For now — ...

I’ve been having a hard time lately.  And when I say lately, I mean since before January.   I share this at the risk of this post becoming what feels like a diary entry, but isn’t that what my blog has always been?  An invitation into my mind — how I think and feel — and in these moments of vulnerability, I just let you all read it.

I deleted Instagram in January out of rage but also out of a need to work on myself, to not be in this constant, toxic comparison of people I know and don't know. I instantly felt better and lighter, and eventually, I didn’t miss it. I was present with my friends when we were together. I was more productive at home. I started reading again. I honestly thought it would be what fixed me.

But it hasn’t.

I haven’t physically felt right, either. There's been some warning signs in my lower back.  I started physical therapy.  I returned to my spine doctor.  I’ve had an MRI.  Things aren't worse than in 2019, but things still aren’t right, and that’s a level of discouragement and disappointment that I never expected to feel again.  Surely, this isn’t the same body that ran 50 miles in October.  This leads me to think, "Did I do this to myself by running 50 miles?"  I don’t think so.  I truly don’t.  But what I also know about myself is I catastrophically think.  Years of being in and out of therapy have taught me that — enough that I’m aware when I’m doing it and try to work through the thoughts when they happen, but here we are.

What if I never run again?

What if those 50 miles were my last hurrah?

What if I can’t fix the problem this time?  I’m in my bargaining stage with some higher being, unsure who or what, pleading, "If you just let me function like a normal human again, I’ll be happy with that."  I know that eventually grows into "I’ll be happy running a mile" or "I’ll be happy to run a 5k".  So, like I said — catastrophic, but hey, at least I'm aware.

I have also told myself I’m okay not running, but this is also the first time I’ve not been able to run now that I have a dead Mom.  I feel the pent-up energy inside me — overly sad —unable to exhaust myself — unable to hurt myself (the body aches after a hard, long-run hurt). My grief has nowhere to go but to stay inside me, and it's heavy. I feel so heavy. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. It's heavy. What I also know is that I love a challenge, and I love to rebuild myself. At some point, I will be okay, and I’ll look back at these months and store them away as part of my journey that makes me resilient, gritty, and me.  

And I am eagerly looking forward to that. Until then —

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