Interruption.

This won't be my usual type of post.

I know, I know. You were so looking forward to another blog post about NOT running on a running blog. Sadly, that will have to wait until next week (by the by, as of tomorrow, it will have been four weeks since my last run... which was seven miles on a treadmill. Does that even seem fair?).

In the meantime, I have something to share.

Years ago, freshly married, I took a job at an eating disorder clinic. This was a dream come true for me-- this was the population I wanted to serve. I could identify with so much of their hurts, their expectations for themselves, and I wanted to be a beacon of hope of what life could be in the absence of the perils of Ed. Starting out, it consisted of a lot of training, and on my very first clinical day (actually working with the patients), we went to a ropes course on family day. There weren't enough staff for me to shadow and still have someone with every group of girls, so I was sent off on my own with a group of gals where I had to fake having any kind of authority whatsoever.

There are many things I fear in life: Failure. Disappointing others. ET.

Heights.

Being at a ropes course was not really my cup of tea.

The obstacle we were given was to climb up a ridiculously high tree to a platform, and then leap from the platform to grab a metal hoop that was dangling from said ridiculously high tree. I thought about the last time I was convinced to go on a ferris wheel, and cried as I rocked myself on the floor of the basket until the ride was over. Climbing this ridiculous tree was certainly not covered in the job description.

I surveyed the ladies. We had someone who used to be an acrobat, and she looked totally at ease, in her element. The other gals were varying shades of excitement and anticipation. Then the youngest, a quiet girl of sixteen, looked as white as a ghost. She stared up at the ring, her jaw set, and her hands were at her side, her thumbs picking the cuticles of her other fingers.

"You gonna do it, Katie B?"

I looked at the sixteen year old. In that moment, not focusing on that stupid tree was what I needed to not piddle all over myself for what was to come.

I looked back at the patients. "I'll do it if [sixteen-year-old] does it."

She didn't even look at me. "Oh, I'm going to do it."

Each girl climbed up the tree. Each one, when asked what they were jumping for, said, "Recovery."

I climbed up that stupid tree, my feet, hands, and knees shaking violently with each movement. When the gals yelled up, "What are you jumping for?"

I yelled back, my eyes squeezed shut, "I'm jumping for you!"

I didn't reach for the ring. I just jumped from the platform, grateful for the experience to be over. The girls saw my fear, saw what I did, and instantly we had rapport. I was forever grateful for that sixteen year old girl's bravery.

A couple months would pass, and I'd be at a meal with that sixteen year old. It was her last day, and I could tell she was riddled with anxiety. My heart ached for her, and I so badly wanted to wrap her up in a cocoon of safety, comfort, and self love to help her combat her disorder outside the warm walls of the treatment center.

Another couple months would pass, and then I got a message in my work email.

That sixteen year old, who had inspired me so, had taken her life.

It was apparent how young and undeveloped I was in my professional career, because the boundaries weren't there. I hadn't put up the walls or learned how to distance myself in such a way that I did not fall absolutely in love with each patient I was able to serve. The loss of this bright light, this person who influenced me so, took a significant piece of me that day.

And so, on this running blog, I ask you today to donate to another running friend of mine's Suicide Walk page. She has her own story, and I know that so many people do have their own story of how suicide has affected their mortal tale.

So head over there. A couple dollars would be awesome. This is one of those tragedies where you spend forever after asking yourself what you could have done differently. This walk, this fundraiser, is an opportunity to do something now. Do something for what could come-- and what can hopefully be prevented.

Do something for that piece that has been taken.

Thank you.