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.
The Warrior Dash is May 21.
The Myrtle Beach Mini Marathon is October 21.
It's going to be a long fucking year.