Running and Identity

I've told this story before, but I still wrestle with my identity. Who am I? Why am I here? None of these questions are new. Running always gave me a sense of purpose. Few things in life have replaced that feeling since I gave up pushing myself in sport. 

An essay in two parts.

When I started running way back in junior high -- I'm giving away my age by admitting I went to junior high, not middle school -- I very quickly earned the nickname "the runner," and I certainly identified as such. It felt like running wasn't just something I did; it was part of me. The activity was who I was back then. I ran everywhere, to and from school, up and down the street, around the track, or up in the mountains, and it didn't matter if it was with or without company. I felt compelled to run. I had to run. More than a compulsion or maybe in addition to being a compulsion, it was a challenge. Whereas many people look at running as a chore or task they do at some point during the day, running was an event in which I partook because I both needed and, at least on some level, wanted to, at least for a time. 

Back then, I looked forward to running in a way and was excited to race. Despite the usual nerves that everyone faces before a big event, I had a hunger to compete, and I had the energy, even though I wasn't getting the nutrients my body needed. Grace period. It was nearly impossible to hold me back, though a few people tried with words of wisdom. 

There was some concern that I was doing too much too soon, but I felt like I had found my right path, my passion, and a sport in which I could excel, unlike so many activities I had tried in the past. I had dreams, big ones, but at every turn, there were my eating disorder and my compulsions that still plague me even today, though I'm no longer deep in the throes of it all, at least on the surface. Deep down, it's hard to tell. 

Eventually, it all fell to shit, but not all at once. The love for and eagerness to engage in the sport that I experienced would eventually give way to fear and then dread. At some point along my miserable journey, love turned to outright hate and remained that way for a long time, but I still laced up my shoes and got out the door to both train and race. 

Oddly and somehow, the identity of being a runner seemed separate from all the heavy baggage that landed on my shoulders later, at least somewhat. When I excelled at the sport, I was able to engage more fully in other activities, so while I was "the runner," I was also a student, a sister, and a daughter and had hobbies like baking, art, and reading. 

Once the injuries lined up one after the other, I felt more like "the former runner," and it became easier to spiral the more depression darkened my world. Same shit, different day now. I go through the motions with no real exercise goals or satisfaction but to get through an arbitrary routine. Outside of that, fear causes me to get almost like a form of paralysis, not fully able to accomplish much but several forms of distraction outside of the habitual activity, Netflix and such. It often takes me forever to write a simple blog post when darkness clouds the days.

After battling several major injuries over the last few years, a few so severe they required surgeries, and then coming down with an absolutely merciless case of long-lasting COVID (mentioned again below), I've been thinking more and more about running and identity. <--- one of the better Trail Runner articles.

For me, running hurts now. It's mostly unpleasant, and I don't feel like a runner, not even close. I can no longer say I have a passion for the sport and wonder why I even try most days. More often than not, I don't look forward to it; it's just something I attempt to do. I'm compelled, for whatever reason, to run/hobble/limp around, even if it's only for 10 minutes, like somehow if I do that little amount, I'm still hovering around the title of a runner and connected to other runners in some small way, even though I would never call myself one at the pace I propel myself forward these days. 

I miss it, being able to challenge myself on a more mental level when the physical limitations are so severe. It's hard not being able to run on trails or get lost in the moment and let my mind wander while I move outside for an hour. Biking isn't the same nor is walking, and lately, I'm just not able or willing to push myself all that hard like I used to, even on the bike.

It's such a strange experience to be this limited by my previous and current injuries. Little things like crossing the road when it's icy can be such a struggle. Last year or maybe it was the year before, I got stranded on an ice patch because my left foot can't feel how it touches the ground. This is due to several neurectomies. As a result, I'm unstable. Even if the road looks icy when it's not, like when it's wet, my brain tells me I'm slipping. This is not the same condition Kara Goucher has, but I can relate to what she's experiencing. 

In my case, it's more a lack of feeling that leads to uncertainty. My brain defaults to the worst-case scenario, and I end up feeling out of sorts, really like I am slipping, even if my foot is firmly planted on the ground. But the limitations aren't just related to feeling unsteady. I'm also dealing with physical imbalances, old injuries that didn't heal properly, and restrictions in my range of motion. Despite all this, I force myself to mix in some hobbling with my usual stationary bike routines. 

It seems impossible that I could find something else that calls me or makes my soul sing the way running once did. Horseback riding might, but it's too expensive and time-consuming, and it never reaches the same kind of intensity as running does when it comes to exercise. After my sister's recent fall from her horse that resulted in three fractures in her vertebrae, I'm not so sure I want to take any risks around a large animal anyway. 

Throughout this transition from athlete to someone who sort of exercises, it has been difficult to calm my critical mind, and because someone recently made a comment about my appearance, I’ve been feeling more insecure. 

Oddly, when people describe me in unflattering ways, all it does is make me feel bad. It doesn’t encourage me to do anything differently, which is common for most people like me. In the past, I have been approached by friends in a very loving and supportive way, and I did manage to get help or make changes. For example, after one surgery, I was looking a little undernourished, and a friend of mine pulled me aside to ask if I was OK. We talked, and I ended up seeing a nutritionist. With some expert guidance, I was able to build back some muscle I had lost throughout the ordeal. I really do have some incredible friends. 

*****

I wasn't going to write about this but changed my mind. 

The following is probably where this post should have started. I’m breaking it into two parts and, for several reasons, presenting it backward. 

I have actually written and deleted much of the content because I'm having a hard time expressing how I feel and don't want to go into too many details. I'm far from perfect and make mistakes. We all do, and when a situation that's incredibly upsetting unfolds, writing helps me process it. It helps me see my errors as well as the wrongdoings of others. 

Obviously, there are two sides to every situation. That being said, it's difficult to have any resolution when the world is full of people who project and manipulate, and I don't just mean in situations related to me. The world is a mess right now, but my personal journey is on my mind after an incident that occurred earlier this year left me floored. 

It was a long and brutal winter. After battling COVID and then some kind of Long Covid, I ended up with the flu that led to vertigo and pulsatile tinnitus in my right ear. When I went to urgent care for vertigo, the treatment nurse sent me to the ER, and just as I was beginning to feel a little bit better a few days after being in the hospital, I was fired from/quit (it was a case of mutual dissatisfaction) my job where I had worked for almost 20 years. This is all while suffering from issues related to a torn tendon in my hip area and dealing with some very intense family matters. In short, October - February sucked.

I'm not good with getting out of a routine. Not having a sense of control, even if it's a false sense of one, scares me, but now I see just how unhealthy an environment I landed in or perhaps put myself in for so many years. I'm not sure if it was a blessing in disguise (actually, I'm pretty sure it was) that I was pushed out of a stressful situation and into a different kind of stress, that of being jobless, but it happened and there's no turning back now. Lines were crosses that can never be uncrossed. 

The good news is that almost immediately after things ended in one area, I was offered a very part-time but ongoing position elsewhere, and this was followed by another, and shortly after that, something else opened up that actually excites me. I took this as a sign that getting away was meant to be, and the people close to me, thank whatever deity in the sky may or may not exist for these individuals, expressed relief and genuine happiness that I was trying something new. Sometimes you don't realize just how bad things are until change is forced upon you, be it exiting a relationship, moving to somewhere new, or altering a routine that no longer serves you. 

While I was applying for jobs during a period of almost a week of waiting for any sign of contact from my (now former) employer, I realized anew how shitty a lack of communication is, but this period gave me an opportunity to self-reflect and admit just how compulsive I still am and how my mental health inhibits progress forward. It wasn't until I got the more recent opportunity to do something in a field working with animals that I felt like I could even think about a different way of organizing my life. 

Struggling with OCD, there are very few instances in which I could see myself attempting to change, even though I have in the past to some extent, but working with animals is one of them. Every time I volunteer in a vet clinic, I think, "I wish I could be more a part of this kind of meaningful work." An article on Shannon Kopp came to mind as I was writing this. 

Previously, I had no real incentive to do things differently (I'm still not quite there yet but am attempting and on a different schedule, at least.) And while much of my winter weight loss was related to being sicker than ever -- even my boss admitted to losing a substantial amount of weight while he was sick with COVID and other illnesses shortly before I was. He also snapped at me and made unflattering comments about my looks and health in front of others right before I left, which was the final blow -- eating disorders along with ODC and other kinds of unhealthy coping mechanisms are often a way to take some kind of action when feeling depressed, overwhelmed, criticized, or unheard, something I have battled for years. 

Why is it that so many people just don’t listen or don’t hear? I'm probably guilty of this on some level, too, but not when it comes to the big picture. It's worse when individuals not only don't hear but then attempt to shove words in the mouths of others. That I really, really can't stand. 

I'm not sure how much my subconscious being aware of my distress could have played a role in things coming to such an ugly head, but there's more background to this story that I'm not sharing, except to say that it's much more difficult for me to take care of myself in certain environments. 

It might seem funny after reading the above complaints to know I actually loved my job, at least for the most part, and was very good at it, the top employee right up until the time I left, but the way I was treated the last few weeks or even months leading up to my departure, you would have thought I was stealing from the company or something. Seriously, I'm still reeling from the unsavory way things went down and probably won't come to terms with it for a while longer. And because individuals can be vindictive and you never really know what they will do, though I have an idea, I will reiterate that this is my perspective on a shitty situation. 

Obviously, I liked what I was doing and the people there well enough to stay a long time, but this last year was rough for all kinds of reasons. The bottom line is that I wasn't being heard and should have either found a way to address this or left a lot earlier. That's on me. I stayed because I was grateful to have a job and was dedicated to it, probably to a fault. 

I'll add that there were outside factors at play that also made being an employee over the last few years difficult. Maybe my perspective is somewhat skewed, but there's a difference between those who say they appreciate you and those who actually do. As the saying goes, actions always speak louder, and when you truly care about someone, you at least hear them out without projecting or making patronizing comments in front of others, even if it's just to end things, especially if it's to end things after so many years.

When it comes to the perhaps puzzling reasoning of those of us who deal with eating disorders or disordered eating patterns, the thought, "Why work on my health when I feel invisible and can't make a right move in the eyes of certain individuals?" is often at play, though I have to say that I was doing what I could to manage under the circumstances this winter. I was just really, really sick. Again, my problem, not anyone else's. But, on the other hand, because simply eating can lead to uncomfortable feelings for those of us who have lingering issues, being in a physically uncomfortable (cold, messy) or emotionally unpleasant (stressful, negative) environment makes taking steps to consume meals or snacks that much more difficult, and I say this as someone who has no problem munching on protein bars while volunteering (and soon to be working) in a vet clinic.

In the end, just like when ending an unhealthy relationship or a connection to a sport in which you can no longer participate, there's a grieving process to navigate. Things are never all good or all bad and I’m very grateful for the positives. I really am, but some endings are so rotten, so vile, they permanently taint any previous nicer moments. And, the worst part is that these types of messy and ugly situations shake a person's confidence. They really are awful and can so easily be avoided. In some cases, though, cutting ties completely is best for everyone involved. 

In a strange way, my fear and past hatred of running don't cloud my ability to see that way deep down inside, I still love it. It's like a friend or relationship with many ups and downs. Things will never be the same again regarding my former place of employment, but at least I'm not alone... in more ways than one if you catch my drift. The good news is that life has a funny way of working out if you can be open to it. I'm still learning.

I start my new job training tomorrow. I'm nervous and excited. I haven't felt this way since I was preparing for a big race. I'm so grateful to the people who supported me through this experience. Thank you doesn't seem like enough.