Out of the Darkness: A Race Report of a Different Sort

She picked up the gun and caressed it's cold steel.  The tears flowed freely, knowing what tonight would hold.  She could not leave her children to find her.  She couldn't go away, for when they awoke, they would be afraid when they couldn't find her.  And where would they go without her?  She shuddered at the thought.

She picked up the pillow from her bed.  With the pillow in one hand and the gun in the other, she crept into the youngest's room.  She gazed at her while she slept, peacefully inhaling and exhaling, unaware of what was to come.  Setting the gun aside, she whispered, "I love you," and placed the pillow over her mouth.  Without oxygen, the struggle began.  She braced herself against the thrashing of her child, muffling cries with the pillow.  She was sobbing now, wondering how it came to this.  It seemed like an eternity, but the movement finally stopped.  It was over.

She moved to the next room, where her son lay sleeping, and performed the same ritual.  And again with her oldest.  Now, completely exhausted and emotionally spent, she returned to her bedroom.  There, beside her bed, was the phone.  She picked it up and dialed 911.  "Hello, what's your emergency?"  She mustered up her strength.  "My children are dead.  I did it.  I will be next, but I am 8 months pregnant.  Please come save my baby."  And she hung up.  Within minutes, she heard the sirens.  As they pulled up to her house, she picked up the gun.  Placing it in her mouth, she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.

She opened her eyes.  There was no gun.  Her children were still in their beds, peacefully sleeping, completely unaware of the turmoil in her mind.  Despite her longing, she knew she could not do it.  She could not make it end.  She was trapped.  And once again, in this realization, she rolled over and cried herself to sleep.

This was me, three years ago.  It is something I have never spoken about in detail like this, and even now, I can barely force myself to write the words.  I am still deathly afraid of what others will think.

I certainly did not speak of it then.  I was completely aware of the darkness that had overtaken my mind. I knew (or at least thought I knew) what would happen if anyone found out the thoughts that plagued me.  It was not until I made it through that I ventured to share a small piece of what had been in my mind.  Thank God none of them came to reality.  Thank God for the people who stood beside me.  Thank God for His grace.

Depression and other mental health issues still come with a great taboo.  Those who suffer do not want to speak out.  It is terribly frightening to have, and even more frightening to think of how others will react if they discover the truth of what you are dealing with.  It can change who you are, completely warp what you are willing to do.  Now that I am living without depression, I cannot even imagine harming one of my children.  The thought disgusts me.  I think it did then, too, but it became something that seemed a possibility.  Not because I didn't love them.  They were (and are) the most precious part of my life.  But because, in the confusion of my thoughts and feelings, it seemed more fair to take them with me than leave them without me.  And I did not want to be here anymore.

I don't expect most who read this to understand, though I know that some may.  In fact, it is very likely that someone will.  For those who do not understand, do not judge those of us who do.  We read in the paper of those who kill their families and then turn the gun on themselves.  It seems so foreign.  Why in the world would someone do that?  How can someone actually reach that point?

Even having been there, I don't have the answer to those questions.  I feel very fortunate that I found my way out of that dark place, and am living in a much brighter place now.  I can feel the love around me that, at the time, I only knew was there.  I knew it, but could not feel its presence.

And I knew my God was there.  Somewhere.  I felt that there was a big circle around me, and outside its perimeter were all the good things, God included, and that they could not reach me.  I remember lying in bed, imagining that circle, seeing God outside it, wanting to come in, but Something was stopping Him.  Knowledge of His presence without being able to feel it.  A distant presence, or so it seemed.

I do not wish that dark place on anyone, but I know that it finds many people.  And I know that those people are afraid to speak of it.

And for that, I run.

In 2007, Mona Stott lost her son to suicide.  She decided to take her story and turn it into something positive, so she started a run dedicated to the awareness of mental health, and uses it to support the Mood Disorder Association of Manitoba.

This is the third year of the Niverville Rock & Roll Half Marathon.  (I believe that in addition to those years, a group from the Running Room also did a full marathon in 2007.)  Last year was my first time running.  I decided then that, as long as I possibly could, I would run that half marathon.

Like last year, there is much I could write about this year's run.  It was special for many reasons.  I was able to travel and run with a long time friend who is and always will be very dear to me.  (By with, I mean on the same course - he smoked my butt by over half an hour.)

I was able to run the last mile with another long time and very dear friend, who did the half instead of the 10k because there was a surprise birthday party planned for her husband, and the 10k didn't fit the timeframe.  A teammate came back after he had finished to encourage me as I ran to the finish line.  Another friend was out there completing his very first half marathon.  A woman I went to high school came and ran Niverville on my recommendation.  I saw many people out there that I knew.  Some ran ahead.  Some behind.  But we all ran together.  

A long distance race is much like life.  When you start out, it feels pretty good, but then it gets tough.  Sometimes we can push through with a little self-talk.  Sometimes just seeing the others out there is enough encouragement.  Sometimes you need something more.  Somewhere around the 9-10 mile mark, my body just couldn't keep up to my mind anymore.  I was tired.  But I was also determined.  I kept on going.  I could see the people ahead.  I knew the path I needed to take.  Sometimes as people passed (or I passed someone else), we would speak encouraging words to each other.  It lightened the step.  Sometimes we would run together for awhile.  It was so much easier to run side by side than on my own.

When I hit the 11 mile marker, I had to walk.  My legs ached, my foot had a developing blister.  I was exhausted.  I needed rest.  I took a minute, and started to run again.  My pace started to slow.  I could see the marker for mile 12, but I just couldn't do it.  I slowed again to a walk.

Once I hit the marker, I started back into a run.  I wanted to run that final mile.  I took a quick look behind me, because I knew Rhonda hadn't been that far back.  And there she was.  "Come, run with me."  And she did.  "I am going to run this last mile.  We are going to do it together."  And we did.  There were times that I wanted to slow down, or even stop.  But running with Rhonda kept me going.  It wouldn't surprise me if I found out that she felt the same way.  It was my plan to cross the finish line with her, but as we approached the final meters, my competitive nature took over.  I ran.  I gave it all I had.  I was not going to stop until I crossed the line.  I finished 5 seconds ahead of her.  I hope she understands.  I think she does.

In life, just as in a race, the encouragement and support of others helps us through the rough times, keeps us going even though we want to throw in the towel.  I would never have been afraid to tell someone that I wanted to quit the race.  In the same way, we need to be able to not be afraid to tell others when we want to quit life.  We need people that will come alongside.  Who will run with us.  Or walk with us.  Or, if necessary, crawl with us.  They will guide us.  They will not be afraid of our darkness.  They will teach us to not be afraid of it either, but to walk through it.  They will show us the resources that can help us move out of the darkness and into a brighter place.  In doing to, they will help us find hope that there is life beyond the pain.  And then, there will be.

"It is not the mountain that we overcome, but ourselves."