Running

I had a nightmare the other night.  Hadn't had one in many, many years.  I actually woke up, completely disoriented and covered in sweat, and could not go back to sleep.  I was afraid.  Like heart pounding, irrationally afraid of the dark.

I can't remember exactly what the dream was about.  Something was trying to get me and I was trying to kill it but I didn't know if I could actually kill it or if I should try to reason with it.  Yeah, I'm sure there's some deep-seated meaning to the imagery of this dream.  I honestly don't want to know what the hell it means.

What I do know is that I was all alone that night and maybe that's why I was so scared.  There was no one to laugh at me or tell me that I'd be alright.  There was no one to get me a cookie or hold my hand until my heart quit pounding.  There was no one to play with my hair until I fell back to sleep either.  Instead, I just got out of my bed, burned a little sage, lit a candle, and read for a while.  Eventually I fell back asleep.

So I think this is why I need to run.

I've always been a runner--not a fast runner or a long distance runner.  I like to keep it to 3-4 miles 3-4 days a week.  Until a few years ago at least.  And then I found myself tying my shoes and heading out the door every single day for about an hour.  I suppose I was attempting to run from my sadness.  I was probably trying to use the running as a way to process what was happening in my life.  I'd suggest that I was even trying to run myself figuratively into nothingness but I like to eat too much to actually let that happen.  I think it's just my coping method of choice.  I like how it represents running away without actually, well, running away.  I dated a guy for a while and spent all my free time running--should've been a sign that maybe I should've literally run away that time.

With all that running I did I actually hurt myself and ended up with a string of injuries that prevented my daily running therapy/ritual.  It scared me not to be able to use my representative escape.  I even convinced myself that, like a smoker, it was probably good to see if I could exist without my vice (running and smoking are very different vices--yeah, I know) for a while.  You see, I am quite good at convincing myself of just about anything.  Just about anything.  Remember that.   I healed and started running again but not as much as I had in the previous year.   I didn't need to.  My world was full of kids and work and friends and introspection as I maneuvered through my new life.  I didn't think I needed to figuratively or literally run away anymore.

But then I had that bad dream.

When you use a muscle repeatedly you build and maintain that muscle.  When you stop using the muscle it will atrophy.  Simple physiology.  And then it made sense to me what had happened.  When I stopped running I also stopped being alone.  At least temporarily.  But see, I am alone, so trying to pretend otherwise allowed that reality to atrophy and I lost the strength to be alone.  I need that muscle or whatever the hell it is to get strong again so I don't ever have to feel the way I felt at 2AM.

Self preservation and running are solitary pursuits, best left to the broken hearted.  Or so I'm finding. I have a new pair of shoes,  a new running bra (having boobs that don't enjoy the bouncing), and a mind and heart that don't agree on much but can be easily convinced to run.  

Dinner

I had a friend one time who told me that he knew a woman was upset when she ate ice cream for dinner.  Directly out of the carton.  I believe he was on to something here.

But what does it mean when you eat ice cream for dinner and drink whisky for dessert?  Also directly out of the container?

There is a kind of tired that goes beyond the physical feeling of exhaustion.  There is a tired that renders a person numb and unfeeling.  That kind of tired goes all the way to the depths of your soul.  Void.  Emotionless.  Hopeless.  Alone.

I think that’s the kind of tired that makes a person eat ice cream for dinner and drink whisky out of the bottle.

I’m wondering if there’s a cure for that feeling?  No amount of sleep offers relief.  No activity can spark a reaction.  No recklessness or pursuit of adventure can create any lasting shred of excitement.  

Nothing but monotony and beige and silence.  

That’s not entirely true, I suppose.  I guess that patience will eventually offer up some sort of new proposition.  But do we take a wild leap and accept that offer?  Or are we so frozen and stuck that we don’t even recognize it?  Or maybe even disregard it completely for reasons we don’t even understand?

I like to be tired.  I like the feeling of sore, fatigued muscles.  I run. I lift weights.  I do yoga.  I do farm chores and garden and cut wood.  I know tired.  Tired quiets the words and ideas that flow in the mind.  Tired makes your bed feel that much softer.  I know tired.

But when I go to bed tonight there won’t be dishes or cups left in my kitchen sink.  There will only be one spoon.