Remember that whole spiel on being focused? Well, so far I have been, especially with my health. Understanding the many facets of health helps a person make good decisions about what they are willing to allow into their space. I decided that poisoning my mind and body was not at all a good decision. When forced with making a hard choice, people often say ‘pick your poison’. Well, it is safe to say I picked several and one of which I have put down.
I am not sure when it happened. I think it was the day I stood in the booze isle of Kroger and saw my fave bottle of wine as addiction rather than a relaxing evening. Alcoholic, no, I don’t believe I can claim that title, but I could very easily see myself fitting the description in a few more years at the seemingly innocent rate I was going.
Some people are born with addictive personalities (imo) and I am one of those some people. Mostly due to emotional issues (which I am happy to announce I have less of these days), but also due to genetics. I clearly saw a path to self-destruction in a way that would not end well for anyone.
Of course, that does not mean I cannot enjoy an occasional drink now and then, but it does mean that I cannot enjoy it frequently. It was a necessary crutch for the time and space I was living, but not now. Said crutch is no longer needed.
I am focused on having a better life, a better body, and a better mind. Those things are essential to happiness. I crave happiness much more than I crave voluntarily poisoning my body. It is sort of strange how things and views change in what seems like an instant. Sort of miraculous to actually witness it happening to you for you. God is certainly good–all of the time.
This morning I stood on the scale in the dim light of the dawn. I stopped worrying about the number a few weeks ago–not really caring what it said as long as I could run a mile without having a heart attack. The art of being a thick chick/fat chick/pleasantly plump chick/curvy chick/plus size chick/chunky chick has never been lost on me. Wake up, weigh, gasp, write out a plan, work the plan, drop weight, get lazy (or injured….or depressed….or divorced), gain it all back and repeat. Only now, possibly from 35 year old wisdom, I don’t really care.
I have been on that scale before and it has read anywhere between 287 to 235. I have scoffed at myself in the mirror, I have danced around in the bathroom naked in celebration, I have shrugged off the lack of change. The experience is always different, yet it is always the same. Judgement. Self-judgement…the worse kind.
I have noticed a change in my body, but not so much on the scale. For once…I am okay with that. I no longer put off buying clothes for the sake of the smaller me. I no longer really care if my stomach ever shrinks enough so I can at least see my vagina (yea…we lost touch about, oh, i dunno–13 years ago). I no longer care about the flabby arm hang or the jiggly thighs. The double chin doesn’t really concern me either. I am no longer in the need to impress others–which includes the stuck-in-the-145lb-past part of me. I am just in it to live. And, after all, that is the goal….right?
After an argument with The He one Saturday afternoon, I began to experience a myriad of feelings…none of which were good. More and more these days, when I feel engulfed in those emotions of raw anger, bitterness, sadness and temper tantrum I often feel as if I am drowning…literally. Breath becomes shallow or non existent and I feel panicky. Trapped by water on all sides and there’s no way out. Except……maybe one.
In school, I hated running. In middle school particularly. Every Monday we would slip into our black shorts and gray tees and take it to the track. Four laps equaled a mile….and a straw. The objective was to get (4) straws. I usually got (2). I hated running. Fast forward to the glorious days of short skirts, go-go boots, and flag poles. We had to run and I hated that too. Super fast forward to September 2010 when my spirit was ill and apparently my marriage was too. I decided to step outside of normal and take on a challenge in which I could only make waves. I was going to run.
Running soon became that thing. You know, that thing you do when the world is closing in? It shuts the world out and turns the volume down. It creates a space no one else can enter, even if there are hundreds of people around. It’s….that thing.
Running is that thing for me. So often I feel panicky and breathless and so often I picture myself pounding the pavement. On Saturday, I did just that. I pictured myself running. Running far. Running steady. Running….away.
When I vented to Trinidad about the argument (which I sorta can’t remember now), we began talking about what made us feel stronger, calmer, capable, confident. Running does it all for me. I suffer from sadness–a pretty deep sadness on most days–but when I run…it lifts. The clouds part and the world is right again. I can see why people become addicted. I can see why people spend hours and money to do something that takes it’s toll on the body later. It’s that thing. It’s that thing to grab for…to fall for…to chase….