i feel so much better, part two

Okay, here we are for part two of the summer of change; and why I feel so good. I have been training for a half-marathon! Running deserves a post all by itself because it has been a challenge.

Let’s hit a on a little background. I have always been an active person, however I have always struggled with my weight. When I was younger, my cousins and I spent our summers running around outside, going to the pool, playing games; unless it was oppressively hot outside or raining we were never inside.

When I got older in school, I played field hockey, basketball, and softball. When I was in grade school, I loved playing field hockey—and I was pretty good at it. However big fish, small pond. I was one of the better of the girl athletes in my class of 20. I played basketball, which although my mother said was my best sport, I’d rather watch basketball than play it. Softball, I pitched and played third base. I have a pretty good arm, still—and I thought that going into high school I would have loved to play.

High school. I dropped basketball and stuck with field hockey and softball. My freshman year playing field hockey, myself and two other freshmen were subs for the varsity team because our coach, thought that we would be able to handle it. I barely played a varsity game, but to be thought of as someone that could handle it was cool. We went undefeated my freshmen year, and almost won our league championship; but we lost in double overtime in penalty strokes.

Fast-forward to next year, we get a new coach. I barely play for the rest of my high school career, and my senior year I barely played the entire season. And, I remember why. My senior year, I got involved with our campus ministry program at school, and I was asked to lead a retreat in October (during field hockey season); now, looking back, our campus minister probably should have been more lenient with people and their sport schedules, but I wanted to go on that retreat.  My coach has a problem with that and basically told me that if I decided to go, I wouldn’t play. And, I think I made the right choice.

I wasn’t jaded about high school sports, I wasn’t annoyed that I didn’t play—I was looking at the long game. I was looking at what was going to help me later on in life, because I knew I was never going to go far as a field hockey player.

Well, one of the important things about field hockey was running—I hated it; I was slow, and I still am slow. But, there was no internal motivation. I didn’t really care for the girls that I was on the team with, there were attitude problems, and I was just over it.

So, I have always been active; I just have never been consistent with it. Working out has been something that I have done off and on since I was in high school. I went through a weird cycle. I joined LA Fitness when I was like 17; I went, I think once. Literally. I hated it, but I was also socializing and having fun with my friends. Then I went to college and between my freshmen and sophomore year, I think I gained 30-40 pounds.

But, I didn’t really think anything of it because I was happy—I joined a sorority, I had great friends, I was having fun. But, I wasn’t taking care of myself. Literally, if I wouldn’t have known then, what I know now, my college years would have been a little different. Now, I wasn’t like super crazy with partying; after my junior year it calmed down a little bit. Really, it was after I turned 21, and then it wasn’t fun anymore haha. But, I was smoking…a lot. Drinking…..alot. Eating crap, only walking to class. It just wasn’t good for me. Senior year it kind of kicked in that I needed to do something; my co-operating teacher was really fit, and she was kind of an inspiration to getting my ass into gear. However, this was the spring of my senior year.

So, I ate a little better, I went to the school gym after student teaching, still drinking a little, but not a lot (because my friends would go out on weeknights). And, you can tell in the pictures from my graduation that I had lost that little bit of weight that I gained during my first couple years of college.

Then I go home for good; I joined a gym, I tried to eat a little bit better, but I was still going out with my friends to places like Applebee’s and drinking almost every night of the week. It was a bad cycle. I was substitute teaching as different public schools, I barely had any money, my student loans were coming in, I didn’t have a full time job, and my summer job was just causing my so much stress and problems that I would literally have anxiety attacks.

And, I would hold all of these things in. The inadequacy I felt from not having a full time job, the unnecessary stress that I felt from my summer job, paying my bills, and not having control of little things in my life. I remember standing in my kitchen on night, talking to my mother, and completely breaking down. I blacked out, couldn’t breathe, and all I could do was cry, scream, and sob.

I felt like shit, I thought that I was shit. I was controlled by the opinions that other people had of me, I looked for validation and every turn. I didn’t believe that people wanted to be around me; I was depressed and holding on to a very frayed rope. This was probably the darkest time in my life because my faith suffered, my health suffered, and my mental health suffered.

I learned to shut certain things out. I shut people out because I thought that couldn’t possibly understand what I was going through—Now, I am very aware that when I was going through this tough time, I liked being the martyr. I wanted someone to feel bad for me, but I would shrug off their sympathy or empathy because how could they possibly understand what it means to be me. Now, I realize, no one will ever truly understand…and that’s totally okay. It’s okay because we all have to go through our shit. And, sometimes other people’s shit is like ours and we can be there for each other.

I don’t think there was ever an “Ah-Ha” or a “Come to Jesus Moment,” because I think from where I was in my life, I slowly has to climb out of my cave. Working at a Catholic school, brought me back to my foundation of my faith, which I think has miraculously helped me in how I handle things that are thrown at me. There have been some bumps since, but I think that I this foundation has helped my build myself up again.

The biggest and longest struggle that I have with myself is feeling wanted, feeling that I deserve happiness, and accepting myself for who I am—and not changing myself because someone doesn’t like it. Most of this has been because I liked being a martyr of sorts, I would make problems bigger than what they were because I wanted someone to be upset for me and with me. I didn’t want to feel alone. And, I was so busy trying to quantify what people thought of me, the love that people had for me, and making sure that they were never going to push me aside; I never enjoyed the love and I appreciated the people that I had in my life.

Which, I was something that I think that the loss of my father taught me about—that people in your life as semi-permanent as they can be. And, you must cherish and realize that the people in your life effect the way that you act and are—something that I never realized. When I was going through this dark time, I was with people that weren’t helping me out of it, their solution was to drink the issue away or have fun or talking about something else. It was getting around the issue, not dealing with it front of your face.

But, when my father died—I saw the people that were truly there for me. They dropped what they were doing to be there for me and my family, they brought us food, they spent time with us. This is what love is; this is what I realized I was missing out on; it was so wonderful and all encompassing, and I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice.

The icing on the cake was really being diagnosed last summer; I really like to think about it as a blessing in disguise. I could be mad at myself, and realized that the shit that I have held in is what manifested this disease—but I want to look at the positive. I beat myself up for so long; physically, emotionally, and mentally. My body is now beating itself daily, and I am not even doing anything!

So, enough was enough. Fibro has taught me what it means to take care of myself. It was a wakeup call that I needed; honestly. And, thank God it wasn’t something more serious. I realized that I can’t do the things that I used to do, BUT THAT’S OKAY! At first I was bummed that I would never feel the same again, but then I realized how much better that is for me! Drinking and smoking was hard to tailor back on, but keeping up with some fitness regimen wasn’t too bad. My doctor’s appointments, and a brief scare about my blood pressure scared me into quitting smoking—which, despite a few slips, I have been consistent with.

But, then I needed another challenge. After doing my second color run, I wanted so badly to do a half-marathon. So, in the middle of the summer, I started looking at half’s and finally I just signed up for one. Realizing that just thinking about it wasn’t getting my anywhere, I needed to be about it, too.

The things that I wrote about in the post all surfaced when I was running. Things that I needed to realize, things that I needed to learn, and the uncomfortable emotions that I never wanted to think about. There are runs I have done and I have pushed myself and started crying. But, there is something in common that happens after every time I run—I feel this amazing sense of accomplishment. I feel like I conquered something that has been sitting on my chest for years, or I am able to zone out and listen to rhythm of my footsteps.

Yesterday I was having an off day. I was up at 4:30 (not on purpose). I laid in bed until 6, finally decided get up and run and get yourself some coffee. I had to run 4 miles, lucky for me Dunkin’ is two miles up and two miles back. So, I ran. I tried to out run my tired, but it caught up to me. I went to mass, because of the Holy Day. I worked all day at my summer job, but it was cloudy and that came with a break. I was able to leave early, I went shopping (why?), came home, and I had to fix my bed.

So, I have discovered that I am a little handy—however, when it’s 10 pm and all you want to do is sleep from a 20 hour day…you don’t want to be handy. I was at my wits end with how to fix this draw. I literally tried putting the screw in the same place twice, I tried wood glue, and I was about to lose it. Finally, I decided to try something that I probably should have done in the beginning. I “drilled” my own hole and screwed in the screw, and almost cried when I was finished.

I put drilled in quotes because I couldn’t find the right bit to fill the drill (which, I think was my father looking down on me, honestly) and I just twisted the drill bit around until I made a hole deep enough for the screw. I was going to lose my patience, but I started talking to my dad to guide me through the process. And, I think that he helped me to the right direction. As soon as I got that screw in, I got up and walked around the house. Zero people in my house were awake, but I stood there excited from what I hoped I accomplished. The test was getting the drawer in, and once it worked…I was so tempted to scream. I was so excited.

But, I tried to keep the same mindset as when I run. There are times I want to quit, and say I have had enough—but I just walk, breathe, and push myself further. And, it worked. I realized that half of the game in mental, those are the things that have been holding me back. But, I just try to get around them. With running, I try to channel those thoughts into running, and shed that negativity with every mile I run; that way I can leave it all behind me.

 

getting over the hump.

Well, blogging has not been my strong suit for the last few weeks. I had this idea of blogging during Lent, and now it’s almost Easter. Good intentions…good intentions. For what it is worth, I only seem to want to blog when I can’t keep my head quiet. Recently, my head has been filled with theoretical theories and comparative education–so, other thoughts have been pretty non-existent.

But, today I did something for the first time in 15 years…I got on a bike. I know, this is like meaningless to some people, but the amount of physical and mental fear that I had about getting on a bike has been inappropriate for someone my age. Yesterday, inspired by the beautiful weather, I decided to get outside and exercise. I even had it in my head that I was going to run.

Before fibro, I was getting into running. I had run two 5ks before the summer, and I was really proud of myself. But, after school let out, my body started showing symptoms, and it was really not into working out over the summer. Since it is supposed to be nice in the Philly region for the next few days, I was hoping to do something different.

So, I ran. Walk/jogged actually for about 2.25 miles. Hey! It’s a start. And after work this afternoon, I thought it would be a good idea to get out again. So, I went home changed and headed back out. Today was definitely harder. I walked a quarter of a mile, and then ran another, but my body was just telling me to slow it down. I got through the first mile and a quarter and I decided that I wanted to do something different.

The farm park has these bikes that you can rent, free for under 2 hours. So, I said what the hell. First, it took my ten minutes to try and figure out how to unlock the damn thing. That was a production. Second, I got on and my body immediate seized up, and I almost fell. Then I laughed and thought “It’s not like riding a bike, people forgot.” Cue an existential crisis about actually wondering if someone can forget how to ride a bike, and you have my afternoon. After I calmed myself down, I tried it again. And, got myself going. Until I tried to turn, yet another panicked moment , even greater than the last.

In case you are wondering, when I was in 5th grade, I once broke my elbow when I was 11 falling of a bike. I went down a hill too fast, when over a bump, slowed down too suddenly, and just toppled over. To make matters worse, my parents didn’t think that my elbow was broke (not sure how because I couldn’t move it at all), and I walked around for 10 days and practiced and played a softball game with a broken elbow. I remind my mother of this, constantly. During softball practice, she was yelling at me to get my glove all the way down (couldn’t because I was in searing pain), and my coach had to tell her to take my to the doctors. She, of course, blames her mother because my mother said that Mommom would have done the same thing to her. Right. Logic.

I actually blame my father more than my mother, because I am pretty sure out of fear my Dad convinced Mom that it was just bruised because this was during his watch, and she was probably afraid of the wrath of my Mom. My father was the parent that let me pull out my own tooth when it was loose. Mom did not enjoy this. He also used to take me and the dog on midnight walks and to Giant (because where else can you go grocery shopping at midnight).

Anyway, fear and anxiety were at record levels–all because of a bike. But, once I got going, it was awesome. And, I remembered why I used to ride my bike all the time–until they inevitably got stolen. It felt so freeing riding around and enjoying the outside. I was able to move and go about, slowly at time, but I did it. The hardest parts came at the hills. Holy crap, I almost walked them. At one point, I was like I am just going to stay here forever and never go home. This is my home now. I am bike girl and I will make a fort. Dramatic, yes. But, I haven’t pushed myself like that in years. Then I accidentally switched gears.

Almost fell off and had a heart attack simultaneously. However, I got to the top of the hill, and took a break. The only think I could think of was how GOOD I felt. It was like I hit a new high, like I climbed Mount Everest. And if you saw this slight incline, you would definitely know how dramatic I am being at this very moment. But, I freaking did it. I conquered a fear and kicked my ass a little doing it.

Mondays, am I right?