So she writes…..and runs…..

There were many great things about living in Orlando: commuting to Tallahassee, living the life I was living. But, the stress, pain, distress, hurt, and whatever other devastating adjective you’d like to add, took its toll. I think I was done. I tried. I failed.

Failure is tough to take when you’re as hard on yourself as I am. I had choices to make and failed at the majority. What I excelled at was work – very hard work – and being a driving force, literally and figuratively. I pushed myself harder than I ever had or, hopefully, ever will have to again. I worked full-time in a part-time set of days, didn’t lose any clients, worked out harder than I ever had, ran more miles than I ever had, wrote more words, painful words, cried myself to sleep until there were no more tears, and I was just numb. Numb to the point of not being sure I was even alive. Living, yet not. Breathing, but not knowing how it was happening. I was a walking dichotomy. Impossible to explain, loving my life, excruciating to live, no desire to be like that ever again.

So she writes. And runs.

Two things helped buoy me for those months – writing and running. Writing is free therapy for me, and I did a lot of it. I didn’t publish or share anywhere, and most of it will stay hidden away. If you’re lucky enough to find it after I die, make sure your seatbelt is really tight before you begin to drink it in. It’s an intoxicatingly thick blood.

All the things I couldn’t say, all the things I couldn’t share, were bled onto paper, night after night. Where many people “drunk text,” I “tired write.” Sometimes my girlfriends would be the late-night recipient, but usually I just clicked “save” and moved along. It was all very cathartic, bloody, gut-wrenching. I had a love/hate relationship with it all.

With writing, I was also doing a bit of reading. Books some, but mostly following online trails of others who were writing their shreds of existence. I found those who were in similar circumstances, similar constricted heartbeats, pouring it all out clearly in an attempt to make it hurt less. They were singing my song more beautifully than I was, because I was too spent to sing it myself. The reading was helpful, but my writing got me through, and when I read it now, my heart breaks for that person, whoever she is. I grieve for her, mourn for her, am devastated for her, am shocked for her, and empty for her. I cannot believe she was me; I cannot believe I was her. Empty, hollow, echo-filled, dry, temperature-neutral, dead, but not. All so very confusing, both then and now. How did that woman survive?

Running.

When I look back over the course of my entire life, I can brightly see where, when I am most stressed, I start running again. And run I did. I can’t even remember when it started this time, but it took me farther than I’d ever been. Became commonplace that I’d run 3, 4, 5 miles, and often 6, 8, 10 miles. I ran my stress off like it was going to save me. On some level, it did. I was also working out in the gym, as that was a family activity, and in the best shape of my life. I miss being that fit, but do not miss the reason I was there. It has been a struggle to get back to that, and I’ve had to let myself be ok with not being as strong and able to run distance like I could then. Life has changed, priorities have changed, focus has changed, and I’ve allowed myself the “ok” with it all. I will take up running and gym-ing again, but on my terms, on my schedule – not because the stress in my life pushes me there. It’s a hard place to be – allowing yourself to let something go.

This time I’m writing because I want to, not because I need the therapy. I’m not gifted in many areas in life, but I do feel like I am a darn good hairstylist, and a pretty darn good writer. It’s nice to flex those giftings out of contentment and not distress. That’s also an awfully hard lesson to grip. I often times fail. But, I want to write, I want to put my life, emotions, stories, excitements, disappointments, on paper and send them out into the air. If someone plucks them from the atmosphere, well ok. And if not, well, ok again. I don’t care. It’s not for them, it’s for me. It’s like the pictures in my camera roll and online. I don’t have a care as to whether another soul looks at them. When I’m old and in the home, I want to look back on them and see a life full of every emotion, lived deeply, enjoyed. And every word I go back and read, I want to feel the twinge in my chest that I felt when I wrote it. And if someone comes along for the ride, I hope they feel it too. And maybe, just maybe, all those things I wrote and hid, I’ll set a timer on and publish long after I’m gone.