Give me more

There is a part of me – a significant, and close to the surface part – that enjoys a good bit of pain. A part of me inclined toward overexertion, obsession, and prodding open wounds. Most of the time, if you give me pain, you’ll see me smirk with a glint in my eye. Go on, give me more.

I’ve often thought that, if I was ever unlucky enough to find myself in a hostage situation, or being tortured for compliance or something, I’d be quite likely to get myself killed. Because I’d fucking brat. Like, don’t get me wrong, I am terrified of both death and authority, I’ll be a very good girl up to a point, but push a certain button in me and I will resist you relentlessly, I will goad you into punishing me, and all the while I’ll be smirking bitterly with a glint in my eye. I think the term is defiant. It’s like I never grew out of seeing how much I can get away with.

I’ve had to temper that to be a decent parent, because I can’t afford the recovery time. I’ve had to tame myself. But I think I went too far.

I wrote over a year ago about wanting to undo my taming, and I wasn’t talking about this masochistic wildness, but it’s all linked. The ability to both hurt and be hurt is integral to the human animal. The ability to wound, but not kill, and be wounded, but not die. And while that does apply in the macro, I also mean it in a more local sense. If you cut yourself, that part of you shouldn’t wither away; it should heal. And if a certain part of you is repeatedly taking punishment, it shouldn’t wear down to the bone; it should callous. It should resist. And resistance, well-practiced, makes it stronger. That’s a fundamental quality of being alive; it sets us apart from mere objects of creation. It gives us agency. And while we can’t help but be subject to this quality in lots of ways, there are many other ways that we unconsciously forgo it, and instead submit ourselves to external factors.

If we cower from pain, we become less than we are. And if we treat others as if they can’t take the pain, then we don’t give them the credit they deserve.

We’re living in a strange world – a world where you can avoid a lot of pain if you want to. But not all pain. If you’ve gone the avoidant route and haven’t conditioned yourself to withstand it, then what’re you gonna do when the pain finally comes? Because it will inevitably come.

I’ve been living in a bit of a fantasy for a while thinking I could become who I want to be without so much as a bit of chafing. Because it’s so easy to find an existence that doesn’t necessitate friction, and it’s even easier to get used to it once you have. And, also, honestly, I was really fucking tired of pain, so it was nice to believe I could be free of it for a while.

I know that part of my submission was biological – I fundamentally changed in ways I couldn’t have imagined through experiencing pregnancy and motherhood, and my drive to be the soft, warm welcoming arms that an infant needs and thrives within conflicted with any desire to be hard, rough or seasoned. This was probably a phase I needed to be in. But as my son grows, what he needs is ever more complex, and ever less about me. And as I grow, my ability to understand my own needs is ever more advanced, and ever less ambiguous. I need more pain. And I’d better make it good.

Waiting for the shoe

I ran again this evening – I’d mapped out a 1.6 mile loop from my house and I did that and a bit extra and then I walked to the shop. I took it easy, because I don’t know how to run properly, I know most people don’t run every day, and it especially doesn’t seem to be recommended for beginners, but I’m starting to feel like I’m doing this wrong.

Honestly, when I promised to run every day I kind of expected to be resorting to five minutes on my mini trampoline, and of course there’s plenty of time for that yet, but the run (or rather what I imagine was in fact a very slow jog) tonight wasn’t nearly as taxing as I was preparing myself for. It was more of a light stretch. Which calls into question, well, a lot of things, actually.

I was expecting this to be hard already. I was expecting not to be able to run a mile in the first place. I was expecting today to be worse than yesterday. I was expecting this to suck a bit. And it doesn’t. A lot of my body is aching, and the idea of skipping the run this evening was quite appealing. But then I put my leggings on and I got fucking excited. And I wrapped my cheapy earphone wires around my neck to stop them falling out en route and that was me fucking sorted. Bloody lovely. There were no knee niggles or toe woes, everything was fucking fine again. I’m getting suspicious.

Am I being too conservative? Do I need to go faster, or further? Or, on the contrary, am I being too gung ho and will I suddenly, unsuspectingly, be flung into a pit of misery after a couple more days of this, because, no, I shouldn’t be running every day?

…OrrrrrAm I actually doing something right?

What a dangerous fucking thought.

Twice round the block

I decided to start running a few days ago. I ordered my shoes, they arrived ahead of schedule, and then I bashed my foot and knelt on a screw while modifying my son’s bed. Which I found quite amusing, because it’s a bit of a pattern for me to injure myself right after I’ve decided to do something physical, as if my brain didn’t provide enough self-sabotage on its own. I also found it interesting that both of the body parts in question are the sites of prior, more significant injuries that will likely impact my ability to run long term. Like my body was saying Oh, shame, look, you can’t run, remember your dodgy foot and your dodgy knee? Aww man, you’re gonna have to sit this one out, I think. Nothing you can do, not your fault or anything, just maybe just come back to it one day when everything’s healed. Or, you know, maybe not, it’s up to you, no pressure. Running’s probably just not for you anyway to be honest, I’d probably just find something better to do. That’s probably best, I’d say.

However, I wasn’t even in the vicinity of that wavelength this time. I don’t know by which virtue I escaped it, but escape it I did. So I jogged on my mini trampoline for half an hour this afternoon, testing out my apparatus. And it was fucking fine. Then this evening, I took it to the streets. And I ran two whole miles, I think. Well, that’s what my Christmas Fitbit says, anyway. And it was fucking fine.

We’ll see how I feel tomorrow, but my inkling that I need to lay the gauntlet down for myself with an absurd running challenge of some description is getting more vicious. So that should be interesting.

And I’ve ordered myself some running socks. Things are getting serious.

Run every day, write every day

I need a new mantra. A new compass. A new hallowed utterance to become a new law. A new vehicle. A new sacred space. A new foundational thing of constancy to cling to in a world of unimaginable chaos.

Okay.

Run every day, write every day.

I am a writer. I am not a runner.

But a lot of my favourite people are writers and runners. And if they’re not runners they’re cyclists. And I feel too perilous on two wheels these days to want to call myself a cyclist.

So I bought myself some running shoes.

They were serendipitously on eBay when I followed the inspiration to have a look. Cheap, just right, auction ending imminently. Nothing else came close to them. Done.

Run every day, write every day.

And that’s all.

Lay me down

Lately, I have been waking up in the middle of the night, because my brain has decided that that is a good time to worry about all the things I’ve said and done the previous day, and how I shouldn’t have said or done them, or should have said and done them differently.

That’s not a usual thing for me to do. And it’s really not helping my already precarious sleeping situation.

But it might make sense. My son started school part-time this week, and thus I’ve been spending a lot of time driving around and whiling away aimless, unproductive hours here and there in between my childcare duties. I’ve also spent a lot more time than usual with his dad, with whom I have a festering wound of a relationship, to be quite frank about it. And on top of that (or, more likely, because of it) I’m feeling an increasing pressure to conform to societies expectations; get a respectable full-time job and a home closer to the city. Be more like Daddy.

But I’m not like Daddy.

And I don’t want to be like Daddy. I want to be like Me. The full and glorious, spectacular Me that Daddy never really understood. There’s a lot of noise and distraction in my head right now, and I probably just have to ride out the turbulence. But I’d be doing everyone a disservice if I caved now. Yeah, I want some of the things that Daddy has. And, yeah, I fucking resent him for having them and that’s an issue I’ll just have to keep working on. But compromising myself to try to get them isn’t going to lead me anywhere good.

And it certainly isn’t modelling the values I want to nurture in my son. He doesn’t want me to be like Daddy either; he wants me to be like Me. He might even need me to be like Me, so that he can learn it’s entirely acceptable to be exactly whoever He is.

I need to get real here. I need to be able to withstand the dissonance I’m experiencing right now. Because this is my life. It isn’t anybody else’s. I have the privilege and responsibility of making my decisions. Past traumas, criticism, external judgements, self-doubt; I need to stop paying attention to them. I need to stop giving them power.

My goal has never been a comfortable life. My goal has been an extraordinary one. And every time I bail out and choose comfort, because I’m too scared that the people who say what I should want is a comfortable life are right, I’m failing myself. I can’t keep failing myself. I only get one shot at this. And I’m a fucking good shooter. Why would I shoot for a team other than my own?