"We seldom get into trouble when we speak softly. It is only when we raise our voices that the sparks fly and tiny molehills become great mountains of contention."
Bam!
With a jolt, the air horn pierces the crisp morning air, launching
Olympic Triathletes into the early morning waters of the San Diego
Bay.
I
stand among the spectators, along the rocky channel wall. Swimmers
look like a mass of flailing arms and bobbing heads. I search in vain
for my cousin and her friend, mentally sending them both power and
positivity while standing on the sidelines, hands clasped to my
chest.
I
strain, squinting through the sunrise at the swimmers. A mass of arms
and legs move forward towards the next buoy. I walk along the wall,
keeping pace with the group from afar. Some racers sprint ahead,
leaving the mass of swimmers and a few stragglers behind.
Was
she a sprinter, a steady-paced-one or a straggler? It was impossible
to know. Knowing my cousin, she was probably either a sprinter or a
front-runner in the mass. I reach down and pick up my carefully
crafted support sign.
Bam!
The air horn sounds again, signaling the launch of another age group.
This new wave of racers sets out, gradually making it more difficult
to distinguish one group from the next. I know my cousin wears the
forest green swim cap of her age group, but from this distance,
distinguishing hers from the approaching navy blue ones is difficult.
Carefully,
I pick my way along the rocky wall, waving my support sign and
periodically scanning to see the forest green caps’ progress. I
scream her name. It’s caught away in the morning breeze. As a
swimmer, I know the only time racers hear the crowd is as they
approach the wall for a turn or finish. It is impossible for her to
hear me from across the bay’s channel. I walk along the ridge
in silence.
Bam!
Another wave of swimmers enters the water wearing yellow swim caps.
As the group that I identified as possibly hers rounds the buoys, I
begin walking back to the starting area, keeping pace with the mass.
As the mass grows closer to the swimming finish, I sprint ahead to
the landing area and wait for her to climb from the water, half
worried I missed her.
My
cousin emerges from the water, completing nearly a mile of swimming
with a Texas-sized smile on her face. I began screaming in pride,
waving my sign. She passes me while ripping off her wetsuit to reveal
the biking suit below and then disappears into a field-full of
bicycles. I suddenly realize I cannot remember her friend’s
name or face, having only initially met her for the two minutes
before she entered the bay.
The sign I waved for my cousin.
Resigned
to only cheer for my cousin, I eagerly move to the field’s
exit, waving my supportive sign. In an instant, my cousin emerges
from the field perched on her bike. She calls out my name, waves and
takes off down the ten-mile cycling course. She’s off. Her
friend? I’m not sure where she is. Did she pass me already or
should I wait for her? I decide to focus my attention on my cousin.
I
roll up my sign, check the map and walk across Liberty Station Park’s
soccer fields to my car. I determine a midway point along the 25-mile
cycling course, drive to my destination, and park. Participants who
entered in the first, second and third age-based heats streak past
me, down the hill.
I
wave my sign, winning smiles from the racers. Inertia & gravity
pull cyclists past me at 45 and 50 mph. I catch only a glimpse of
their faces as they swish past. Anxiously I scan faces, searching for
my cousin. Minutes pass. No cousin. Did I miss her?
I
lean out over the street and squint up the hill at what appears like
an endless stream of ants. I wave my sign back and forth, hoping that
the large white thing will stand out in the sea of asphalt and
cyclists.
In
an instant I hear it, my name. “SARAH!” My eyes focus on
her. She flashes me a winning smile as she swishes by, pumping her
arm over-head. Whew. She saw me. Her friend? I have no clue where she
could be. Did I already miss her flying by on the bike or is she one
of those ants coming at me from atop the hill?
I
wait, waving my sign. After 10 minutes I decide that I’ve
missed the friend and take a moment to gather my things and get back
to the car.
On
my way back to Liberty Station, I take a bathroom break, buy some
chilled Gatorade and drive back to the staging area for the ensuing
6.2 mile run. I’m not sure how long it will take my cousin to
complete her bike ride. In fact, with my break, she may have already
begun running. I return to Liberty Station, park the car, grab the
Garorade and my trusty sign and head out to a midpoint on the course.
I had a sign for every occasion.
Runners
completing the 6.2 mile run will have to do two loops around the
course. I stand at the end of the loop, waving my sign and cheering
on the other runners. By this time, many runners recognize me and
wave, commenting on my signs. I talk to the bystanders around me as
we cheer on the racers.
Then
I see her, my cousin. She is making her way towards me, exhaustion
tugging at every inch of her face. I call out her name. She grins,
kind of.
“I’m
not doing well,” she pants as she passes me, rounds the cone
and begins back toward me.
“No,
you’re doing great! You’re almost done.”
“But,
I am not feeling well.” She shakes her head and slows to
a walk. I drop the sign and go over to her.
Instantly
all the documentaries I’d seen on elite athletes and Olympians
came into full focus.
“You’ve
done the training, it’s all mental now” I say
confidently, nodding my head. I kick up my walk to a speed walk. She
begins to keep pace. It’s what almost every single athlete had
ever said in those documentaries. It had to be true, right?
“Um.”
She shook her head, and looks at me, puzzled. “I’m sick.”
She slows again.
I
scramble for something encouraging to say. Anything. “Do you
need something to drink? I have chilled Gatorade.” I hand it
out to her.
“I
can’t take it.” She waves it away. I’ll be
disqualified.” She picks up her pace.
“What?
That’s absurd! You look like you need it. Maybe you’re
dehydrated.”
“I
can’t.” She pants, passing me. I drop the Gatorade and
begin speed walking with her.
“You’ve
got this. You’ve trained for it.” I begin jogging next to
her. She picks up her pace. “I mean, you have one lap left.
You’re almost done. The hardest part is behind you, right?”
She shakes her head and points forward. “Hey!” I begin
jogging alongside her. “You’ve got this!” I repeat.
“I know you! You’re strong! You’ve got this!”
“I’m
just feeling really gross.” She leaves me, pushing on.
Worry
fills my heart. She has to finish. She’s already done
everything else, just one more loop and she’s finished. This is
her dream. She can’t quit. I turn, grab my stuff. Take a swig
of the rejected Gatorade and wipe the sweat from my brow. She can’t
quit. I won’t let her. I take out across the double soccer
field to the other side of the race course, close to where she will
make the U-turn for her second lap.
It
is pushing 90 degrees with humidity I haven’t felt since I
lived in Texas.
Six
minutes later, she comes walking towards me, hands clutching her
sides. I start waving my cousin sign and she begins jogging towards
me. I jog up to her and begin keeping pace with her.
“You’re
doing great. You’ve totally got this.”
She
grimaces. “Sarah. You can’t run alongside me, I’ll
get disqualified because they’ll think you are aiding me.”
“What?
That’s stupid! I mean, I’m just a fat girl wearing jeans
and a blouse. No one is going to think I’m ‘aiding’
you.” I slow down to a speed walk. She pushes forward, leaving
me behind. “You’re doing great!” I call after her.
She
waves, making her way down the sidewalk to her halfway marker. Five
minutes later she is back. Her energy has increased a bit. She’s
jogging stronger now. I wave my sign and jog next to her for several
paces, telling her how proud I am of her. She pushes forward, leaving
me and my silly sign in the dust.
Behind
me I hear someone calling my name. I turn; it’s my cousin’s
friend. She found me. I let her know my cousin is just right in front
of her. Two women ahead. She smiles and passes me. I pack up and head
back across the double soccer field to the cone where we can
celebrate the final loop.
Racers
pace me. Some look about ready to pass out, others look as though
they just began. Each person has their age written on their calf. A
fourteen year-old kid passes me with a grin. One woman, much larger
than me, stops to vomit. Again. And again. She presses forward. I’m
impressed with her.
There
is no way I could do a triathlon. I was a champion swimmer in high
school. I rode a mountain bike on my mission and have completed a 5k
while studying at BYU, but I have never done it all at once. I stand
waving my signs at the runners. Some laugh, some tell me I must have
an awesome cousin (I do — twenty of them.) A 74 year-old man
passes me, laughing at the sign.
Suddenly
I see her coming toward me. This time she looks much better. She asks
me what time she’s at. I have no clue. I never started a watch.
She asks me to go find out what the clock says and let her know on
the other side. I learn her goal is to finish in under four hours.
She rounds the cone and starts her final lap.
I
roll up my sign, pick up my bag of Gatorades and start sprinting
across the double soccer field to the finishing area, surprised at my
eagerness and energy — knowing it’s fueled by a strong
desire to see my cousin meet her goal. By the time I arrive near the
clock it reads 3:49. She has 11 minutes.
I
set my watch, drop my stuff under a bench and start sprinting against
the sidelines of the course to meet her. By the time I do, I can
barely talk. “You’re totally going to get it.” I
gasp, looking at my watch. “You have six more minutes.”
She smiles and steps up her jog. I trot alongside her.
“I
knew you could do this. I just knew it.” I’m beaming, as
if I had anything to do with her countless hours of training, the
sweat and tears or her determination or (in my eyes) her superhuman
strength. I trot with her for about 50 yards. She waves me away. “You
can’t do that Sarah.”
I
stop, calling after her, “Five minutes!” Her pace
quickens. By that time, she is coming down the stretch. They announce
her name as having completed her first Olympic triathlon. 3:58. I
have tears in my eyes. She did it. Later I learn that she actually
beat her goal by much more than I’d thought because the clock
started with the first wave of swimmers and she’d been in the
fourth. She rocked it.
As
I think about this experience, it parallels neatly with training and
learning how to live with a severe mental illness. I am certain that
when my cousin began dreaming of competing in her first triathlon,
she searched out someone who’d done one, not someone who
studied completing one.
She
trained following their schedule, not one she created on her own or
one she learned from an expert that had never competed in a
triathlon. She could have talked to me about the 5K I completed in
2002, but instead she chose a friend who had competed in an Olympic
length triathlon previously.
For
12 years I surrounded myself with key mental health practitioners. I
followed their guidelines, took the medication necessary as
prescribed, dutifully went to all my counseling appointments and
group sessions. I worked with many well-intentioned, competent,
well-educated and highly skilled mental health practitioners. They
taught me many important skills.
But
the entire time I sat listening to the advice of professionals,
something in my head kept telling me, “But you don’t know
what it’s like to have command hallucinations,” or
“You don’t know what it’s like to drag yourself out
of bed eight hours after having taken 800 mg of Seroquel. Getting up
isn’t as easy as simply hearing the alarm, deciding to get up,
sitting up and getting out of bed.”
Essentially,
I was doing the same thing to my cousin. There I was, trotting along
my cousin telling her what I’d heard on so many documentaries
of world class athletes, “You’ve done the training, it’s
all mental now,” and only having a rough idea as to when she
started, roughly how far she was in the race, and a clear
understanding of the map and mile markers.
As
a cheerleader, I was well-intentioned, skilled even, but I was
clueless. I had never run an Olympic triathlon. I’d watched
other races. I’d even run a 5K. But I have never trained for
and completed an Olympic-length triathlon.
The
missing link between well-intentioned, highly trained professionals
and my life was the absence of hope. It wasn’t until I met my
first trained Peer Support Specialist (PSS) that I even knew that
living successfully with schizoaffective disorder was even possible.
My
doctors and counselors told me real recovery wasn’t possible
and that my life would continue the in the same course for the rest
of my life. I would be lucky to move out of a group home and get a
part-time job.
My
doctors, the experts, had never met anyone who could do much more
than that. I resigned myself to their prognosis. In my mind there
wasn’t really any reason to fight it. It was inevitable; I
could see it happening around me. It didn’t seem to matter what
medication I diligently took, or how hard I worked at following
treatment plans. I just did not feel there was hope.
I
fell into what clinicians call learned helplessness. Doctors told me
schizophrenia is degenerative, like MS, but with the mind. I was
already so bad off, I couldn’t imagine it getting worse.
When
I met my first PSS, I assumed she’d been newly diagnosed.
Imagine my surprise as I heard her story unfold and recognize its
similarities with my own. She talked about learning wellness tools
that altered the course of her life. I wanted to learn what she’d
learned because I could see it worked for her.
She
taught me the “tricks of the trade.” She taught me to run
the race as a survivor, not a victim. She taught me to pace myself.
She taught me to hope. I lost track of her shortly after the 20-hour
NAMI Peer-to-Peer class that she taught. But I feel confident that if
she could see me now, she’d feel as proud of me, as I do of my
cousin, the Olympic Triathlete.
Sarah Price Hancock, a graduate of San Diego State University's rehabilitation
counseling Masters of Science program with a certificate psychiatric
rehabilitation.
Having embarked on her own journey with a mental health diagnosis, she is
passionate about psychiatric recovery. She enjoys working as a lector
for universities, training upcoming mental health professionals.
Sarah also enjoys sharing insights with peers working to strengthen
their "recovery toolbox." With proper support, Sarah
knows psychiatric recovery isn’t just possible — it’s
probable.
Born and raised in San Diego, California, Sarah served a Spanish-speaking
and ASL mission for the LDS Church in the Texas Dallas Mission. She
was graduated from Ricks College and BYU. Sarah currently resides in
San Diego and inherited four amazing children when she married the
man of her dreams in 2011. She loves writing, public speaking,
ceramics, jewelry-making and kite-flying — not necessarily in
that order.