to fifteen mile run every week, no matter how depleted of energy my body was. Many of my friends who I had grown close to in the running community were training for a variety of longer races like half marathons, marathons, ultramarathons, and an assortment of mountain runs. While I enjoyed my team, my heart gravitated towards the longer distances and inherently pushing the outer limits of my aerobic endurance. With my running schedule completely clear, I was free to pursue all of my passions with a few of my best friends in tow.

Running became the addiction that changed my life. The word addiction has a negative connotation throughout society as if it is a crippling disease that holds its captive stationary. But some addiction can be beneficial or even necessary for living a fulfilling life. My brain is still dependent on the neurotransmitters that narcotics, pain, and alcohol are responsible for producing. Thanks to running, my receptors and synapses are provided daily with copious amounts of chemicals that allow me to function at my highest capacity. I still often feel like I am teetering on a wire above life and death. I have learned that while the mind is fragile, it can be trained to be resilient. Balance is a pivotal aspect of life and addiction is an element that can tip the scale. But it doesn’t have to. It can be controlled and it can be overcome. I have been attending Narcotics Anonymous (NA) for 11 months now and every day, I am stunned by how similar each story is, how each of us was convinced that no one else could possibly know that shame of isolation that we felt as individuals. Each day it is apparent how wrong I was. While I will always consider myself an addict, I know that even the smallest decisions made towards being the best version of myself are worth taking the risk of falling off the wire. It is only when I stand still, refusing to move forward, that my equilibrium is lost. 

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GRACE GANNON is a senior pursuing a Baccalaureate degree in Behavior Analysis with a minor in Creative Writing. This piece was selected by Professor Jacqueline Cason.