The Bipolar Runner

INTRODUCTION

Before I start with the perhaps self-indulgent journal entries on the pathway to my first official marathon, I suppose I should introduce myself. My name’s Jacqui, and there’s nothing particularly interesting or noteworthy about me. I’m not a writer. I happen to suffer from bipolar disorder, and I happen to be a runner.

I’ve been getting into books about running lately, and I thought, Hey, I’ll google ‘Bipolar Runner’ and see what comes up. Still, there was little information or inspiration for the bipolar runner.

I have a friend who is also a runner who says that just about every runner he knows has mental health issues, and generally, the more serious the runner, the more serious the mental health issues. Not that I’m saying running causes poor mental

health—far

from it. It’s more that running is so beneficial for wellbeing that those who have stumbled upon it tend to throw themselves into it with such gusto that it becomes almost like a religion.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2002, at the age of 19, during my first year of university, but there were signs that something wasn’t quite right way earlier. When I was about nine years old, I lost a friend. When I say ‘lost a friend,’ I don’t mean that my friend died; she just stopped being my friend. Most kids would find this upsetting, but my reaction was over the top. I cried myself to sleep every night for a year and ended up changing schools.

At 15, I experienced something of a nervous breakdown. I’m half-Mauritian on my mother’s side, and for Mauritian girls, the 15th birthday is traditionally a big deal. Leading up to my birthday, I had this huge paranoia that no-one would come to my party and that no-one liked me. This was not true. There was a huge turnout.

On the night of my birthday party, I had a severe panic attack about people taking off their shoes and worrying that they wouldn’t be able to find their shoes later. That night, I couldn’t sleep, I was amped up, stressed, and hyper vigilant, hearing things and assuming everyone was awake and having fun without me when everyone was just asleep. My parents were extremely worried.

In the weeks that followed, I had panic attacks and floods of tears several times a day over nothing. I’d get overwhelmed by something at school, start crying uncontrollably, and be sent home.

I went to a bunch of psychiatrists and was tested for conditions like schizophrenia.

No one could figure out what was wrong, and in the end the verdict was that maybe I had generalised anxiety disorder. But they were not sure. And then one day I was magically fine. No drugs or anything. Whatever had been wrong with me just went away.

Then there was all the hypersexuality and promiscuity in my teens. Big red flag. It’s normal for a teenager to be obsessed with sex, but I was like a bitch in heat! I’m surprised I did so well in year 11 and 12, with 99% of my attention directed at boys, and even the odd girl crush. I dated men in their 20s when I was only 17.

In the year leading up to my diagnosis, I had insomnia, often getting only one or two hours of sleep a night, and some nights, no sleep at all.

I don’t know what pushed me over the

edge—the

sleep deprivation, the death of a close friend from high school, the second-hand bong smoke from my flatmates . . . probably a combination of all three, but I had another breakdown.

This time it was BAD. I had all these crazy, flighty, grandiose ideas of starting a dance school in my deceased friend’s honour and having a yearly tap-dancing award named after him, having an exhibition of art made from fabric and buttons . . . I literally spent my life savings on buttons from Spotlight (which inspired the nickname ‘Buttons’ from a boyfriend to whom I told this story, many years later).

It got worse. I was auditioning for big drama schools like VCA, NIDA and WAAPA, and I was obsessed with the idea of becoming a famous actress. I envisioned myself starring in films directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet and Tim Burton; of winning Oscars, Tonys and Golden Globes.

I felt sick after eating meat one day and immediately decided I had to become a Hare Krishna fanatic and a vegetarian. I followed a stranger home from the Hare Krishna restaurant because I was convinced that he was a guru in my spiritual journey.

I wandered around the city of Melbourne by myself and got lost one night because I felt as though different streets and parts of Fitzroy represented some deep meaning and connection to certain people in my life.

I ended up in the company of one of my brother’s friends and they contacted my mother and sent me home. She was beside herself with worry for me and one night we had a big fight over the fact that I was having a bath in the middle of the night, in an attempt to relax and hopefully sleep. She was so emotionally exhausted from looking after me that she insisted I get out of the bath right away and go to bed. I flew off the handle at her.

My stepfather, who I adored, yelled at me over the way I was treating my mother, and I just fled. I just took off. I ran out of the house into the night with no shoes, no glasses, no wallet or phone and just kept walking/running. Where or why, I didn’t know.

I had this vague idea (or concrete plan?) that I needed to get to Frankston Station (from Mornington) so that I could busk a cappella and get enough money for a train ticket, get to Melbourne, find the Hare Krishnas, and then they would support me in my mission to get to the Vatican and sing for the Pope!

I stopped at a gas station and looked in the mirror and was afraid of what I saw. My hair was a mess. My pupils were huge. I looked like a wild animal. Something was wrong. Eventually my parents found me at the top of Oliver’s Hill in Frankston. I had made it all the way from Mornington by hiding every time I saw the headlights of a car.

I knew I was ill. Mentally ill. Seriously mentally ill. I called an ambulance. When the ambulance arrived my mum and Ivan assured the paramedics it was a false alarm and sent them away. I was furious. We had a huge argument. They finally conceded that if I wanted to go to the hospital so badly, they’d drive me.

We were in the car for ages when it finally dawned on me. They were driving around in circles, trying to convince me not to go to the hospital. They knew the mental health system well, as health professionals, and were incredibly sceptical about the kind of treatment I’d get at the Frankston Hospital emergency room. Fair enough. But to a paranoid person this was a huge conspiracy and a violation of my rights. I demanded to be taken to the hospital right away. They relented.

After days of wandering around the ward thinking I was in Pentridge Prison, I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder and promptly put on Epilim.

This diagnosis had huge ramifications. Suddenly I wasn’t the high-achieving superstar destined for fame. I was disabled. I was crazy. I was limited. I failed my first year of university and had to leave.

I eventually went back to university and did quite well, spending a semester on exchange in London and getting on the honour roll. Then I did a postgraduate course in teaching and got a job as a special education teacher, which didn’t last long. I couldn’t handle the stress. I tried (and failed) to become a professional artist, having one solo exhibition and selling a few pieces, but nothing sustainable.

I became a carer, then a teacher’s aide. I got married and divorced within the space of two years.

My whole adult life has been spent grieving the loss of the person I always thought I was going to

be—the

world-famous actress/singer/dancer. The award-winning triple threat.

In reality, I should have been proud of myself. By 2020 I had undergraduate and postgraduate qualifications, and I had a steady job. I was finally in a healthy relationship. I was doing well.

Most people would refer to me as ‘high-functioning.’ I can work, have a partner, have a social life and maintain my physical health and self-care. I’ve learned to stop self-harming, have learned to manage suicidal ideation, and have stayed out of hospital for several years.

How do I do it? I take my medication. I keep regular appointments with my GP, my psychiatrist and my psychologist. I eat well, I get enough sleep, I exercise. And support. I get tonnes of support from my friends and family, who are always there for me.

But the magic balm for me is running. There have been times (many times) when I walk in the door after work crying my eyes out; then I just force myself to go through the motions of putting on my gym gear, and I just get out there. Every single time I come back feeling not only better but good, like I’m buzzing on the inside.

How did I get into running? Like most people with bipolar, I’ve always struggled with my weight.

I’ve been on everything from Epilim to Lithium to Olanzapine to Seroquel to Lamotrigine, and these meds cause weight gain. I was diagnosed at 19, a size 4 and weighing 42 kilos, and by the age of 36 I was a size 20 and weighed 85 kg, which, at 154 cm tall, wedged me into the ‘obese’ category.

I tried (on and off) several different

things—cutting

out carbs, cutting out sugar, cutting out fat, the Dukan diet, and going to the gym

sporadically—but

nothing seemed to stick. I’d catch glimpses of myself in shop windows and be

disgusted—as

if I didn’t even recognise myself anymore. Even that wasn’t enough of a kick up the arse to get me into gear.

The watershed moment that set everything in motion was watching the movie Brittany Runs a Marathon. It’s a film about an obese party girl who takes up running, which changes her life and culminates in her running the New York Marathon.

No sooner had I turned off the TV than I’d signed up for a bunch of 5 km races.

The next step was to get out there and run! So I did. I put on the gym shoes I’d had for more than five years and attempted to run. I ran about a block, couldn’t go any further, and went home. But ah! I wasn’t

discouraged—as

that was exactly what had happened to Brittany in the film!

Then I got chatting with my runner cousin Emilie, who suggested something called the ‘Couch to 5 K’—a running program designed for absolute beginners. I downloaded the app and started the eight-week walk-run program. By the end of it, I wasn’t even close to 5 km, but I could run for 30 minutes without stopping.

I had caught the running bug!

As a child (before the bipolar diagnosis) I’d been something of a high-achiever, academically and in the arts, blitzing singing and dancing competitions and obliterating the competition. A typical type-A personality.

So this suited me to a T. There were always goals to work towards and conquer; my first 20-minute run, my first 30-minute run, and my first 5 km.

Through self-harm, anxiety attacks, insomnia, suicide attempts and hospitalisations, I kept running. Through fertility treatment, pregnancy, post-natal depression and the notoriously difficult first year as a parent, I kept running. I sometimes took little breaks, but I always came back to it.

Fast-forward to now, and I regularly run 5 km and 10 km distances and go to my local Parkrun every Saturday morning. I’m a size 10 and weigh 59 kilos, which puts me in the healthy Body Mass Index (BMI) category.

And now, I had decided to undertake my biggest challenge yet, the 2023 Melbourne Marathon in October 2023, raising funds for Beyond Blue in the process. It is a charity very close to my heart, as they literally saved my life after a suicide attempt in 2020.

The following pages are a journal of the 19-week program leading up to the Big

Day—the

challenges, the pitfalls, the ups and downs, and the Big Day itself, as well as the aftermath.

I hope that this book will inspire some other bipolar sufferers to take up running and for some other bipolar runners to see themselves reflected in these pages.

THE DIARY

Sunday, 4 June 2023

The Eve

Full disclosure: I’m drunk. I just threw up in the toilet. I haven’t been this drunk in ages.

This morning I woke up not just

tired—but

exhausted. I don’t know why. I got enough sleep. All I did yesterday was the Parkrun, and I walked it. I’ve been eating enough carbs (something I wasn’t doing for ages to lose weight), so that’s not the problem. I’m putting it down to one of those bipolar lows in energy, which people don’t talk about. The public thinks it’s all about moods.

I had asked my cousin Michelle to come and watch my gorgeous toddler, Daisy, while I went for my 11 km long run, then I walked a kilometre home. Pretty good for someone who had no energy.

I came in the door feeling relatively satisfied, as I always do after a run, checked my Garmin watch, and then completed my post-run ritual with well-earned coconut water and a shower. I made myself look nice with a touch of makeup and my new leather jacket and headed out to karaoke.

My therapist said I should do something besides running to balance my life and nurture my creativity, so now, it’s karaoke on Sunday afternoons. It’s at a kid-friendly café-bar, which is good, as I can take Daisy.

I just had so much fun singing and catching up with friends. The time just flew by, and before we knew it, Caroline, a regular, was singing the last song of the night.

We were home early, as Chris is a baker and gets up at 3 a.m. Daisy woke up at 1 a.m. (as she is wont to do). I gave her a bottle and put her back to sleep. And that’s when I threw up.

Naughty, Jacqui! Very naughty, Jacqui.

Monday, 5 June 2023

Week 1, Day 1

Rest Day

So hungover. Glad the auspicious first day of training begins with a ‘rest day,’ so I’m not required to do anything. Pretty ashamed of myself for drinking so much yesterday. What am I—20 years old?

I work three days a week as a teacher’s aide in a primary school, and today was a work day. The day has been boring. I like to be on my feet, multitasking and solving problems, but today there was a lot of sitting around.

I had a 4:00 p.m. appointment at the gym to do something called an ‘Evolt scan,’ which scans you for fat mass, muscle mass, water weight, etc. Last time, I got a score of 7.7 out of 10, which is considered average, and my biological age came up as 39, which is the same as my chronological age. I was happy with that, as I’m sure a few years ago my biological age would have been in my 60s.

I was a bit nervous about today. Would I improve?

I got a score of 8 out of 10, which put me in the ‘optimal’ range, and hearing that word made my heart leap! It’s such a great-sounding word. ‘Optimal.’ I even went so far as to Google its exact meaning, which is ‘Best or favourable. Optimum.’

Tuesday, 6 June 2023

Week 1, Day 2

6 km Training Run

I woke up feeling tired, anxious, and tearful this morning. I was overwhelmed by the idea that I had two yard duties to do at work and a Zoom meeting. I hate Zoom meetings. I hate all technology. I don’t think I’m a proper Gen Y / millennial at all.

The day went well, with no hiccups. As usual, I got worked up over nothing.

So my first proper run of the six-week training plan! Exciting! Scary! Normally my short runs are only 5 km, so 6 km is just that little bit extra.

According to the literature I’ve been reading, a training run should primarily stay in the heart rate ‘Zone 3,’ which is a little faster than the easy pace of a long run (Zone 2). I’m a bit wobbly on the whole science of heart rate zones because, according to my Garmin, I sit in Zone 2 even at a brisk walk. (There is no way could I work this stuff out with actual maths!) I’m pretty sure that’s an indication that I’m extremely unfit.

In case you don’t know what a Garmin

is—it’s

a fancy sports watch that measures everything from heart rate to cadence (or steps per minute) and even analyses the quality of sleep you’re getting.

I’m a creature of habit and routine. For my 5 km runs, I always run the exact same route, down the same streets to the 2.5 km mark, turning around and coming straight back.

Today, I decided to do pretty much the same thing, but starting at a different point and doing a little back-and-forth snake before ending in the usual way.

You would think that 6 km is only a little bit harder than 5 km. It turns out it’s a lot harder. Why? I’m used to running 5 km at a fast pace, and anything further than that, I allow myself to run like a sloth. So 6 km of trying and putting in effort was a challenge.

And I didn’t even mention the worst part. My Garmin died halfway through! When you run without your Garmin, is it even a run?

Wednesday, 7 June 2023

Week 1, Day 3

3 km ‘Race Pace’

I was feeling kind of fresh and energised this morning! Work went well, I felt engaged and felt I was doing a good job for once.

I was kind of dreading the fast 3 km. I hate fast running. I am not a fast runner. I’m even a member of a running group on Facebook called the ‘Slow Runner’s Society.’ Those are my people. My spirit animal is the sloth.

But by the end of the day, I’d turned my thinking around. If I can do 5 km mostly in Zone 5 (which I managed a few weeks ago), surely I can manage 3 km in Zone 4? Should be a walk in the park!

I got to daydreaming about race

day—crossing

the finish line and being cheered on by my family. They’re so excited about this race and about supporting me. They’re looking forward to it.

But then I had a thought. . . . What if they don’t even recognise me amongst all the other runners and I just run straight past them, without the adoration and the fanfare? So now I’ve resolved to buy some super-bright (maybe pink?) running gear to wear on the day so that they can spot me in the crowd.

The 3 km run was easy and breezy. It’s been forever since I ran anything less than 5 km, so 3 km felt like a naughty little

treat—almost

like I was cheating.

I’m conflicted by the training plan’s definition of ‘race pace,’ though. My race pace is not the average marathoner’s. My goal is just to finish the 42.195 km without stopping to walk. So it seems unnecessary to train at a somewhat fast pace (for me) when, on race day, I’ll just be shuffling along at the back of the pack.

Thursday, 8 June

Week 1, Day 4

Rest Day

Working a three-day week means that Thursday is always the first official day of my extra-long weekend. It’s also the morning I take Daisy to swimming lessons.

Historically, these mornings have not been easy. I’m not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, and after three days of working I often just feel exhausted and have none of the spoons for anything.

I love the swimming lessons, but I have trouble getting ready and getting out the door. I have trouble changing Daisy’s nappy, feeding her breakfast, packing the swimming bag, getting her into her swimming gear, and somehow managing to have my own breakfast and put on my own swimming gear.

But today wasn’t one of those days. Maybe because Chris had the day off. It’s always nice waking up together. As the partner of a baker, that doesn’t happen very often.

Swimming was so much fun, as usual. The kids ran across a foam mat and jumped into our arms. They took turns going down a little mini waterslide, and they played with little water toys in the shallow end. Then swimming was over, and the rest of the day was pretty cruisy.

Friday, 9 June

Week 1, Day 5

6 km Training Run

It’s another day off for Chris, so another day of waking up together! My fellow ‘mum friend’ Margaret and I had plans to meet up around late morning or midday, so we planned to get up around 5:30 a.m. and go for an early morning run. Ha!

As if. Instead, I slept in, and I went for a late morning run. Luckily, Margaret’s baby, George, was sleeping, so she pushed back our plans until about 12:30 p.m. But I was stressed. Would I have enough time to go for my run, shower, get dressed, get my ‘mum bag’ together, and still meet Margaret and George on time?

This stuff is always on my mind. Fitting in running. Finding the time. Not losing track of all the other mum/friend/partner/daughter/teacher’s-aide/housework stuff. The magical (and stressful) balancing act.

Once again, 6 km felt a lot harder than 5 km. But why? It’s just one extra kilometre. If you’ve never run, or if you’ve always found running easy, you wouldn’t know this, but a kilometre is a long way.

Saturday, 10 June 2023

Week 1, Day 6

45–60 Minutes of Strength Training

Woke up super excited for Parkrun.

Let me explain a little bit about what Parkrun is for those of you who don’t know. Parkrun is a worldwide initiative that began in the UK in 2004 but has since spread to 22 countries. In just about every major town, on Saturday at 8 a.m., you’ll find a large, enthusiastic group gathered in a local park getting ready to walk or run 5 km. It’s run by volunteers (affectionately nicknamed ‘Vollies’) and is official and well-organised.

For years, I was deterred from going because I thought it was just a bunch of fast, competitive runners racing to achieve PBs (personal bests). There is an element of that, but plenty of people walk the whole thing, people take their dogs or prams, and there are even volunteer ‘tail walkers’ whose job is to walk behind everyone else so that no-one comes last.

This year, spurred on by my friend Margaret, I committed to turning up to the Dandenong Parkrun every week and even earned a special pin to commemorate my tenth Parkrun. That day, I was given a special tutu to wear on my run and had my picture taken. It was lots of fun.

This morning was a cold one, though thankfully not raining, so I was all rugged up in my puffer jacket. Today, Margaret was sick, so I walked with the tail walkers and had a nice chat about everything, from other Parkrun courses to netball to choir and volunteer work with domestic violence sufferers.

After Parkrun, the Vollies and a few other participants head to the café around the corner for a coffee, brunch, a chat, and a weekly ritual of general knowledge trivia, which I always fail at miserably.

I caught up with two of my new Parkrun friends, Stuart and Hung, who, as usual, made me feel

welcome—as

though I belonged. I’m yet to join the Vollie team, but I’ve been accepted as an honorary Vollie, as the ‘Resident Librarian,’ reading a different book on running every week and reviewing it in the group chat.

In the afternoon, it was time for my ‘Strength Training,’ which would last 45–60 minutes. I don’t usually time my weight machine sessions, so I wasn’t even sure if I’d have enough exercises to fill a 45-minute timeslot.

I needn’t have worried. It got to the 60-minute mark, and I hadn’t even used all the machines. I could have gone longer, but I was mindful of not pushing myself too hard; and that I had a beautiful little daughter waiting at home for me to spend some time with her.

Sunday,11 June 2023

Week 1, Day 7

9 km Long Run

I woke up feeling incredibly tired and sore all over. I thought that gym soreness was supposed to kick in after two days, but according to my muscles, that’s apparently a myth.

Going for a long run feeling like this was going to be a bit of a task. But I put on a playlist of my favourite songs and settled into an easy pace on a brand-new running route.

Towards the halfway mark I came to an overpass bridge, with the busy Monash Freeway traffic humming below. Being there automatically triggered a memory of a time when I came very close to jumping off such a bridge.

I had been suffering from extreme antenatal depression and was having intrusive thoughts that my unborn child would be better off dead than having me as a mother, and that everyone close to me would be better off if I was dead too.

I obsessively played out a scene in my head where I jumped off an overpass in front of a truck. With tears in my eyes, I slowly walked to the overpass nearest my house and stepped over the railing, prepared to jump, but I was jolted back to my senses by hearing the very real rushing of all the vehicles below.

I ended up sitting on the footpath of the bridge sobbing, and some strangers found me and sought medical help. That was the beginning of some very supportive interventions that put me back on the right track.

Even though my mind is now as far from that place as it possibly could be, I don’t think I’ll ever drive, run or walk across a bridge without making that dark association.

Today, the memory passed in and out of my mind with ease, without any sense of trauma. All I could feel was happiness about my life as it is and how far all that was behind

me—in

the past, where it belonged.

Monday, 12 June 2023

Week 2, Day 1

Rest Day

My muscles were still sore this morning but the pain had eased a little, thanks to a massage I had after yesterday’s long run. It was the King’s Birthday public holiday, so I didn’t have to work.

I was keen to get to a 10:30 a.m. yoga class, so my mother-in-law looked after Daisy while I headed to the gym. I’d only recently started taking yoga classes but was already feeling a bit like a bona fide yogi, with all the residual flexibility from my dancing days.

Today’s class knocked me straight off that lofty perch! I met with a new instructor I had never worked with before, and the whole class was like some kind of army