Well. It’s been a while.
I’ve been all over the board lately. Mostly I think I’ve just been running from myself. And not the good kind of running that gives you endorphins afterwards, like the four mile run I went on today. The kind of running where even while the rest of my life slows down, I refuse to stop and face myself in my own head.
I went off of one of my meds a few weeks ago, and I thought I was doing okay, that the med wasn’t really doing much anyway. Uh, I might have been wrong. I’ve noticed my soul greying, darkening under a cloud cover that seemed to come out of nowhere. I wake up hating the world and wanting to hide from hit behind my eyelids for the rest of the day. I seriously almost spent the entire afternoon hiding in my room, not wanting to deal with life, escaping into the world of Neil Gaiman stories, until my oh-so-wonderful boyfriend texted me and asked if I wanted to grab lunch. Which meant that not only did I actually put on real clothes and leave my room, I also ate more of a real lunch than I had been planning on. Of course, Ed, who’s slowly been finagling his way back into my head, told me that I’d have to “make up” for it – hence the gym run that I just went on. I’ve been doing okay with food, really I have, it’s just that my head’s started to get louder about it anyway. Telling me that I’m getting fat. That I need to get off my butt and go run those pounds off. Ugh. Or more appropriately, a;sdkjfa;skdjf;laskjl;dkjfl. That’s more like how I feel.
Anyhoo, I did go running. Four miles with good music blaring into my headphones from my boyfriend’s ipod (we’ve traded ipods for a while), and oh the endorphins! It was lovely. I actually felt okay afterwards. Not like the depressed mess I’ve been feeling like more often recently. Walking back from the gym, I kept repeating to myself over and over again, “remember how you feel now. Remember how good this feels. This is what you get from working out. Do it again. Do it more.”
Hmm… exercise has always been in a precarious balance with me. For the first year of my recovery, I could barely go one day without going to the gym. I freaked the fuck out if I didn’t get to exercise. It was what kept me feeling okay. Then I got sick a bunch. Like, the other kind of sick. Not the eating disorder kind. I mean, I had that too, but then I started getting colds and flus and sore throats all the time, and I slowed down. Stopped exercising so much. And my internal Ed register hated it. But in the end, I stopped compulsively exercising. So now I’m left in this place where I’m not compulsively exercising every day anymore, but I’m not okay with that yet. And now my inner anorexic is looking for a way to start that up again. Telling me that I’m a better person when I work out so much. That I’ll be happier. That I’ll feel okay again. That it’s a good thing for me to wake up early every morning so I can trudge to the gym before the sun’s even woken up yet. That it shows I’m dedicated. That I have power. That I am strong.
And I so desperately want to be strong.
I don’t know. We’ll see where this goes. So far the snooze button has been winning the morning battle.
I just want to feel okay again.