First my foot rebelled. My arch is being a rude beeotch. I missed a long run. And another. I missed a workout. Every time I laced (and re-laced) my shoes I was filled with dread. Not joy. Not anticipation. Not even a good "holy-nuggs-I-have-a-track-workout" fear. Just dread mixed with empty with a twist of bitter.
I could make it two miles before being forced to stop and drag myself to the elliptical. I made two appointments with my PT. I stood on my incline board. But mostly I wallowed very deep in Lake Sad-Sack.
Then to add insult to injury, my birthday camping weekend ended with a trip to the Yakima ER on the way back to Seattle to deal with an issue that had been worsening every minute all weekend. I don't know you that well ... so I'll just say it involved a scalpel and the parting gift was a bottle of vicodin. Legit ER visit.
|break in the pity party: pre-ER there was some good, good fun|
The thing is I've put my time in. I've aquajogged myself three times around this globe. My yearbook read "most likely to win the aguajogging olympics". I've had my dreams snatched up and drop kicked in front of my face. And deep down during these three years as I let myself fall back in love with running I wondered if I had anymore 'comeback' in me. Would I have what it takes to drag myself fist over fist back up the damn hill if I fell down it?
Do I have it inside me to grow one more little starfish arm?? But I'm trying to take it one day at a time. Fake it til I make it. My three mile run went up in flames tonight, so I'm riding the eliptigo from Green Lake to West Seattle. And I won't lie, I EFFING don't want to.