I read a post today from a regular blogger to whom I subscribe that reinforced her description of her blog. She related it was a pro-recovery blog, and so she was trying to keep everything positive in her posts. I have a different view of my blog. Recovery is never perfect, and, for me, infrequently positive. At least right now. So when I write, I share exactly what is going on with me: the good, the bad, and the ugly. If it is triggering, then I’m sorry. If it’s negative, I can’t control that. I have to be as authentic as I can, and that often means when I write it is not from a good place. So if this blog triggers you or takes you to a place in which you find it difficult to cope, I apologize.
I relate this, because I vaguely recall a post that was submitted recently, and I’m afraid the post was triggering. I do not know what this post was about. I never go back and read my posts, because I don’t want to be reminded of what I might not have written. But I have a funny feeling it might have been triggering. If so, I regret that it might have hurt people.
For the first few days in Sticksville, I didn’t run because I didn’t know where the trails were. This town is the king of hills, and it is not safe to run on the streets. I finally found a trail, but it was on a riverbank that was disgusting and filthy. The trail itself was questionable; I couldn’t tell if I was running in mud or duck and dog poop. So the run was less than stellar.
But yesterday I found a trail that was beautiful and made me want to strap on my running shoes. The sun created twinkles on the lake, and the air was so crisp and clear to breathe. It was the run that saved me. It was 4.5 miles of grounding myself by listening to my feet pounding the pavement, hearing my heart beat, and focusing on my lungs expand and contract. I cleared my head of all non-sense. I saved myself by running.
My salvation lasted only a few hours, and then the anxiety returned, kicking me in the gut, seizing my thoughts, fueling my desire for escape, and rendering me useless. But that’s okay. For a few hours I felt like myself. And I realized in my darkest of darks, I can save myself. It’s not beautiful, and it’s not scripted. It seems to be rough and ugly, trial and error. But I’m saving myself! And I know if I’ve done it before, I can do it again.