For those of you who know me, you know I am a slow and steady marathon
maniac. For the past decade, I run a couple of marathons a year trying to
someday run a marathon in all 50 states. For me marathoning is a metaphor for
my life: committing to audacious adventures and figuring out how to get there
step by step, finding dedicated partners to jog along with me, and riding the
adrenaline rush when crossing the finish line. The other metaphor, which has
been a focus of my year, is mile 17.
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| Photo by D. H. Parks Courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons |
At mile 17, I lose hope. I am a long way in with a long way to go. My feet
feel like someone is setting a torch to them, my stomach is doing back flips,
and my brain is shutting down lobe by lobe. I go into a very dark place inside
myself, put my head down and shuffle along, talking myself into one more mile. And
then another. I hate this part of the race. For me, this year – with all of the
accomplishments and celebrating – has had many 17th miles.
It started last February when a series of experiences brought me to my
knees. First, I had dental surgery that left me unable to eat anything but mush
for over a month. The lack of food made me irritable, and I started losing
weight. Then I had to let go of an employee I cared about, and the transition
filled me with worry – for her safety and for the organization. My computer
crashed slowly over about four weeks, and I lost the ability to communicate
effectively and could no longer rely on this key instrument in critical moments
like public presentations. Then my dog
suffered a spinal cord stroke that left him completely paralyzed from the
rib cage to the hindquarters. We considered putting him down, but decided to
rehabilitate him instead – a costly decision with a very uncertain outcome.
As these stressors coupled with some unnerving family issues added their
weight to my already weakened state, it felt as if my brain was being hijacked.
I have always known that I was vulnerable to mental illness – it runs in my
genes – and wondered when it would be my turn. I used to say, “I am on the
bipolar spectrum” because I have a chronic case of hypomania but had never been
depressed. During these 9 weeks last Spring that changed. First, I couldn't sleep. I would spend night after night tossing and turning. Then the anxiety
got worse, and I just couldn't stay in the bed because I was so agitated like
ants crawling in my skin. I knew what
was happening but was completely unable to get on top of it, even with all the
best coping strategies at my disposal. Soon, I found I couldn't eat at all. I
have a vivid memory of sitting alone at a Thai restaurant while I was traveling
to a conference in Atlanta. I knew I had to eat to have strength for my
presentation, but I just couldn't swallow and sat there trying to choke down a
few pieces of tofu in broth filled with sadness. During these weeks, my mind
was consumed with catastrophic thoughts about my family and the future of the
Carson J Spencer Foundation. I would be driving to work and find myself
terrified of getting into an accident, and as a result found I really had to
really focus on my breathing to get from one place to another.
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| Putting the pieces back together Photo by Leopard Print courtesy of Flickr Creative commons |
Then two things happened. My doctor give me some medication to sleep and
control my anxiety, and I went to the American Association of Suicidology
annual conference where I was able to get a better sense of perspective on what
I brought to the world that had value. I felt love from my colleagues, valued
for my expertise, and connected to something bigger than myself. The tide of
the depression started to ebb out of my experience, and now, I am humbled to
acknowledge that like so many I have worked to help, I too have a mental
illness.
Like others with bipolar, I love my hypomania. I love having tons of
energy, creative ideas, and unstoppable drive. The more life I live, however,
the more I realize that others are not as keen on this state of being. I
exhaust and frustrate people on a regular basis for trying to cram too much in
too short a period of time, for living in an adrenaline-filled world of
pressing deadlines, and for my lack of understanding of the effect I have on
others. In the past, confrontations regarding my behavior often led to
defensive reactions, but now, I can no longer deny, I must find a better way.
For me and many others, failure is so hard. I have always put a lot of
effort into achieving – one of my blessings and curses. This year during my
episode of depression and beyond, I found myself teetering up on the high wire,
completely consumed with fear of failure. How could I not succeed doing
something I feel I was destined to do, something my entire history has prepared
me for, something I am doing in honor of my deceased beloved brother. My drive
to overcome this fear snowballed into panic and has rippled through my
organization like a cancer. Through many discussions, confrontations and
reflections, I have come to accept that I have a classic case of Founder’s Syndrome.
Here is how one author describes it:
“When someone with passion and commitment creates and builds a strong association, members and society benefit. But these founders can turn into their own worst enemies when they refuse to recognize that their organization has "outgrown" them, needing leadership skills the founder does not have or refuses to develop. The result? A nasty case of "founder's syndrome" or "founderitis." The cure? A tricky mixture of growth opportunities, board involvement, and a firm delivery method.” ~Maryll Kleibrink, The Center for Association Leadership, December 2004 from http://www.asaecenter.org/Resources/euarticle.cfm?itemnumber=11531
Last week, I had the great privilege to hear Dr. Brene Brown speak at the
Women’s Success Forum in
Denver. For those of you who have watched her viral
TED video (http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html), you know she
is a researcher on the area of vulnerability. At this forum, she talked about
how we can't opt out of vulnerability - uncertainty, risk and emotional
exposure and how daring greatly is about understanding vulnerability as courage.
This week I started something new: Executive Coaching. I am excited about
facing these deficits and becoming a better me. I know the weeks ahead will
have me taking a long look at difficult things, and I am ready.
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| Photo by Dru Broomfield courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons |
