Inspiration found

All the words have been spoken and all the emotions have been felt. There isn't much new to be said about what happened at the Boston Marathon yesterday. I felt sick the moment I heard about the bombs, and it escalated with each terrifying video and every horrifying image.

I found out rather quickly that my friends and teammates in Boston were safe and sound, but so many people weren't. Their lives were literally torn apart. I can't get the images out of my mind. The blood-soaked sidewalks, the mangled limbs. The screaming from the live footage is such a terrible sound, and I just want to believe it's not real. Fake blood. Artificial injuries. Actors. 

How are people supposed to remove those images and sounds and moments from their memory? How do those innocent people recover? Is it even possible? It hardly seems fair.

The people who received the brunt of the attack were spectators. Moms, brothers, sons, dads, sisters, friends. A runner's support system. Those are the people who help make the marathon worth it. I think of my parents, who never miss a big race. I imagine seeing their excitement and feeling their pride. They have been my light in every single race they've spectated. And some asshole extinguished the light in Boston yesterday. It's unimaginable. A runner's dream to run the Boston Marathon turned into anguish and fear and despair, wondering whether family members were safely waiting at the triage center that used to be a finish line.

To hate whoever did this isn't enough. Nothing will be enough, really. The running community is a family, and this tragedy hit too close to home for so many. Those are my people. Our people. But as the day progressed, my Twitter and Facebook feeds began to fill with camaraderie. #RunForBoston became a tag across the internet. Runners throughout the country hit the pavement last night in honor of shattered lives. Runners did what runners do in solidarity and support -- they ran. I ran last night, wearing a shirt that says "Run Forever" on the back. But now we know forever isn't real. 

This attack may have burnt up the hopes of hundreds yesterday, but it lit a fire in the hearts of just as many.

This morning I registered for a November marathon, which goes against everything I've already said and felt this year. But that was before I felt this -- sadness, motivation, anger, resilience. Runners are resilient, and in our own way we're going to help our collective broken spirit get back on its feet. We'll run for Boston, we'll run for the injured, we'll run for those who died, we'll run for those who didn't make it to the finish line yesterday, and we'll run for those who will never have a chance to start.

My crossing of the marathon finish line later this year won't make a bit of difference to the people in Boston. But I can do my small part in my small corner of Wisconsin to honor them for 26.2 miles, a distance so familiar to me, and a distance I so often take for granted.

No one can live forever and no one can run forever, but we can live right now and run while we can. It's been said probably hundreds of times already, but it doesn't make it any less true: when you mess with one runner, you mess with them all.

We love you, Boston.

I am me. I am fine.

I totally remember being a little girl, sitting in the backseat of the car with my sister, and being disgusted with the size of my thighs. To be fair, my sister had legs like twigs. But I'd sit there, in my shorts, and try to keep my legs from resting too hard on the seat to keep them from smooshing like they did.

For the remainder of my adolescence, that's what I'd do. Be ever so careful when I sat down while wearing shorts. Because thighs.

What the hell, you guys? I was, like, 12! How does that even happen?

Today, as a grownup, my legs have become the part of my body I'm most proud of (funny how that works), but the body image insecurities continue to ravage my mind. Hard. I was having a conversation with a girlfriend yesterday, and we -- piece by piece -- tore ourselves apart. Stomachs, backs, midsections, hands.

HANDS.

Once I stayed home from the gym because I couldn't handle the way my shorts were fitting, and how they dug just ever-so-slightly into my waist, and god, that was unflattering, I can't do this, throw things, cry, and go back to the couch. Getting dressed for a run is an event. A stressful event. For all of these reasons.

When I get dressed each day, I check every single angle of my body in the mirror because maybe I shouldn't wear this. Is this pinching funny? Is that my stomach?  Dammit. Try again.

Why are we insane? I suppose I meant me. I'm insane. None of these issues drive to me excessive exercise. I don't starve myself. God, I don't starve myself. Are you kidding me? FOOD. But they do make me hate myself. Maybe hate is too strong a word. But I get mad at myself. I crawl into my shell. I feel ugly. I feel 12. 

And let me tell you something: I am not overweight. Not even close. By all standards, I'm pretty damn normal. But what is it about society that affects me so much? I'll never look like her. I'll never have those abs, that waist, those arms. I look real. I don't look like I crawled out of a magazine. But why does normal and real make me feel gross? And why, as an adult woman, am I even having this conversation?

I remember feeling fat as a kid. Comparing myself to friends. Wondering when I'd look like that in my jeans. I wasn't even a fat kid. I mean, sure, I was a bit of a porky toddler, but I grew out of it. Then I grew up, and I remember comparing myself to my college roommates. One was a dancer, it wasn't a fair contest. Nine years later, I'm still playing the comparison game. I hate this game. I suck at this game. I don't want to play anymore.

So why do we play? Why do we carry insecurities around like an extra limb? It's a part of my body. A part of my mind. A part of who I am. But just like the stomach that I hate, I CANNOT GET RID OF IT.

I feel like I want to be mad at something for this -- America? Reading Cosmo as a teen? Actresses? But truthfully, there is no one to blame. It's a mindset I need to change. A ridiculous mindset. 

I am me. I am fine.

That's as far as I can get. That I'm fine. I'll work on it and get back to you. In the meantime, let's all be a little kinder to ourselves. We're stuck with ourselves for a long time. No need to be an asshole.

Probably irrational.

I recently re-read the post I wrote on New Year's Eve. I remember the afternoon. I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop, typing away on my computer, reflecting on my year. It had been a good year, and I was looking forward to 2013.

HAHAHAHA. That's so cute.

Hours later my grandpa would die. Two weeks after that my grandma would die. One month after that my dad would lose his job. So, basically, if you're a part of my family, you're, like, toeing the edge of a cliff all, "I'LL DO IT. I WILL. I WILL TOTALLY JUMP OFF THIS THING. LEAVE ME ALONE."

But now it's a new month, nothing horrifying happened in March, and everyone is slowwwwwly realizing that maybe we made it through the worst of the things. All the things. All the bad. Maybe.

However, if you are me, you are irrational and begin to fear your own shadow because WHO DIED? What happened? Are all of my limbs still attached? I have been on the receiving end of bad news phone calls so often that I still hesitate just a second when I see a call coming in from my mom.

My parents, understandably, are under some stress. My mom, understandably, handles bad things about as well as I do -- not at all. So when I call her, and she sounds even the slightest bit sad, my mind runs down the list of devastating things that probably happened that she's just not telling me about because she knows how I handle bad things -- not at all. 

Suddenly everyone and everything feels fragile, especially my mom and dad. I want to throw them in a damn bubble or keep them safe in my pocket because when bad things happen to them, they happen to me, in my head. And if they hurt, I hurt. And this is totally what it's like to be a parent, isn't it?

But it's extended beyond my parents and onto my cats. Chicken, lately, has been quite the cuddly thing. Chicken, as you may or may not know, does not cuddle. She hates you. Yes, all of you. But now all of a sudden she's adorable and affectionate and OMG WHAT IS WRONG ARE YOU DYING TELL ME RIGHT NOW.

So, now I'm throwing my cats into the bubble with my mom and dad, and things are getting super crowded and smelly and uncomfortable in there, but I just don't care. The cats are smelly, not my parents. Just to clarify. 

I realize this is no way to live, and it will pass. Eventually. But there are one, two... FIVE things you just cannot mess with: my mom, my dad, my sister, and my cats. Yes, I just named my cats in a list of family members with whom the world revolves around, deal with it.

So shhh, World. Shhhh. You just go pester someone else a while. I'm too neurotic for you right now.

A miniature mid(?)life crisis.

As I was laying in bed last night listening to the ocean...

HAHAHA. Wouldn't that be great?

No, but really. It was the "ocean." According to my alarm clock's "sleep aid" function.

Anyway...

As I was listening to the "ocean," I realized I was 31. Age has never bothered me. I was pumped to turn thirty. Thirty-one wasn't nearly as exciting, but whatever. I still feel 9, so, it is what it is. But earlier, in a completely unrelated conversation with mom, she mentioned that having kids at 32 is "what people do." It's normal. To which I agree. It's not abnormal to have multiple children at 32 years old. One of my best friends just turned 31 and has three. 

Then she referred to 32 as middle-aged. That's just one year older than me.

AND THAT'S WHEN I DIED. Died, dead. I'm not kidding, my heart dropped into my stomach. I hung up the phone, and no lie, I had a miniature panic attack. It had to be because I could feel it. It felt like there were bubbles in my chest. In my heart. Everything was uncomfortably fluttery, and I sort of wanted to throw up. MIDDLE-AGED.

There I lie, in bed with a stuffed unicorn, alone, cats at my feet, nothing to show for myself, AND I AM MIDDLE-FUCKING-AGED. I almost cried, I really did. Am I in the middle of my life? I am, aren't I? I mean, in another 31 years I'll be 62. What do I have then? Maybe another 10? 15 years? (Oh gross, that's a horrible thought, stop it). I am HALFWAY through life and am probably the largest disappointment there is. Other than, you know, I have a career and I love it and I'm happy and whatever. But also: I'm divorced. I failed at marriage once when I was too young and stupid to know what I was doing. I fail at relationships because I'm (no longer too young and) too stupid to know what I'm doing. I'm "supposed" to have, like, two children attached to my boob and pissing me off and making me "whole." Instead I have cats, unattached to my boob. Thank god.

The thing is, these things never bother me. They've never really bothered me. Thirty-one doesn't feel "old" to me. I don't feel old. But, I guess, realistically, I am. And it sort of pisses me off that I have to panic about these things. Can't I just get there when I get there? Without society on my back making me feel useless? Yeah. I get it. By the time I have children I'll be a member of AARP by the time they're in third grade. But so what? LET ME. I KNOW. GO AWAY.

I seriously want to stomp and scream and pull out my hair like a child. But I'm not a child, remember? DON'T FORGET THAT, IT'S VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION. But if I feel youthful and happy and alive, can't I just be it? What is it they say? You're only as old as you feel?

Then shove it. I'm 9 years old. Talk to me about this shit in about 15.

Remembering why I do this.

In the spring of 2011 I began training for a 50-mile race. And for the two years that followed I did not stop. Race after race after race followed. The high-mileage training never stopped. Even to this actual day I am still training for an ultra marathon I'm running on Saturday. Weekends are sidelined for back-to-back long runs. Every weekend. Pressure builds during the week if I miss a scheduled run. I stress. I battle injuries. I feel inadequate when I struggle. And boy, do I struggle. Nearly every step of every mile run so far this winter has been a struggle. Mile after mile after mile after mile after mile. A month ago, if you'd asked, there'd have been no end in sight, as I had more ultras and another 50-mile race on my mind for the fall.

Even though my body and heart said "no, absolutely not, you asshole, you cannot keep this up," my mind wouldn't let it go. My mind had become so absolutely wrapped around the idea that I was a long-distance runner. That every 50K and marathon defined me. WHO AM I IF I'M NOT TRAINING FOR ALL OF THIS? I'll be a failure. A quitter. Inadequate. Weak. What I didn't realize was that I've started to hate running. I've become angry. Unhappy. Unsatisfied. Frustrated. Injured. Guilty. Jealous.

Suddenly, I realized those things.

Now there is an end in sight.

I turned off the part of my brain that is convinced I'll be unworthy, and I realized exactly who I'll be if I'm not running long, painful miles -- I WILL BE ME.

Running is a part of who I am, as it's been for the last 20 years. It will continue to be a part of my life. But I will enjoy it again. I've mentally torn to pieces the schedule of races I had my eyes on this year, the "Year of the 50K," as it was once fondly called. I think of that now and panic. That sounds like an awful year. So after next month, there will be no more ultra marathons in 2013. There will be no marathons in 2013. There will be running. Running because I can, not because I have to. I've had two years of having to run. I stopped enjoying having to run about six months ago.

There will be races I can reasonably finish in under two hours, not four or six or twelve. I can head out for a weekend run without having to pack four hours' worth of nutrition and water. Without worrying that my IT band will behave, or stressing over the pain in my shins. I can sleep in rather than run on a weekday, and not spend the day feeling guilty or feel like I'm disappointing my coach, who takes the time every week to create a specific training plan for me and my goals.

I'm readjusting those goals to get back to loving to run. I lost that. I tied myself so tightly to the idea of running and everything that comes with it, that I let go the best part of it -- loving it.

I'll still hit the miles, I'll still wake up to run, I'll still head out for my (former) favorite 13-mile lake loop, but there will be a difference. I'll do it because I want to. And once I turn that corner, once I remember how to want to run and how to love to run, I'll toe the line of ultra marathons again. But not one minute, not one mile, not one month, not one race before then.