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.
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.
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.
