Here we are, the end of another year.
It has been a really good year.
I have laughed more than i have cried. I got a new job, which i love. I ran four half marathons and ran a marathon as far as i could, 22 miles, and dropped out to find out how tough i really am. 22 miles on three stress fractures. I saw most of my favourite bands play live. I went to bed alone just a few times.
My children kept on growing. They blossom every single day and surprise me daily with their creativity. Here, at the end of the year, i think i have done a good job parenting this year.
I have less debt now than i did last year. I have shopped locally more often than not. I can’t remember the last time i ate fast food. I haven’t used a credit card in 2011.
I think, maybe, i have grown up a bit this year.
Having a history. Oh i have a history. I type and type. I hit the delete button. Back and forth. This great desire to share, to help, to unfold the crinkled, tossed papers full of sad, sad tales.
I am a white knuckle driver. The endless highway unfolds stories, i have trouble breathing, the cars are surely going to swerve, send my body flying. Breathe.
The other day (windows down, music loud) i felt the chemicals in my brain begin to shift. For a period of time i felt the emptiness of depression begin to unravel. Pulling over i jumped out of the car. Slamming the door on bad thoughts. I walked across the field, feeling the sharp sting of cold, cold air on sad, sad lungs.
I often make the mistake of thinking all of that is behind me. I am happy. I am a runner. I am well.
Cracking icy puddles in my favourite boots i accept that one day i won’t be able to outrun that sickness. That my chemicals will someday get the best of me, again. I can laugh and i can run. I can love and i can cry. I can do all the right things and i can do all the wrong things. I do all those things very well.
