Running my brain into silence.
Silencing my brain into running.
The last time I saw my therapist was in January. “You need to detach,” he told me. I know he said it because he says it every session.
He diagnosed me with relationship-based OCD last July––a condition that sounds like something I can say if I want to be emotionally manipulative about how I’m feeling at any given time, but, as he assures me, it is a genuine thing. I can’t stop thinking about my relationship with everyone around me. I overanalyze, I ruminate, I pull away to avoid stress. When it flares up, which it often does when I prioritize work over myself, I can’t help but think, Does my partner love me? Do my friends enjoy my company? Do I love them enough? And if so, how do they acknowledge it? Attachment theory.
I’ve spent age 32 to age 33, filling an emotional void left behind by a dog I no longer own due to a breakup. At this point, it feels like the only news I’ll get about him is his death. It’s hard not to think if mine will come first.
(Imagine being naturally insulated from existential trepidation. Not even not thinking about it, but also never considering it.)
The thing about pets is you can stare at them for as long as you want, and they won’t break eye contact, awkwardly laugh, or get uncomfortable and ask their apartment. You can study their physique, find every wart, birthmark, evidence of plaque, discover new tics. You can love them without worrying if they love you back because they do and they have to. And it’s such a sure thing that if anyone told you they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter––they don’t know the number of hours you’ve spent studying another organic being, the many miles you’ve walked together to escape a certain limbo you weren’t aware of until it was far too late to remember autonomy.
It’s hard (for me) to gauge the severity of codependency. It’s tougher (for me) to recognize interdependency.
My OCD flares up when I don’t have quality alone time and this includes having sporadic weekly moments to stare at walls and read text. This past year I’ve learned that you can feel isolated in a room with somebody else who isn’t, I get anxious when people ask me to hang out because I dread events and it feels like I’ve let someone place a meeting on my Outlook calendar instead of me placing a meeting with myself on my Outlook calendar. It feels like admin. I mean, also, work feels like admin, and that’s bad, too.
And when it’s bad, I ruminate, and in the context of OCD, that means getting stuck on the same thought, going over it again and again, and trying to make sense of and fix obsessive urges. It’s a pattern you’re forced to break without much guidance. Find out what works best for you.
I’ve asked my therapist what I could do about ruminations and if there was a way to stymie thoughts without meds. He told me, “Running three to four times a week, for at least 30 minutes each day, is the equivalent of taking SSRIs daily.”
The wildest part about astrology, therapy, religion, and professional wrestling is that you have a useful guide map to follow if you don't question its validity. I didn’t ask for his source; I started running. Alone. On a treadmill. In January. Staring at an apartment gym television tuned to Flip or Flop with Christina Anstead and Tarek El Moussa on a 24/7 HGTV streaming station.
The irony that an HGTV channel could birth a silent partner in my relentless pursuit of inner peace isn’t lost on me––it’s a very loud and bright channel full of many television hosts I wouldn’t trust to hold a door open for me if I was walking into a Panera Bread. Also on the treadmill, I sometimes stare at people plating beautiful Mexican foods while listening to non-fiction audiobooks. Or, I stare at the wall or a black television screen and listen to old albums I forgot about, front to back.
Every footfall fractures obsessive thought, the rhythm is subconsciously me. The pounding on a treadmill’s rubber belt occasionally interrupts audiobook chapters in the way notifications beg me to take my eyes off the person I’m spending time with and risk them thinking I don’t value their time despite obsessively thinking the reverse is true.
I often wonder if the people around me have noisy brains they can’t turn off until they run.
My therapist's advice fit somewhere between advice and an incantation—detach. Every stride promises a tryst with autonomy if I could just, I don’t know, walk downstairs and get over myself. I do it for solitude. And frankly, faster breath gives no room for thought, only focus on the breath—no queries of affection and self-worth.
On a run, in rhythm, I am no one's partner, no one's friend, no one's failing. I am my cadence. Running becomes less about avoidance and more about rhythm; less about fleeing and more about staying. Monotony becomes a chant. There's liberation in the routine. And the more I run, the closer I am to detachment. Not just in theory, but in practice.
Emilio runs his first marathon today. Good luck, buddy.
ahhh this was a nice one :)