Phil Claudy had lost all hope of accepting his sexuality. But running saved his life and now he wants to help other LGBT people struggling with depression.
One night last winter, as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, I decided to go for a walk around the pond north of campus. As I walked, the bitter-cold air piercing my clothes, I contemplated the emptiness I felt in my heart, the inability to care, and my frustration with not being able to feel anything. I was exhausted from living with a constant aching inside me, from having my friends and family comment on how sad and aloof I seemed, from being the person I had become. In the quiet of this cold New Hampshire night, I reached my breaking point.An intense feeling of defeat and hopelessness washed over me, and my feet began shuffling through the snow to the frozen pond. There was a small area of black water pushing through the ice, and my padded footfalls were leading me directly to it. On the inside, I felt like I had already died, and the black spot on the pond was calling for me to finish the job. I blankly stared up at the inky blackness of the night sky and saw the myriad stars poking their way through the dark. I filled my lungs with the frigid air, and began to cry.
I didn't try to kill myself that night, and I still don't know what compelled me to turn around and walk home. Where I was, who I was, just a few months ago, a few years ago, was so different from the person standing there that night.
Growing up, I felt that I had an amazing and happy life. At my home in suburban Philadelphia, I had loving parents who made sure I wanted for nothing, four amazing siblings who helped shape the person I am today, and great friends who provided a support network that pushed me to achieve anything I put my mind to. In high school, I began rowing and was fortunate enough to be recruited to Dartmouth's Heavyweight Crew team. I was going to a great school, I had great friends, and I was playing a sport I loved. Depression didn't make sense to me. How could I have depression? I had no reason to be depressed.
There was something, though. Something that I buried deep within myself, something that I was determined I would not let ruin my happy life, my athletic aspirations, or my professional ambitions. I grew up believing that my sexuality was an illness, a sickness that put me at risk of a lonely and immoral life.
I moved cautiously through middle school and high school, trying my best to hide who I really was. I ran track, played football, and rowed crew sports that demanded discipline, time, and structure. I assumed the "jock" identity, using it as a facade behind which I could shield my true identity. At my all-male high school, I felt safe in this persona. Throwing myself into sports and academics allowed me to be "too busy" to date girls, a convenient excuse that allayed any suspicion about my sexuality. Every move I made was carefully chosen to make me blend in, to disappear among my peers. I dedicated my life to being unnoticed and undiscovered.
By my first term in college, keeping my secret had exhausted me. I struggled to focus on school and crew, and I was consumed by my attempt to establish the identity I hid behind in high school. Soon, I was unable to recognize myself. What started as a subtle numbness to emotion quickly spiraled into a debilitating and life-threatening depression.
Depression set over me like sleep, creeping up on me and lulling me into its grip. By the time I realized it was there, I was deep within its grasp. I didn't recognize myself when I was depressed, and I could not have cared less. Who I was, who I wanted to be, none of that mattered anymore. I moved from day to day, apathetic to my classes, my friends, or any obligations I had. Most days, I found it hard to get out of bed, to get myself to eat, to go to class, or to do my homework. Often, I lay immobilized in bed, too depressed to speak, to explain how I felt, to call out for help. Before long, I would find myself at the edge of the pond on that winter night, no longer the man with the happy life. No longer the man I wanted to be.
That winter, I left the crew team in order to focus on my mental health, and spent the rest of the term trying to balance my classes, my struggle with my sexuality and my worsening depression. It wasn't the sport or my teammates that led me to leave crew, but my exhausting battle with depression and my sexuality that left me too defeated to commit myself to a Division 1 team.
In the winter, I picked up running as a hobby and immediately fell in love, not only for the physical benefits, but for the mental benefits as well. Running provided an outlet that allowed me to overcome my depression and to remedy my dissatisfaction with my sexuality. As my love for running grew, so did my love for myself. I became happier with who I really was, who I had hidden for so many years.
Awakening
I hated running. I hated the burn in my legs, the cramps in my shoulder, the tightness in my chest and lungs. I hated struggling for air. In the morning, the soreness made it nearly impossible to get out of bed. My muscles ached on every flight of stairs. I felt exhausted for the rest of the day, and I struggled to finish my homework. I couldn't even run one mile without cramping up. Running hurt. At night, I peeled off my socks to reveal new blisters on my toes and heels.
Depression hates you. It hates you when you get out of bed in the morning, it hates you when you go to class anyway, it hates you when you finish one day and want to start another. Depression exhausts you. It makes you too tired for homework or stairs. It hates being ignored. It hates not being the loudest voice in your head. Depression hurts. And it hurts until you think that everyone must be able to see the pain like cuts and bruises on your face. Depression makes you want to give up. Depression wants you to give up. It doesn't want you to keep running.
It wasn't until my first run through the beautiful landscapes of Vermont in late February of 2015 that I fell in love with running, that I began to fall in love with myself. My friend suggested that we go on a run through Norwich, Vermont, with the promise of a beautiful view at the end. I was reluctant, but I decided to give it a try. We slowly made our way through the windy, wooded trail. After a mile, the road took a sharp turn right, and we were soon faced by a hill that could very well have been a mountain. As we began our journey to the hill's summit, the only sounds to be heard were the slow, patterned melody of our breathing and the crunch and sprinkle of gravel as our running shoes kicked up the loose road beneath us.
What couldn't be heard, though, was the screaming in my mind — the command of my depression weighing down each step and each breath, tantalizing me with surrender, with defeat. The physical pain of climbing this hill paled in comparison to the mental pain that my depression caused me. The burning in my quads couldn't compare to the burning in my mind. The labored breathing couldn't compare to the strength it took to want to take my next breath. The acute pain in my side couldn't compare to the dull, chronic pain in my heart.
The weight my depression put on me in every step of every day, telling me that my sexuality was wrong — that I was flawed — was more taxing than a run up any hill or any mountain. I was just about to use what little breath I had left to call out to my friend and tell her to stop running, to quit, when we reached a break in the hill that gave way to a clearing. She turned around and smiled at me. As I caught up and looked to see what she had found, I lost what little breath I had left. What I saw before me was the most beautiful landscape I had ever seen. Large expanses of forest and rolling hills were spread out before me, not one inch touched or marred by humanity. Immediately, the burning in my legs dissipated, the pain in my heart numbed, I caught my breath, and the screaming of depression in my mind fell silent. I was outside of myself, completely engrossed in the beauty before me. While subconsciously, I began to experience the beauty within myself. For the first time, I felt a beauty that was also unscarred by humanity, by the social constructs that led me to believe that I am flawed. I had begun my journey of accepting who I really am.
Read the conclusion of this article at OutSports.com
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