How Walking Saved Me From a Mental Breakdown

London 1994, I’m in the midst of a mental breakdown. My thoughts have been racing for days. I’m desperate. I’ve been relying on cans of superstrong cider to calm my mind down, but it has stopped working. Even buying alcohol is hard now because entering a shop can trigger a panic attack.

In recent weeks, I’ve walked out of my job, lost my bedsit, and cut off all contact with friends. I’m homeless and alone. I want help, but the idea of asking for it terrifies me. I yearn for somebody to come along and whisk me off to a psychiatric hospital. I’d be fine with that. Just don’t ask me any questions because my mind can’t cope with any more thinking.

I pace the streets of London. Walking for hours with no destination. I must look desperate, but no one offers help. Thoughts swirl in my mind like vultures. They tell me of my faults and failures. They mock me with my brokenness. They say I’m irredeemable and list every shameful thing I’ve ever done. I’m worn out from trying to defend myself against these thoughts. It’s like I’m lying helpless on the mat of a boxing ring, and they are still pummeling me.

But as the hours of walking tire me out, my mind is pulled from thought to my aching body. I’m noticing my throbbing feet and weary legs. This comes as a huge relief. Without intending to, the walking acts like a form of meditation. I’m grounding myself. Now I can see things more clearly, and the sense of panic disappears. It is like a storm has passed. A few hours later, I ask for help and get it.

I didn’t beat the vultures in my mind. I didn’t have to. I only needed to move my attention away from them.

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