I got an email this morning from a friend that had the line I can’t imagine you not being able to swim or run like you do at at the end of the first paragraph. I was like, I know! in my head. Outwardly, and on the proverbial paper known as a screen, I said nothing.
Because the truth is, I have it good. I can still walk and jog and elliptical, and none of this is permanent. It feels permanent. But it’s not.
The permeating sense of permanence comes from a mixture of things. It’s not being able to run heartily or swim strongly and thus not being able to manage my anxiety appropriately. Not managing anxiety means more unresolved panic and thoughts that dash about regardless of rationality, and more thoughts means less quality sleep and less quality sleep means inability to focus and inability to focus means attention is taken away from my memory so my memory is bad and whatever almost-dyslexia I’ve had in the past haunts me and mixes up numbers and letters and dates and times even more. And when everything about the way I think and live is going all wonky-cakes, it’s impossible not to feel like I’m going to turn everything right-side up again.
I jogged for thirty minutes yesterday. I ellipsed for an hour this morning. True, I also slept for eleven hours Saturday night, then for another two as a nap, then went to bed hours before Cinderella would have been riding home in a pumpkin but whatever. I’m fine.
More importantly, I’m still me. My running needn’t define me. How I cope sans running does.
Three new goals:
1) Find a race to cheer on before my next doctor’s appointment.
2) Research and write a post that isn’t in the now
3) Keep writing about running in the states.
Go-go-gadget, not letting myself being taken down and out by reasonably treatable health related thingamabobs.