There is an elephant in this room.
Somewhere between here and there, i lost my mojo. My thing. If you can’t write about anything what is there left to write about. If everything you say has the potential to hurt feelings, or talk about that thing that can’t be said, if everything is unspeakable – what do you become.
Perhaps that is the very best part of running. Mile after lonely mile the solitude takes hold. There is just me and my heartbeat and nothing to say.
I have lost my desire for most things. Is this the beginning of menopause, is this what it looks like. Hormones remove any desire to fight, to be passionate, to say what you really want to say.
Often times i sit in the middle of a conversation. Silently. The words in my head are passionate and elegant, full of love and desire. Stuck inside there. No reasonable escape, because when they do they come out all wrong. You’re wrong.
Often times i spend entire days living in there. I speak to nothing. I go unnoticed. Tears roll down my face at seemingly nothing. My body gives away buckets of blood and sweat, leaving me speechless. Again.
We spent last week on Mt Washington. It was our first family vacation ever. We have done a few two day trips here and there, but never a real, week off school/work getaway.
It was magical. It was exhausting. Five days of skiing is an endurance test. A fun, fantastical test of muscle and your bodies ability to stay warm.
The best part is all the time spent on chairlifts. Half the day is spent sitting side by side, chatting, laughing and bonding. I spent more time talking with each of my kids than i have in ages and they, in turn, talked with each other. Being on a lift behind tristan and toby i watched them chat and giggle and be silly together. There was no fighting, just being together, being family.
It was amazing. I am so thankful to my employers for making it possible for us to go on that adventure.
You make me miserable. I’m miserable all the time.
It has taken me over twenty years. Finally, in the shower this morning i understood.
On my sixteenth birthday my father picked me up from school so that i could go get my Learners License. The first thing he said to me was “you look like an aging french whore.” I’m not sure where that particular choice of words came from, but they stung. They hurt me to my core and i have talked about those words many times over the years. With friends, lovers, psychiatrists, strangers. They hovered over me, a constant ache. They stole from me the joy of a sixteenth birthday, a comfort in being and expressing myself however i wanted.
As i watch my daughter grow up i feel scared so much of the time. The boyfriend, the parties, the new social circle, the disinterest in me and the family. It’s lonely and scary and often sad. I am constantly trying to reach out to her. Tell her i love her as many times a day as is a little less than mortifying. She’s still there. I know she still loves us and that we still have a magical bond. She just doesn’t really need or want it right now. I force myself to be okay with it. To let her grow and blossom and become an individual. A shining light, well my shining light.
But, i get it now. My dad didn’t really think i looked like a whore he just didn’t have the emotional tools to tell me my growing up was freaking him out. Sometimes the cruelest words come from fear and desperation to hold onto what we have already lost.
Would it be strange to look inside other peoples heads? I was thinking about that.
Yesterday on my run i had an unfortunate case of gastrointestinal distress. What started as a simple “hmmm” along with a million other thoughts like: “What should i make for dinner. Pretty farm. Stupid shins. How far have i gone? How fast am i going? Oh! Pretty song. I like these lyrics. I feel tired. I feel great.” The feed that goes through my head when i’m running is like a constant stream of crap. It just all goes out, until there is nothing left except breathing and music.
Anyway, the “hmmm…” quickly became an uh-oh, rapidly followed by an “oh my god!” I stopped to walk, hold my arms above my head, crouch down – it was imminent. But that didn’t stop the rapid fire panic inside my head. After (i’ll spare you the during) when i got home i looked at my Garmin and saw that, despite all that drama (during which i didn’t bother to stop the timer) i had still finished my 10k in an hour and seven minutes. And you know what? I was proud! That’s how crazy running is.
Back to inside your head. I thought that what was going on inside my head during that roadside drama is pretty much how it is in there all the time, except the main characters and/or plot change. It’s a crazy storm in there and i fear that if anybody jumped in they would be very traumatized. This got me thinking of a young woman i work with. She is lovely and sweet and kind, but i can’t help noticing that every time i look at her when she thinks nobody is watching she’s either smiling or laughing, kind of a soft murmur on her lips.
So strange, these inside thoughts.
