It’s been 46 days since I’ve run.
So sad. So lonely.
Forty-six days ago I hurt myself while training for a half marathon. I was devastated. I read up on running injuries and followed all the advice – I iced, I took ibuprofen, I stretched, I rested, you name it. After a torturous week of “rest” I laced up my sneakers, set up my running playlist, walked out of the front door, begging my body to cooperate. To my utter disappointment, I barely got to the end of my street before I was forced to limp back in tears. I tried week after week after week but my body was just not healing. The half marathon came and went. My Facebook feed was flooded with posts and pictures of my friends’ beaming faces and their medals. I was supposed to be gloriously crossing the finish line with them. Instead, my increasingly-not-so-firm butt was forming an in increasingly large dent in the couch. Just a few months ago I was in one the best places in my life, both mentally and physically. Then boom! In one day, one morning, one run, everything changed, literally ONE DAY after hitting my goal weight. I felt myself sinking into a depression. I knew I was. But acknowledging it didn’t do anything to escape it.