The year my mother died, I was taking a drama class. I was friends with all the theatre geeks and I liked the drama club teacher, so why the fuck not?
(Long time readers will recognise the fuck it factor at work…)
The homework assignment was to describe an emotional day you had - the day you got your driver’s license, for example. You know. Emotional shit.
My essay might have started by grabbing you by the short hairs and didn’t let go for two pages.
On Wednesday, March 18th, I walked into the condo to see my father crying at the kitchen table.
My father never cries.
When he finally looked at me, I knew.
“Ding dong, the witch is dead,” I asked.
“Ding dong,” he answered.
Have I said how absolutely fucking thrilled I am to be cleaning out 40+ years of memories I’d rather forget? (STILL!)
Do you know, I couldn’t remember what grade I got? I couldn’t just flip to the end and look. No! That would have been the sensible thing to do. The easy thing.
When the fuck have I ever done the easy thing?
I read the entire fucking thing. Cried through all of it. Wondered how it would end.
(Spoiler alert: it ends with my mother six feet under.)
And the grade? As if there were any doubt: A+ The relationship between mother and child can be difficult and you captured that.
Can. Be. Difficult.
Oh, Doc L., you have no idea.
BBQ sauce on my titties would have been a much better story.
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I ran last night.
Willingly got on the treadmill with my puffer in hand.
2 miles - intervals for all of it: 30 seconds (13mm) / 2 minutes (20mm).
Not speedy. Not balloon lady safe.
I did two beginner iFit workouts because I wanted to zone out and let the treadmill tell me what to do.
(The girl who drives a stick and refuses to use cruise control because she drives the car put the treadmill in charge. Yeah.)
I didn’t enjoy it.
But, I didn’t hate it, either.
I have a Turkey Trot coming up on the 24th. In fucking Miami.
I wasn’t really looking forward to the race, but… I’ve always done well at 10Ks. Especially there.
It’s not enough to salvage my Dopey training, but it’s a start.
My new shoes and socks don’t cause blisters, so maybe I can get father in the marathon than mile four.
I have no idea and I don’t really care.
I’ll do what I can and then I’m hanging up the sneakers.
Shrinky Dinks, invented in 1973, are a children’s toy and activity kit consisting of large flexible sheets which, when heated in an oven, shrink to small hard plates without altering their colour or shape. (see also: drug dealer)
It’s a Matt Nathanson sort of day around these parts.
I hit a wall with running about the same time Potterhead was forced to shut down. Despite my running coach’s best efforts, I couldn’t improve. In fact, I swiftly went from success to abject failure. He thought I had exercise induced asthma and that’s why I had not improved. I wasn’t fully convinced (I’m still not), but I saw a doctor he recommended. Guy was a complete douchenozzle, but I took the prescription for the inhaler and went on my merry way.
Fast forward to Wine and Dine.
I hated the 5K, was absolutely miserable during the 10K, and walked off the half marathon course at mile 7. The truth is, it wasn’t the humidity. It wasn’t the heat. It wasn’t the asthma. I just didn’t want to be there.
I’ve been joking about how I hate running, but the soundtrack in my head during those 16 miles… well, let’s just say that those little voices in my head? The ones I’m not supposed to talk about? They were right.
I. FUCKING. HATE. RUNNING.
It doesn’t spark joy. I don’t get a runner’s high.
I. Get. Absolutely. Nothing. out of it.
NOTHING.
So. Really. What’s the fucking point?
I walk a 5K in a little less than a hour. Longer if I’m on the treadmill because that’s when I allow myself to read certain fan fics… but even with reading the un-put-downable pr0n (as the Chicken calls it), I fucking hate it. That’s an hour I could spend doing anything that actually makes me feel good.
I fired my running coach last night.
I left all but one of my Disney running groups.
Being able to admit that I hate it has taken a huge weight off of my shoulders…
but, of course, I’m a fucking idiot and posted in my favourite running (non-RTI FB) group about my struggles and asking if it’s normal.
And… there was that one asshole who told me I was mentally ill and needed to see a psychiatrist.
Bitch, please.
You mean the psychiatrist who held my hand and walked me out of the most suicidal mindset I’ve ever experienced? (Fuck you, CrossFit.)
You mean the psychiatrist who has been trying to help me get past the closure of the only place that has ever truly inspired me to run?
Or, perhaps, you mean the psychiatrist who has pushed me - repeatedly - to find a simple prop to occupy my time?
This one goes out to the one I love… FIRE! She’s coming down on her own now…
I’m sorry.
I lost the plot there for a minute.
I guess I’m fucked in the head after all.
Thank you for the diagnosis, internet stranger. I feel much better now.
I was told that the course - up and down the Hollywood Beach boardwalk - was beautiful and shady and quick.
I’ll agree that it was beautiful before the sun came up and there was a nice breeze. I’ll disagree with the shady and quick. As far as I’m concerned, that wonderful shady stretch just meant that the humidity was trapped by the trees that bestowed their shade upon the sweltering masses who decided that running in South Florida is a Good Thing. And, of course, running through soup doesn’t necessarily equate to speed.
It’s the “Fire Hero 5K” - a double whammy because it was held on September 11th - and there were firefighters in full gear running the fucking thing. 3 miles in 20+ pounds of gear. Nope. I wanted to pass out just looking at them.
I’ve been thinking about a lot of things, most of them not good.
But let’s start with a good one.
My husband and I are firm believers in the fact that a guide book with only take you so far. At some point, you need to put the book down and explore. We spent almost the entire week in Lviv just walking around, just my bad Ukrainian and a city map to make sure we didn’t get too lost… and we had some of the best experiences that way.
Same during this last trip to London. We took the train out to a friend’s so we could meet up and do the Harry Potter Studio Tour together. While we were waiting at the “station” for our ride, we popped into a little cafe right there on the platform. The guy saw our Arsenal caps and… we got an education on Gunner history and lore. AMAZING. (But, he ended up being outshone by the fan seated next to me at Emirates Stadium. I learned… things.)
Also, during this last trip to London, as I so loudly put as we were walking down the road towards Buckingham Palace, WE SAW THE FUCKING QUEEN.
Fun fact - if the Queen (or I guess King, now) is in residence, the Royal Standard flies above the palace. Do not ask me where I learned that. I cannot tell you… it’s like it’s always just been in my head, waiting to be useful. Anyway, the Royal Standard was flying over Buckingham during that trip. We were going to - I think - be tourists and watch the Changing of the Guard again. (I will always try to do the touristy things, but I will not revolve a trip around them unless I absolutely have to.) As we were walking, we were just chit chatting and trying not to run over the stupid American tourists in front of us who were walking stupid slow and buried so deep in their books and maps that they didn’t realise a car was coming towards us. A car that had a flag on it. A flag that just happened to the the Royal Fucking Standard. THE QUEEN WAS IN THE CAR. AND I SAW HER.
I also let anyone within hearing distance know that, “OH MY GOD, THAT’S THE MOTHERFUCKING QUEEN.”
(Shush. Let me have my random moment of being an obnoxious American tourist.)
So yeah… kind of surreal to think that Queen Elizabeth is dead. She seemed… indestructible.
I don’t know. The other stuff that’s been weighing on my mind… I thought I was ready to talk about it, but I’m still not. Two people know about the panic attack at the gas station and the google search that destroyed my Friday night and most of Saturday. Just two… any more and the thought of sharing that kicks up another flight or fight reaction.
I’m not ready to talk about Phoenix Day, or my Ukrainian lessons… none of it.
So, this post was pretty pointless.
I guess most of them are, but this one is even more so than usual.
It’s the very last RTI racery event and I have bitten off more than I can chew… but I always do.
I took yesterday and Monday off - I needed some time to myself and I’m not that busy at work. Plus, it’s the first four days of The Final Battle and I figured that I would cap the first four days.
I had the bright Idea that I would run a mile for every day that Russian has been in Ukraine and donate $1 for each mile. (117 by the end of the event.) I had it planned out perfectly: Four caps would put me at 60 days. I could then cap the final weekend as well, which would push me to 90 before I ran a single mile on a workday.
Well.
I capped yesterday and today… I have not felt like a functional human at all.
I bite my nails. I always have. All the way down to the quick and sometimes a little extra. When I’m super stressed, I always manage to rip the entire nail off one (if not both) of my pinkies.
I saw a hypnotist. I’ve talked about it in therapy. I’ve worn false ones.
And I even bought this shit that was practically guaranteed to keep my fingers out of my mouth. (Oh. My. God. It was absolutely disgusting… But. It didn’t work.)
Several years ago, I had a great epiphany: I self-harm.
Still haven’t figured out how to get people to understand why I consider it self-harm, but the end result is the same.
Still haven’t figured out how to stop it either.
(Seriously! I saw a fucking hypnotist, I was so desperate to stop doing it. Apparently, I’m so fucked up that they couldn’t figure out a way to help.)
So anyhoo…
In 47 years on this earth, I have never seriously hurt myself. (The pain of a missing fingernail dissipates rather quickly when you’re used to it.)
Well, Thursday night I wound up in Urgent Care.
Managed to rip off my thumbnail and get an infection.
My thumb was swollen to twice it’s normal size and there was a little spot that had turned green.
It was the first time I’d ever been afraid of what I was capable of.
I suppose, in it’s own way, it’s not that much different from a blade slipping and cutting a vein or something.
Of course… in the car Friday morning on the way to the grocery store, I managed to chew off the remaining nails on that hand.
(All that to say I didn’t get in a cap today because I had a bad reaction to the antibiotic they prescribed me.)
This has been on repeat today… I’m not sure why, but it fits my mood perfectly.
I watch too many horror movies and my husband is The Chicken is Boba Fett. There. That’s a thing you know now about my private life.
I’m done.
Just when I thought I couldn’t be any less motivated to run…
RTI just settled their lawsuit with Warner Brothers, which loosely translates to WB just killed a group that is filled with people who love their intellectual property so much that they band together under the name and use their combined energy to do #somuchgood.
Yeah.
The Potterhead Running Club is closing up shop.
And because the PHRC basically funds all the other RTI clubs, Whovian and Fandom are closing down as well. They hope to keep the FRC Fan Domain group active, but no more medals. No more Racery events. Some of the PHRC groups (like Book Club, Transfiguration, etc.) are spinning off and will continue to operate under different names with volunteers to keep them alive.
But it won’t be the same.
The Tower has always felt like home to me… but it’s lost its magic. Literally.
There’s no other way to put it.
I’m not OK with this.
Seriously.
I’ve been crying since the news broke.
I’ve needed the consistency and the friendship and the sense of family the clubs were filled with.
And now it’s going away.
And I don’t know what to do with myself.
- - - - - - - - - -
I joke all the time that I’m not all that great at the social part of social media.
But let’s call it what it is: I collect people and then I barely interact with them. That’s why I have like 75 or 80 Facebook friends and most of my newsfeed is either (Ukrainian) bands or RTI groups. Anything more is overwhelming.
Shit, I haven’t spoken to my best friend, my little brother from another mother for two years now.
I’m just not good at it.
I keep coming back to the therapist that asked me why I don’t let people get close. Why I don’t let them help me through the Dark Days and The Ick.
I hate me during those times. I definitely don’t want to subject people I care about to that… which is why I am SO FUCKING HAPPY that my husband has been able to tolerate it.
We’ve been together since 1998 and got married in 2002. He’s a fucking saint.
A. FUCKING. SAINT.
- - - - - - - - - -
We’re doing a Stand with, or Support, Ukraine 5k locally tomorrow (whatever, I can’t remember the name). Proceeds are going to the Ukrainian Red Cross. I know they’re having problems selling the race, so who knows how much is actually going to Ukraine, but it’s still… something.
My tryzub sticker is on my car. We went shopping for shelving today and managed to fit it in the car. (I HAVE A TRUNK AGAIN! I might have started jumping up and down in the parking lot screaming my joy… have I mentioned my husband is a saint? Yup.) My Deathly Hallows is also on my car.
The only thing I’m missing are my race stickers. I can’t decide if I want to put them on now and add the marathon after, or do all four after and see if I can find a Dopey sticker.
