possible stress fractures & possible fears

Ever since running down in So. UT over 4th of July weekend, my right ankle has been bothering me.

I didn't roll it, never heard a pop, nothing. But it's continued to hurt and be a bother. So I finally went in to the doctor last week seeing as our half marathon was coming up on Saturday and I didn't want to really damage it.

I'm not a regular at doctors' offices and going always makes me nervous. I always worry that I'll be going in for a broken arm and they'll discover that I have an incurable disease and only ten days left to live.

I had only gone in for my ankle, but I suddenly felt like every move I made was being put on review and this man in a white coat had the power to alter my lifestyle with nothing but a look and the word sorry.

"I know that's not probably what you want to hear, but you have to stop running."

Yes, that is exactly what he said.

They put you in those rooms, alone, to wait quietly pondering over all the things you've done wrong. Giving you enough time to rethink your decisions so that when the doctor comes in you're just a mess, fragile and weepy, sorry for the smallest mistake: skipping breakfast, running on a bummed ankle, not sleeping enough, and from there all the other life decisions start to come into question.

It's miserable. I was miserable. I started to cry as I waited to get an X-ray and then again walking home.

I'm not sure why I was so heart-broken. I had my heart set on training and accomplishing this great thing, something I probably wouldn't have chosen to do except in the heat of the moment, which it was. My sister had called me 3 hours before registration closed (and since it's a lottery there was a chance I wouldn't even get picked) and I thought, what the heck?! Why not? What are the chances? Sure. No problem.

I was determined that this great, big goal was going to define my life this summer. It was the thing to keep me going, the thing to keep me distracted and busy from dating and waiting for Sol. And suddenly I wasn't going to be able to do it anymore. I actually had a doctor tell me to stop running until I heard back from the radiologist and even after seeing a podiatrist.

But the tiniest part of me was ok with it, ok with not having to push myself to do something really hard, to not go outside of my physical comfort zone. Pushing yourself physically is hard enough, and I've done it before with rock climbing, but running felt different. It felt different because it's a "single's" sport for me. I've never had someone right there next to me, pushing me, encouraging me, telling me they believe I can do it. So this tiny part of me was almost relieved to have a good excuse that I could pull on to bow out gracefully, and I was almost more disappointed with myself and feeling that way than actually having a fracture.

My sister was sweet and reminded me that there would be other marathons as I cried over the phone, but I knew this was something I didn't want to do alone. I probably couldn't do it alone, and the thought of having two sisters as a support system when the big day came was comforting. I knew I could do it if they were there beside me, but to imagine going and doing it alone was disheartening.

I would have though, if I needed to. Maybe because the vain woman inside of me was determined to not suddenly go to mush after finding out about a stress fracture. I was going to continue to cross train and exercise and not gain anymore weight and stay thin and be beautiful! The vain one was panicking, I'll admit it. She was quite distraught, and that didn't help my disappointment (I'll speak more of her one day).

I spent the rest of last week resting, no running, no cross training. Taking the prescribed naproxen from the doctor helped seeing as I took it for one day and spent that whole day dizzy and sick and in bed.

By Friday I was again worried because I hadn't heard from the radiologist and was loathing going to the podiatrist the following week. But as I walked home I received the voicemail saying my X-ray was a negative for a fracture.

Remember Christmas mornings as a kid? That's what it felt like. It was wonderful and scary at the same time, though because that small part of me that was ok with bowing out suddenly had to wrap its head around training again. I couldn't back out anymore, not without admitting my fear.

So instead I have 7 miles to run tonight; alone.

I'm not looking forward to it, but I am looking forward to the after part. The part where I get to text my two sisters and tell them I did it, and it was great (even if it wasn't).

missing...

Love letters in the mail.

Secret notes.

Gifts, just because.

Wearing his t-shirt around the house.

Staying up late together because we don't want to stop talking.

Making dinner together.

Setting reservations for a night out.

Holding hands in the movie theater.

Or as we're crossing the street.

Getting dressed up to go to plays.

Knowing what his favorite drink is.

Watching movies on the lap top, snuggled up in bed.

 Reading books out loud.

Good morning texts.

Kissing pictures.

His hand on my knee.

Surprise work visits.

Camping trips.

And roadtrips.

Sharing a bowl of ice cream.

Stargazing.

Him.

image via

music on a monday 2

Such wonderful imagination.

and then this ethereal deliciousness.

crush

Oh what ticklish frenzies bubble up in my skin when that seed of possibility is planted.

Daydreams of stolen kisses and chance meetings are feasted upon as the day's hours pass on.

This idea, this delicious hope of...something...fed with tiny slivers of bashful maybe's. Blushing behind hands of timidly needed affection, teasing the mind with thoughts of brushing fingertips.

Memories of school-girl embarrassment envelope our bodies into a renewed, awkward jumble of limbs and gaits and nervous laughter.

Glimpses of him from across the room, eyelids fluttering with conscious fervor.

Knowing that any chance is held within his grasp, far from the control of my slender fingers.

Content though in that knowledge, willing to stake time and affection on lady luck in this crowded room.

Foolishly walking toward abandoned territory, praying that when our eyes meet they both flicker with mischievous wonderment of having a childish crush.

Come on skinny love, just last the year

image via

kneeling

Sunday, 12:16am

kneeling, face to face
vulnerable and broken together
hearts open and exposed
scars  fresh to see
fingers touching
closing the space between

image via

music on a monday

I love words.

The way they escape your mouth.

How some taste exactly how they mean.

And how music can express them in such ways that pierces your soul and lights your heart on fire.

Delicate.

because letting go

It's been a long time since I've written late at night. I try to avoid it since I discovered that most of what comes out in the wee hours tends to be shredded chunks of my soul spat out in a frenzy of desperation to remove the vowels and consonants that seem to be rattling about in my brain.

I'm not good at giving up hope.

It should be seen as a virtue, but some nights it feels more like a vice.

I've been told it will be a blessing when I am married - that I'm not a quitter. But until then I should be ok with walking away if I'm sacrificing too much of myself holding on to wisps.



I've often given advice to others to walk away, to let go, because unless you do you live in a state of false security.



Six years ago I fell in love with someone.

In the end neither of us was willing to make the sacrifice necessary to be together.

We stayed in touch though. A year after the first severing I asked him one night if there might be a chance for a second try. He didn't know.

Two years after that, he came back to me, but by then I had moved on. Still, I was too afraid of not having something, anything, that I gave him false hope.

I didn't give him the truth because what if I told him no and he walked away and for once in my life I was completely alone with no one loving me.

I couldn't do it. I pulled him along for some time until I came to that realization. And with that I finally gave him the truth.

It was scary and hard. But I knew that I wouldn't be able to give of myself fully to someone else until I had let him and the fear of being alone go.




This last week has been a small explosion of little somethings. New discoveries, new vibrance, new sounds, new smiles and faces.

And because of those shy smiles and whispers behind hands, the idea of letting go of Sol didn't seem so scary anymore.

I've waited. I've been patient (to a degree). I've grown, I've learned. I've enjoyed and I have continually waited for that phone call.

It hasn't come. And my faith and hope has waned.

But rather than demand of myself to be more constant or patient, maybe it's time I demanded my eyes to open.

Maybe I received my answer already.

Because of those shy smiles and whispers behind hands, I'm not so scared of walking away.

Because of those shy smiles and whispers behind hands, I have hope in someone else: me.

Maybe I can be loved by another.

And maybe it won't be that face I saw from across the room, the one who made me feel as if I had been waiting for him to notice me all my life. That if I just turned around he would be there waiting, wondering what took me so long.

Maybe it won't be that face. Maybe it will be another new face in a month, or two, or six.

(a new face that will make me feel the same - that he had been waiting for me all this time)

But remembering and believing in that has made the fear of walking away disappear.

It is no longer the hook in my back, pulling my heart down every time I think of Sol's face; the words he said.

Maybe I can be loved. For all the hopeless mess I am.

because of spilled milk

I think I set hell in motion at work yesterday.

I spilled my breakfast in my lap and spent the first couple of hours wet and smelling like milk.

I wanted to explode.

I'm tired. I had to run 6 miles last night and 12 more on Saturday. My ankle is in pain and I'm near positive that I'm iron deficient. I spent most of work yesterday researching injury prevention and how to fix my form for running.

Marathon training is getting harder. My runs are longer and I have to really be good about setting aside time to go when it's not baking outside. On top of that - water. I think I've always spent my life in a borderline state of dehydration. I've never been good at staying hydrated, and now when I need it the most I still just can't quite give up the soda. I can pound a good 32 oz water bottle into me by noon, but after that I spend my afternoons tired and bloated and sick of the stuff.

Before I fell asleep the night before, I was informed via social media that someone I really care about had lied to me. Over a petty thing. But I fell asleep crying with a sick feeling inside.

So yesterday morning I wanted to cry - over spilled milk.

After running home to change I came back to work, feeling a bit better after the walk. Grateful that I live close to my job to allow for that, and that my boss was kind enough to let me leave. Upon getting back she and I sat chatting. I needed it. I told her about the roommate drama and she gave me the validation I needed.

Then a kid threw up. All over the playground. I sat reading books to him until a teacher brought down another child who was sobbing with a big scratch across her face. We dealt with the neosporin, and my boss brought the culprit of the scratch in to sit with me. Mom picked up the sick kid, and I sat with a new student: a 4-year-old who thought it was ok to scratch the entire side of an older child's face because she bumped into him. Then from down the hall came the frustrated cries of another child being pulled from class for punching another student.

So there my boss and I sat. The two of us with these kids wondering which of us was the cause for the chaos.

We got through it though. Laughed and joked, rolled our eyes and found some little things to be grateful for. Whether it was another child in the afternoon class showing his new invention, or the fact that I had a fun night with friends to look forward to.

Something my boss mentioned made me really think though. As I told her I had jokingly wanted to cry over spilled milk she said it was a symptom. And I got to thinking about what my disease must have been and I discovered it was just self-pity.

And just being able to recognize that helped me yank myself out of that gutter and get over it.

I've never been a fan of self-pity and when I find myself brooding in it, the fear of being there gets me running out of the muck like a madman.

I don't let myself wallow. Wallowing is destructive. It can tear you apart from the inside out leaving you half empty and darkly hollow.

So I didn't cry over spilled milk. I didn't curl up in a ball and let the pity surround me in the dark. I pulled out a book and I read about Ophelia. I listened to Isaac Russell and let his music sooth my soul. I grabbed a soda and said damned if I have to go run 6 miles still tonight, I'm doing whatever I want right now.

And you know what? The sun kept shining through it all.

last night + the wind

Golden stalks of grass quiver as purple clouds float across the pink streaked sky.

Tiny mushrooms bloom at my feet as my toes sink into the fresh planted sod.

As I sat on the rickety, wooden chair in the middle of the lawn, my wet hair teased dry by the warm wind of July, I got lost.

Rogue fire crackers cackled a few houses down as I set my head back and watched the leaves of the trees dance across a power-line trapped sky.

If I was not human I would want to be the wind for she is both dangerous and wonderful.

Her voice is powerful, most often bringing an ominous cry of change.

Something is coming.

She pulls in darkness, pushes forward light.

She brings fresh air and storm clouds heavy with rain to wash all clean.

She teases our hair and tugs at our clothes telling us to look and behold.

Look there - look here.

Look everywhere at what has been created for you.

She never boasts of herself. Her movements always place another in front - the coming thunder, the majestic trees, the forgotten sun, the missing moon.

Her story is forever attached to another's - the pages of a book that rustles, whispering of the secrets inside.

She is strong and gentle.

Elusive, yet tangible.

Beautiful and mischievous all wrapped into one.

cheap goodbyes

I might begin a Music Monday thing or something (yes today is Tuesday, but maybe I'll start it next week).

Nicole showed me this song after we spent most of the weekend together fidgeting over life and love.

because maybe i understand a little bit

My British Lit professor this last semester pointed me towards this blog: Meg Fee.

She's wonderful, and has been such an inspiration toward my own writing and willingness to open up and be so very exposed. I often find myself understanding her thoughts and feelings a little too much. But maybe that's a good thing, maybe it's a good thing to actually, truly, fully relate to someone.

These are a few of my favorite posts of hers:

on wanting (and not needing) a man

procreating + puzzles / guest post: alisha giampola

Say yes. and yes. and yes again.

attraction and expectation.

the fundamental truth / guest post: chelsea latimer

advice + attraction + many muddled thoughts

because of Caleb and tiny boxes

About this time last year I was suppose to be on a honeymoon with Caleb.

I think he and his wife are expecting their first baby in a week or two.

You do the math.

There is a tiny place in my heart that sometimes twists and kinks when I think about him and how he handled everything. How he hurt me. Sometimes the kink sticks around for a day or so creating a painful ache and sadness that seems as if it will never leave.

But it always does. 

Those moments come less often and are less painful now.

Often on those hard days I have to remind myself of what I learned from him, from that relationship, that journey.

Through him I met Jacob.

And through Jacob I met Sol.

And through it all I found a part of me.

Even though everything didn't work out, I still have to be grateful because each of those relationships molded me into a better person. Each of them taught me something about myself and love as a whole.

Some people close to me haven't been as forgiving toward Caleb as I have been, and I wonder if I should have been angrier. I don't think I ever got angry. I cried, a lot. I spent nights on end at my brother's place filling that hole in my chest with unconditional love from family.

I don't believe Caleb ever meant to hurt me. I believe he was unsure, and I greatly believe that he was also overwhelmed by panic and anxiety. But in truth (when it all came down to it) in the end he had a choice. We both did.

And he chose no.

The last time I saw him was when we stood in his driveway - my brother in the car for moral support, Caleb there in his pajamas, and me holding a small box that I hoped as it left my hands would remove any resentment that might grow. A small box that had held something so beautiful and precious. A small box that held a future, a past, memories, and forgotten love. A small box that still held a part of my broken heart.

In that moment all I could think was "You took my heart, you took my hands, you took my whole body, my whole soul, all my love, and now you are asking for this one last thing and I don't think I can give any more."

That tiny box was the end.

I don't pray about it anymore. I don't wish on stars for a second chance anymore (not really possible anyway). Instead I just give thanks.

I give thanks for the lessons he taught me and the respect he gave me. I give thanks for meeting someone who showed me I can be loved and that I can be with someone who would go down on one knee, someone who would ask my father's permission.

I give thanks for the hope he gave me in a tiny box.

I kissed him on the cheek because I felt the forehead wouldn't do. But oh, how I do love forehead kisses.

because i'd rather start over with you

I know that at this point that it has been long enough that I am going to have to start over again with him, or with anybody. It's been long enough that I've grown just a tiny bit different, and I hope he has too. But despite that...I'd rather start over with him than anyone else.

That last post might have been in response to reading this:

http://www.megfee.com/2014/03/11/notting-hill-movie-turned-day-around/#.U7R3cPldV8E

because i wasn't being honest

I wasn't being honest with you or with myself, and it wasn't until yesterday that I admitted that maybe this has meant more to me than I have let on. Maybe I fell a little bit harder than I expected to. Maybe I opened my heart up a little too quickly. Maybe I did daydream a little too much, wished a little too hard, ached a little too tenderly.

But where is the error in that?

Everyone is always told over and over and over and over again to live. Live. Live. Take risks, go and do, just do it, believe, reach for the stars. How many slogans tell us to take life by the horns, get back on the saddle, jump in head first, go for the high dive? So where was my error?

I spoke earlier about how I wasn't going to listen to all those other voices, how I was going to accept the bumpy road that I chose. And yesterday as I sat in a room full of friends and strangers I admitted to myself that part of this struggle has been the fact that I wasn't being honest. I wasn't being honest with anyone about just why this has all mattered.

So let me be honest.

Let me tell you why I'm fighting for me, for him, for a chance.

I'm fighting because there was something in the way he sang. In the way he expressed his dreams in song. The ones he wrote and the ones he just played. We sat forever on his bed thumbing through the whole Beatles Collection, picking song after song after song just for him to play and sing to me with his raspy voice that scratched from a weekend cold. And then he would play a song that he had wrote for someone in his future and I caught a glimpse of the man he is, and the man he some day will be.

I'm fighting because it only took him 5 days to tell me how he felt. Not 5 months. And after a long time of not having someone in his life, I felt pretty special that I was the one he picked. That from that first night of just taking me to dinner we moved through months of silence to end up in my hallway scrubbing floorboards after a night of him going out of his way to just be there for me (someone he barely knew), during a time of transitions and endings.

I'm waiting because of all the little things he did. The drives home, the hand always on my knee, the wait before I let him kiss me, the late nights of just holding me, the reservations at restaurants, the defending me to his best friends, the reading books out loud as I fell asleep on his chest, the crazy stories, the silence as we laid there - a mess of limbs and blankets.

I'm waiting because of all the things he said. And I won't say all the things he didn't say, because he said everything. He was honest, he was open, he was unabashedly exposed during it all. And I guess it's my turn to finally be exposed too.

I'm waiting and I'm fighting because I saw something that could be. Because I saw a chance to do something good, to make something good of me and someone I cared about. I'm fighting because I kind of wanted to tell people I was his and he was mine. Because I wanted to see if I could maybe, actually, possibly, fall in love with him. And see if maybe he could love me too. Because I saw someone who wanted what I wanted. Someone who treasures family and love and life as I do. I saw someone who struggled, who felt pain, who felt joy, who felt frustration, who felt ecstasy. I saw someone I wanted to make smile. Someone I wanted to bug, to be bored with, to be angry with, to cry with, to kiss. Someone who could understand me better than I did.


I saw something.

I guess that's why I'm here. Still wondering, still waiting.

So please tell me where my error is. "Where was my fault in [wanting to love] you with all my heart?"