Anatomy of a burnout

Once upon a time I took a week off from the gym to go to a beach.  Was jumping out of my skin, an addict needing her fix, every day I was away, even though I ran daily, stretched each morning, noon, night, and engaged in all kinds of activities that replicated the weights and machines I normally used at my Y:  planks, squats, lunges, pull-ups, push-ups, sit-ups, all the ups. 

Thinking about this now because it’s been four months since my last marathon, three months since my last run, and 18 hours since I got on an elliptical for an hour workout then jumped off it, fed up, disgusted, bored out of my skull after forty minutes. 

I’m trying my best to get out there and maintain fitness. I’ve tried everything. Been eating right. Taking all the vitamins. Bought some new workout clothes. New shoes too. Even recently joined an expensive, trendy gym. Not because I wanted to, though they do have my preferred elliptical brand, which the Y out here in cornfield land doesn’t. I joined because I thought the pain of seeing that stupidly high monthly deduction from my bank account might be the spark – guilt works wonders with me (oops my Catholicism is showing), that would re-ignite my passion for all things sweaty. 

Not happening.  

Been averaging three one-hour gym visits a week. For me, that’s bad. I’m a five-times/ week person. Three only if I have a race coming up. The forty minutes I did yesterday? I wanted to leave after twenty. Told myself, as I walked to the car that I’d do an hour today. Probably not going to happen. Still in my pjs and have no plans to get dressed.  

I’ve been a runner for as long as I’ve been an adult. This is not normal for me. I always always always made getting to the gym a priority. For three decades I went nearly every day while working full time and raising two kids alone/ caring for my elderly parents alone/ working second and third jobs. Never occurred to me to NOT hit the gym.  

Now I’m retired and working part-time when I feel like it. I have all the time in the world but have no desire to spend any of that indoors working out or outdoors running or walking. Here’s my life two, five, fifteen years ago: Work eight hours, hit the gym for a one-hour cardio session, which becomes ninety minutes, then yoga and/ or weights.  Or after working all day, set out on a four-mile run but do eight miles instead. At least five but often six days a week.

Now: Work a few hours maybe, go to the gym for an hour and stay only 30 minutes. Or, wake up early, read, eat, get dressed to go to gym, but go to the market, bookstore, or mall instead.

I know for sure the burn out began last year. I began dreading every run. I thought it was because my doctors were telling me to take it easy for months, until certain test results came back. So, I was understandably nervous about stressing my body. But when test results were just fine, I wasn’t grateful, wasn’t inspired at all to rev things up.  Instead, I procrastinated like you wouldn’t believe. Took the sheer fear that I would waste marathon entry money -- for marathons I'd signed up for pre-burnout, by not finishing within the time limits to keep me training. Through it all, doubt I experienced even one endorphin high. Still, managed a bunch of half marathons, ten marathons, and got to 100 races of 26.2 miles or more. 

The entire purpose of those last few races was to get me to 100 because I wanted to check off that box. Before that last race, I told myself I would never have to run another marathon ever again. That thought and that thought alone is why I showed up that day. 

At some of those races last year I was with people who do 100 or more marathons a year. A YEAR. There was a time when I thought for sure that one day that would be me. I’d run everywhere all the time, just like them. I’d run all the states again, then run countries and continents. All that was holding me back was the arduous mundanity involved in working for a paycheck. I figured once I retired, I’d happily pursue that running vagabond lifestyle that I saw so many other folks loving. 

I tried. Turns out that’s not me. The traveling and running started off fun, but after a year and a half or so, it got tiresome. The travel got annoying. The running became an inconvenience. I remember thinking, while I was in Australia, that it was a shame I was scheduled to run the Sydney Marathon because I really would have preferred to do more sight-seeing. All around me, people are thrilled about getting to run this amazing race in this spectacular city, and me? I’m thinking about how it’s a bummer that I don’t have time to visit X Museum and Y neighborhood and take part in Z experience. 

I remember sitting with a bunch of other marathoners and listening while each rattled off a litany of injuries they were coping with. I swear it seemed like they were trying to outdo each other’s pain. Some talked about how they ran so much that they used drugs and or liquor to help anesthetize themselves while they ran. They laughed about downing shots of Fireball those last couple of miles. All I could think of was how much they were damaging their organs, which were already overtaxed because of all the miles they were covering. This horrified me. Was this what I was destined to become? Someone who didn't care about damaging their hips, knees, liver, pancreas? 

In my head a picture formed of a relic from ancient Pompeii, the plaster-casted remains of a suffocating dog in the throes of an agonizing death, desperately chewing at his chains trying to break free and save himself from the noxious ash and gases spewing from the erupting Mount Vesuvius. Doesn’t take much of a leap to figure out where my head went if that’s what I was picturing as these super accomplished athletes were one-upping each other with injury and painkiller stories.  I once saw marathoning as this life-affirming activity that was vital to my very existence. But at that moment, the image of that poor dog revealed everything about my more recent feelings toward the sport. 

So why bother even going to the gym, if I’m now thinking of marathoning in terms of agony, self-harm, entrapment? That’s the question I’m struggling with. The answer right now: I definitely have no desire to become a Motrin /Cortisone shot/ alcohol-guzzling runner who marathons every weekend and five days a week too. (Not that everyone who runs all those miles is a drug and alcohol athlete. There are some though, and they are the ones who are forefront in my head right now.) But I might want to run another marathon sometime in the next year or so. Or not. I want to leave myself open to possibility. Things change. Just because I hate marathons right now doesn’t mean I’ll feel this way forever. 

So, I guess I’ll continue to make occasional deposits into my fitness bank by hitting the gym a couple of times a week.  It’s easier to train if you’re not starting from square one. Not dead yet, though I do think I’ll stay in my pajamas today.  I have two books I want to finish, some current events to stress over, and some Congress folks to yell at. For now, that's all I've got.