***writing this at work so I may have to cut it short if my boss shows up ;)
I'm waiting for something to happen - for the grief that lays hidden in the shadows to pop its head out and eat my good mood, for depression to take hold and drown this new, semi-happy me. I realize that I am letting the fear of my next dark episode keep me from fully enjoying this latest bout of happy, but I don't know how to stop it. For now, when I need to, I run away from it. Literally. I put in seven miles last night, and it felt great. The runner's high was better than anything a pharmaceutical company could have done for me. And I'm still flying this morning......
I love to run because it is one of the only times during the day that I can focus solely on myself - the rest of the day is spent taking care of my pets, taking care of patients, taking care of clients, taking care of the house, taking care of Hubby. When I run, I have time to work things through in my head if I choose, or to ignore it all and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Focus on breathing (in through the nose, out through the mouth. Repeat. It's actually harder than it sounds). Focus on life, and all the amazing things my body can do, instead of on dead babies and all the things my body cannot do. During a run (or, more accurately, a slow jog)I feel empowered - particularly when I'm out with Hubby and/or his workout buddy, both of whom try to pussy out and drop to a walk before the end of the run.
Last time we all three ran together, the boys did as boys do and rushed out at way too quick a pace before gassing out a couple of miles from home. They began to walk, and when I told them that they could walk but I'd be jogging home, they acted like I stole their manhood. With much grumbling, we made it home at a jog. A slow jog. Barely more than a walk, actually.