I had a fucked up week that lasted years.

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.