I used to run from my stress. It actually manifested in me eating my stress, my fear and my anger. I ate through every emotion and every occasion. I ran myself right into the supple bosom of obesity.
When my first son was born I saw myself for who I was and I couldn’t allow my weight to hold me back from participating in an average life. I had a reason to take pride in myself, my family needed me to show strength and endurance and I needed to establish our new lives. I needed to be a leader and tune into a more positive channel. So down went the fork, on went the sneakers and I Forrest Gumped over a hundred pounds off of my body. I found my happy. A happier me is a better parent and a more caring partner.
Today I found myself needing to run away. It had been five months since I had felt the endorphins pulsate and infiltrate my brain, sending shock waves through my nervous center and provide a sensation of “runner's high” that I typically thrive on. Running is my meth. It courses through my veins, and the physical pain becomes progress measured in miles, minutes and foot strikes.
I quit getting high on my pure blue stuff when I was five months pregnant with my second baby. It’s been eight months since I’ve had my fix and my body was aching with atrophy.
Three months ago I got to re-live having a baby, oh miracle of miracles. I got to relive every ache, pain and pound gain. I swore not to lose my new self to my children. I swore that I would keep my headspace clear and that taking care of two children would not devastate my well-being.
I pulled on my pre-pregnancy running clothes that fit me 30 pounds ago. I struggled with my running pants, tugging them over my disproportionately large post partum stomach, leaving a very distinguishable ravine in my more to love middle. I was heading out the door with a puffy tummy cut into two, slightly restricted breathing and camel toe for days. I could have let shame stop me. I could have found another excuse to not get out the door.
The facts stuck in my frontal lobe were too hard to ignore. Fact, I was sick of my screaming baby. Fact, I was tired of my three-year-old. Fact, I would do anything to avoid cooking one more dinner. Fact, it was me time. So I looked at the camel toe, the double tummy situation and said “fuck you, I’m going out”.
I stopped my husband outside with the lawn mower, I handed him the baby and I said “I’m doing this, now.” He knew it was coming; my itch had been palpable for a while. My pants were full of ants.
It was just steps outside of my door. All I had to do was take them.
I hit my stride, found my breath and let my muscle memory take over, like riding a bike. I didn’t fly, I looked awkward and overweight, but fuckall, I was running! My feet tapped out a beat and my headphones weren’t playing “wheels on the bus”. I was alone with my thoughts and that alone was worth the sweat.
There’s no guarantee that I’ll lose weight, or get time to myself every day. I’m not looking for promises from myself. I enjoy the clean slate I get from running. I want to rid my head of fear and my heart of rejection. I want to get rid of the overbearing oppression that can be motherhood. It can feel like servitude no matter how much you love your family. I’m finding out so much about who I am. Writing, running, mothering—just three verbs that nicely fill out an “about me” section, but those verbs can be used as a sledge hammer to tear down some walls. I don’t have to be any one thing to any one person. I can evolve and learn more about me, so that someday I will have a clue what to put in that box.
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