Depression Hates a Moving Target. Nita Sweeney
Depression
Hates a
Moving Target
How Running with My Dog Brought Me Back from the Brink
Nita Sweeney
Mango Publishing
Coral Gables
All rights reserved. No reproduction, even in part, without the written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 2019 by Nita Sweeney
Published by Mango Publishing Group, a division of Mango Media Inc.
Cover and Layout Design: Jermaine Lau
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Depression Hates a Moving Target: How Running with My Dog Brought Me Back from the Brink
Library of Congress Cataloging
ISBN: (p) 978-1-64250-013-4 (e) 978-1-64250-014-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019935676
BISAC category code: SEL011000 SELF-HELP / Mood Disorders / Depression
Printed in the United States of America
For Ed, my husband, best friend, and confidant.
Author’s Note
In writing this book, I used my journals and running logs to refresh my recollection of people, places, conversations, and events. I also researched facts and talked to some individuals who appear in the book. As for my opinions, they are my own. I wrote about what worked for me. This book is not intended as a substitute for medical advice on any issue, physical or psychological. As the members of the Dead Runners Society say, “Your mileage may vary.”
Table of Contents
Off the Sofa and into the Ravine
Chapter 7
Fuse. Fuse. Fuse.
Chapter 8
Turkey Trot
Chapter 9
The Land of Enchantment
Chapter 10
Structure
Chapter 11
Endurance Athlete
Chapter 12
Tying Myself to the Planet
Chapter 13
The Quarter
Chapter 14
Marathoner in Training
Chapter 15
The Big “Five-Oh!”
Chapter 16
My Mind Is Trying to Kill Me
Chapter 17
Half Marathoner
Chapter 18
Mortals Can Marathon
Chapter 19
Sophomore Slump
Chapter 20
The Real Race
Chapter 21
A Real Runner
Chapter 22
Roller Coaster
Chapter 23
Sore Feet
Chapter 24
Taper Madness
Chapter 25
Earning My Sticker
Chapter 26
Taking It In
chapter 0.2
Epilogue
Conclusion and Resources
Acknowledgments
About the Author
My mind was trying to kill me again.
“Who do you think you are?” it growled as I squatted in a green porta potty four and a half miles into the Columbus Marathon. The sun shining on the white top bathed me in gray light.
The running partners I’d begun the race with that morning, and trained with for the past four months, had gone ahead without me. They would have stayed. I’d spent a mile convincing them to leave