I miss you.
I feel so alone without you, like my entire identity has been stripped from me. You gave me so much: friends, happiness, freedom, strength… And now you’re gone.
I know nobody is at fault here, but I can’t help feeling sometimes like I could have done something to prevent this. I could have taken better care of myself. I could have been more committed to you, maybe given you a little more time, or maybe even given us some extra time apart. I could have kept a better eye on where things were going. I could have seen it coming, at least.
That night when it happened I was so scared we’d wind up like this, but I didn’t let anyone know. I put on my strong face and kept on. I was determined not to let it set me back. But, as I now know, it doesn’t work that way. At a certain point you have to let yourself give up or you risk hurting yourself even worse in the end.
God, running. I miss you so much.
From my 9.9.12 Training Log:
I ran for my physical therapist on September 4th. First of all, he was shocked that I’d never had a coach, other than my sister. Second, he told me my form was really wonky (suprise!). I’ve been running too forward on my toes, lifting my legs and bouncing but not following through with a strong push off the ground. When he corrected me and had me run, it took me less than five minutes for my injury to kick in. I felt that sharp pull in my knee, like someone was cutting into it with a knife, and it was strong.
I started crying.
It’s been so long. I feel like a failure! How can I have taken this much time off–almost 4 months!–and still not be at least a little better?
And I wouldn’t give up Salty Running for the world, but writing about running every day and reading about running every day, hearing about other runners’ races and victories and training… it’s so hard for me. Sometimes I feel like this would be easier if I could just pretend running didn’t exist and do something else for a while.
But here are all you Salties, waiting for me to talk all about running. And here I am, absolutely desperate to read every word you say about it too, like a jilted lover stalking my ex on our mutual friends’ Facebook pages.
Not that, like, I’ve ever done that before or anything.
Sometimes, like a couple weeks ago, I give up and trot around Brooklyn, running a hundred steps at a time between walking stints. I struggle not to look guilty when I see my physical therapist and don’t tell him about it because I’m afraid he’ll stop treating me. I know I’m not supposed to, but I justify each step to myself with the knowledge that I’m going crazy without it.
I want new shoes. I desperately want a race. I want to feel strong and healthy again. I want to feel the wind on my face and the sun on my cheeks, the sweat dripping down my back. I want to scream that battle cry that’s taken me to the crest of so many hills and jump high at the excitement of that last mile marker and see my mom/sister/friends/aunt/anyone on the sidelines cheering for me.
I don’t know what to do. I feel like I don’t know who I am, like my whole self has been undermined by my body’s incapability to heal this injury and move on.
Have you ever gone through a long period of healing from injury? How did you cope with the stress of not being able to run?
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