Wednesday, November 1, 2017 // The Statement 
7B

Personal Statement: Scio Church Road

A

rms 
pumping 
vigorously 

in an attempt to match the 
cadence of my legs, I begin 
my ascent — my flushed 

cheeks a stark contrast against the dismal 
October sky of southeast Michigan. I am 
no stranger to this momentous hill, lead-
ing up toward Scio Church Road from Pio-
neer High School, or this route, as I have 
run it over 100 times since the fall of my 
sophomore year. I have now reached the 
point where I can run that 6-mile loop 
with my eyes closed, pulled along by some 
imaginary cord keeping me tethered to 
the earth beneath my rapidly moving feet.

My mind is occupied, but not with dis-

heartening thoughts — rather the reassur-
ing rhythm of my breath leaving my chest, 
the startling beauty of sunlight filtering 
through concrete, and the remnants of 
some song working its way through my 
conscious. I focus so intently upon the 
way my stride hits the pavement, and the 
burning in my lungs, that I barely notice 
the cars whizzing by or the fatigue set-
tling into my aching legs.

For once, I am not feverishly question-

ing whether I turned the stove off before 
leaving the house.

So many people ask why I choose to run 

the same route every single day, especially 
in a city replete with verdant parks, forest 
trails and bike paths. To truly understand 
my self-imposed monotony is to grasp the 
thought patterns of an anxious mind — 
this seemingly fanatical routine did not 
spring from nothingness. Rather, it devel-
oped from the multitude of attempts I 
made to deal with my anxiety while main-
taining some semblance of normalcy. I 
tried speaking with a therapist, yet strug-
gled with being completely vulnerable in 
sharing the extent of my anxieties, so this 
only lasted a few weeks. However, deter-
mined to quiet the thoughts clouding my 
brain, I continued to run. Even today, I am 
still running.

Some of my family members have dealt 

with mental health struggles — most com-
monly, 
obsessive-compulsive 
disorder 

and generalized anxiety — throughout 
their lives. For so long, I harbored the 
quiet thought that I had simply “missed” 
the anxiety gene, choosing to completely 
negate my immobilizing panic surround-
ing cross-country races, or intense fear 
of public transportation. By ignoring my 
anxiety, and failing to acknowledge it 
for what it was, I prevented myself from 
learning how to truly handle the obses-
sive thoughts invading my headspace.

I was confronted with the full effects 

of this avoidance mindset last fall when 
a combination of anxiety and depression 

left me vulnerable and frightened in the 
face of day-to-day life — panic attacks 
were not uncommon. For someone who 
has always prided herself on self-suf-
ficiency and independence, I felt over-
whelmed and unable to fully express the 
thoughts churning inside my head. I ran, 
but I felt so heavy. I knew something was 
innately not right when I began crying 
in the midst of what should have been an 
easy 3 miles from a pressing feeling that 
my chest was folding in on itself — trying 
to wring me out from the inside.

The tears, mixed with sweat, stung my 

eyes.

However, like the 40 million adults 

throughout the United States dealing with 
generalized anxiety, I could not dwell in 
darkness forever. After taking medication 
for a number of months, coupled with an 
overwhelming determination to not let 
my life be consumed by such irrational 
thoughts, I slowly started to view life as 
something to be celebrated rather than 
feared.

During this time, I began to run this 

same route every day, finding quiet solace 
in not having to plan or actively antici-
pate new twists and turns in my path. For 

45 minutes a day, I can simply just exist, 
buoyed by adrenaline and a welcome rush 
of endorphins, rather than nervously 
anticipating whatever responsibility lies 
ahead.

My mind must work constantly to prevent 

itself from being completely consumed by fear 
and dread, and sometimes I grow too weary of 
this struggle to continually battle my thoughts. 
Every single day, I obsessively worry that 
somebody I know is going to die — potentially 
even myself — due to some dire catastrophe 
that seems incredibly implausible to any other 
normal brain except my own. The thought is 
always there, as persistent and vital as any other 
basic life function. I worry about other things 
too, like whether my friends will spontaneously 
decide to dislike me, or if I will say something 
that could be misconstrued as strange in any 
conversation.

I used to enjoy public speaking, but now my 

voice always trembles — no matter the size of 
the crowd.

Yet, despite the internal noise, I have learned 

to appreciate my brain for what it is — an amal-
gamation of infinite complexities capable of pro-
ducing beautiful, rather than dismal, thoughts. 
Because of my anxiety, I am more perceptive of 
the world around me and sensitive to emotional 

nuances that sometimes go unnoticed. Only 
after periods of darkness, when I feel a constant 
tightness in my chest and dark lens obstructing 
my vision, do the mundanities of life appear so 
much more luminous.

More so than any medication or conver-

sation with a therapist, I will always have 
running to quiet my reeling mind. From 
putting on my well-worn running shoes 
to tightening my ponytail, the consistency 
of this routine provides me with a sense 
of comfort and purpose unmatched by 
any other activity in my life. Sometimes 
I glide along with relative ease, while 
other days, I feel as if my legs are being 
anchored to the ground by some sort of 
perverse gravitational pull. But regard-
less of the physical condition of my body, 
my cherished route allows me to breathe 
fully, unburdened by anxiety, for the first 
time that day.

And as I crest the hill, for a single 

moment, no matter how fleeting it may be, 
my once chaos-filled brain is replete with 
a quiet serenity. And from there, I move 
forward into the uncertain future the 
only way I know how — putting one foot 
in from of the other, my eyes scanning the 
horizon, until I reach home.

by Kaela Theut, Daily Staff Reporter

ILLUSTRATION BY HANNAH MYERS

