February 21, 2012

The Knucklehead Strikes Back

February 21, 2012

My body stabbed me in the back this weekend.  Full on, right in my fucking back.  Put on the brakes and said, No.  Fucking.  More.

I have been beyond frustrated with myself.  I thought I had been doing the right things.  I thought I was resting.  I have hated every second of it.  I have fought with myself, with my little inside voice.  I have done the strengthening exercises I thought were right.  I stopped when I had pain.  Apparently, my idea of pain is a bit different than what it should be.

No.  I have not gone to the doctor.  Surprising considering my worky job, but doctors just aren't my thing.

I have been so focused on being able to run the 5K.  Focused on healing my leg.  Focused on being able to run period.  Thursday, I decided I could probably do some lunges and squats.  With a 40 pound barbell.   I didn't have any pain at the time.  None at all.  I felt great.  I was excited.

Friday, I woke up and did some yoga.  The run was Friday night at 7:00.  Halfway through my yoga, I knew that something was wrong.  Way wrong.  Wronger than it had ever been.  It wasn't my hamstring anymore.  I'd done something else.  This was pain.  PAIN.  Real pain.  I could barely walk.  It hurt to even touch my thigh.  It hurt to sit down and put any pressure on my thigh at all.

A little voice inside me thought I could still run.  It would be okay.

We loaded up the truck, took the dog to the vet, and drove to the beach.  I was in pain.  A lot of pain.  I still thought I could take a couple of Tylenol 3, wrap that sucker up, and run.  I just fucking wanted to run.  That's all.

We stopped at Wal-Mart to grab some drinks.  I hobbled around, fighting back tears.

Sarge walked up to me and started looking at my hair.  Reached out his hand.  And plucked a hair out of my noggin.  And showed it to me.  It was a gray hair.  I put my face in my hands and fought back more tears.

We got back on the road.  I wriggled around in the seat, trying to get comfortable.  Argued with the voice in my head.  But I couldn't fight back the tears anymore.

I knew I couldn't run.  I knew I couldn't.  I thought to myself.  I could try this.  And I know myself, I know that I would not stop once I started.  I knew that once I crossed that finish line, I'd want nothing more than to go back 45 minutes in time and stop myself from doing it.  Or.  I could stop it now, before it ever started.

So.  I decided at that moment that I wasn't going to try.  I wasn't going to ruin the weekend for Sarge or my kids with my own selfishness.  I wasn't going to risk permanently damaging my body, if I had not already.  So, I decided not to run.

And then I fell apart.  Completely fell apart.  Cried like a baby.  A sobbing, drooling, snot-dripping, dry-heaving baby.  Right there in the truck.  All because I couldn't run.

Once we got to Myrtle Beach, we went to the runner's expo anyway.  Picked up our T-shirts and bibs.  I started crying again.

Went back to the hotel and got in the hot tub.  Started crying again.

Woke up the next morning and went out to get some lunch.  I saw the full marathoners running past our hotel.  And started crying again.  I could barely walk.  If it weren't for Tylenol 3 and the Ace wrap, I would not have been walking at all. 

By Sunday, I finally felt human again.  A little.  We hung around the hotel, watched a movie, watched a thunderstorm roll in off the ocean.  More hot tub.  A little chocolate.   It was great.

By Monday, I was walking without a limp.

This morning, I was back on my elliptical.  No doubt, Sarge will give me the stinkeye when he reads this.

But I don't know what else to do.  I have to move.  I HAVE to move.  I am pissed at my body.  I am pissed at myself.

At some point, I figure I will get all the wrong things out of the way and will have nothing left to try but the right things.

Or.  I could go to the doctor and circumvent the wrong things altogether.

Or not.  

The Warrior Dash is May 21.

The Myrtle Beach Mini Marathon is October 21. 

It's going to be a long fucking year.

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