text: The note is done. Written, edited, signed, done. The noose is cinched and hung. All that's left is for me to decorate the door. I stood staring at it for what felt like an eternity. Today, every second had felt like eternity. I had writhed in agony watching each minute tick by, as if a lifetime had passed. I had tried everything I knew and I'd been told: dunked my face in cold water, but my forehead had felt red hot; meditated and focused on my breathing, but I'd retreat back into my head between each breath and be left gasping for air; took a scalding bath, for a moment I was in my skin again but then the water and I felt as one; I tried to nap, a reset was always in store, but I woke up still at death's door. I hadn't done it yet, though. I'd never been closer, but I still hadn't done it. Before I hit send, before I decorated the door, I told myself I'd go for one last run to get out of my head. I've been treading water the last week, just barely keeping my head up. I tried mushrooms a few days ago and for the first time in what felt like months could accept myself. In fact, I discovered I was stuck in time, two months earlier when I'd been dumped. My heart hadn't moved on, but the universe relentlessly had. And for 24 hours the mushrooms gave me clarity that I needed to move on, and even had. There was a moment when time seemed to stop and suddenly I was vaulted forward to the present. Over and around the intervening months. I was present again. But just as sudden as the revelation had fallen upon me it was stripped away and the black dog weighed down my chest once more. Shakily, I put on my running clothes. I considered my route, an old standard. Roughly 3.5 miles. It'd buy me a calculated 24-27 more minutes to think about this decision. I cinched my laces, I hate these shoes. I struck out the door. When my feet hit the pavement I realized this wasn't a regular jog. I wasn't running to run. I was running to kill myself. Or not. I'd find out along the way. Suddenly the route and distance didn't matter. I knew I'd be going further than I'd thought. I started out at a normal pace and began upping my tempo. I knew I was out of shape. I knew a single 7 minute mile would be my limit, as it had been on several of the past days. But today wasn't those days. I couldn't feel the exhaustion, the pain of my body. Moments earlier, all I could feel was my body exhausted. I was trapped in my head. I could push my body well past it's limits today, because I wasn't leaving my heart or my head until my body hurt more. Around the first mile I started muttering to myself: you've never outrun yourself before, but today is the day you beat yourself. And I kept running. I came upon a long flat stretch, a narrow catwalk along the water's edge, and I broke into a sprint. I was going to break myself now. I pushed until I could feel the burn in my legs, my throat and my lungs. I hadn't pushed myself like this in days, weeks, months or maybe even years. I'd forgotten what it felt like. I started feeling light-headed. This was to be alive? But it couldn't last. I ground to a halt and walked. Finally outside my head again, but still thinking. Finally not drowning in my thoughts. I'd realized earlier what it is in those last moments. It is quite literally drowning in your thoughts. My brain takes over, dwelling on my past failures, rejections, losses. And it's as if every iota of my brain power is diverted to these fruitless forays in my hippocampus. Every drip of processing is diverted. Suddenly my breathing reflex kicks in. I haven't been breathing. I've been drowning in my thoughts. And with it a sense of fear and dread; adrenaline courses through my aorta, spreading across my chest and dilating my bronchi. Fight or flight, from my own past? Pushing myself achieves this same end. But what am I running for? What am I running toward? I don't know, and I feel so lost and unbound. Adrift and asea. I thought again "if this is your last run, you're going out strong" and started sprinting again. I ran, and I ran, and I ran. I ran through throngs of people amidst cherry blossoms who didn't know I was probably running to my death. But suddenly I didn't want to die anymore, at least not yet. Not now. And I started a new mantra "this run saved my life." And I realized I could say that every time I ran. Or biked. Or hiked. Or sat with friends. Or worked on a project. Or spoke to my mom. But to do so I'd have to get through those long, dark minutes of pure and intense pain. I'd have to learn to hurt myself, again, running, hiking, biking. But I kept running, as fast and as hard as I could. I circled back around on my path, it was a lollipop route and I was completing the candy. And I pushed myself until I was back on the inner leg of it, the stem. I pushed myself so hard I started vomiting. In a homeless camp of all places. I'd had nothing to eat today, and little yesterday. I was subsisting on coffee. The bile came up black, sour, bitter. Much as the coffee had been going down. It seemed a funny parallel. And I decided then that I wanted to write about this. I wanted to share my story, because today: I didn't kill myself. I might have, some part of me wanted to. But I ran away. And I'll keep running. It's tough. But I think I found something to run for again. I'd mostly stopped running ages ago, but I think this was the motivation I needed to start again. The rest of my life is in shambles and I don't know what I'm doing. But I can keep running. I'll start running with a group, I think. And each time I'll let them know at the end "this run saved my life." I'll let them decide what that means to me, and them.