Managing My Moods Is A Full Time Job

An action shot of not-me.

Let me just state up front: I am not an athlete. Never have been, not even when I was 16 and had a black belt in Tae Kwon Do (because who doesn't these days?) I think I was the first kid in my school to trot down to the local Y and take an introductory course, and then join an actual dojo to progress further. It was out of character for me at that age (ahem) to bring the necessary focus and discipline to anything long enough to master it -- but I did. I competed in some of the regional championships, brought home my share of trophies. But I was never into it for the sport. 

I did it for survival. I was a scrawny kid. I'd been born two months preemie and underweight, and I really didn't fill out until I was in my twenties. I wasn't much into sports as a kid, didn't run terribly fast, couldn't throw a ball very far. Team sports? Forget it. I was the last one picked. l was an easy target for the jocks and bullies at school, and I was tired of it. So: Karate!

I walked away from in when I turned 18. After that? Meh. I really didn't exercise at all for the next 30 years or so. 

*    *    * 

One day about 3 or 4 years ago, as the first worn threads of my former life began to unravel, and I was still new to sobriety, and was two weeks out of rehab, I was jonesing for a drink, my nerve endings were raw, and the world was still in Covid lockdown, there was nowhere to go, and I wanted nothing more than to climb out of my own skin. 

I was pacing around in the garage when I spotted my old bike, the one I had brought with me to Florida from DC. It was wedged against the wall behind a shelf we'd put up the year before, forgotten. When was the last time I'd ridden it? I pulled it out, checked the tires, the chain. On an impulse, I decided to take it for a ride around the block.

I came home an hour later, winded, exhausted, tired. And something else: Calm. I was at peace. The cravings were gone for the moment, and my body (then 35 pounds heavier) felt light. It took me a minute to recognize what I was feeling: I felt good.

I ride that same bike every single day now, at least once, sometimes twice, in any weather that's safe. I ride 12-15 miles at a go, and I always feel stronger and more balanced in my head afterwards. I miss it if I can't ride. 

Imagine: Me. Missing exercise. The world has gone mad. 

*    *    *   

I mention all of this because this morning, as I awakened to a glorious new day of retired bliss, as I gazed upon this beautiful morning and the rich bounty set before my table, I lifted my face to the sun and thought:   

Meh. 

Yeah, that was it. I mean: here I am, I finally bought my own emancipation, I'm finally empowered to spend my days doing whatever I want, I'm squarely in the "not-rich-but-doing-okay" category, I finally have the opportunity to explore all the things I've never had time for, and that's the best I can do? Meh!? 

Meh.

Welcome to the Wonderful World of Dysthymia! I had never heard the term until I started therapy, and now there's no escaping it: I am dysthymic. It's not the end of the world, it's apparently not even full-blown depression, just a vague, below-the-surface simmer point that hovers just below the state called "happy." It's common to addicts people with a genetic predisposition to addiction substance use disorders. 

It's not usually treated with medication. I'm not even sure it's considered a "disorder," so much as a factory preset for a subset of the population. 

Anyway, I didn't feel like doing any of my things today. Things I like, things I enjoy, things I've chosen to pursue. Even the bike had fallen silent to me, inert. Nothing was wrong, necessarily, but nothing appealed either. 

Meh.

*    *    *

I decided to get on the bike and take her for a spin around the neighborhood. I wouldn't go far, just enough to keep the concept of "riding my bike" operationalized in my head. I do this, I "operationalize" -- that is, make a habit of -- things I know need to happen every day, and that I want to happen by reflex, without arguing with myself about it. Sorta like Nike's "Just Do It," but for ADLs and writing and exercise. Things like that. 

So, I let my body put itself on the bike, didn't think about the fact that it was too windy and there were probably a billion people cluttering up the bike lanes. Just got and went, like that first day a few years ago. No goal, no destination, just go through the familiar motions of pedaling. 

As I suspected, the neighborhood was already alive and vibrant with people. The sun was shining, already warm, but the air was still cool. I had just put air in my tires yesterday, and now they glided on the concrete like it was smooth as glass. 

And then the dopamine apparently kicked in, because suddenly I was on the long empty stretch of road several miles away from home, flying, flying like ET on my bike across the moon.

Kinda like...

Or something like that. I think I actually laughed a little. There it was, from out of nowhere, something not to be commanded, but coaxed: 

Joy. 

But I've learned something. I can manage these moods. No, I can't force a feeling. I can't chase what I isn't there. I can't be what I am not. 

A fitness buff, for example. Or a perky optimist. But you know what I can do? I can ride my bike. And you know what I can be? Better. 

Not this happy. This person is on something.