Miles and Miles

I did my first run on Saturday morning. Smith was at our door at six, went through some stretches, and then put me on the treadmill. After doing a tenth of a mile walking briskly, I had to ramp up the speed and actually run (well, jog I guess...whatever...it's fucking running to me) for another four tenths of a mile. And campers, it was hard. I didn't think it'd be so hard. I didn't think my lungs would burn, or that I'd sweat, or that I'd tell Smith I felt like I was going to die (his response to that? "It's okay. I know CPR. KEEP GOING.").

What surprised me even more was that the feelings I'd stirred up the night before started bubbling away while I ran. I tried to block them out and stare at the mileage on the treadmill's display, but Smith caught me and covered it up. He made me think about my breathing, getting it in rhythm with my stride. It helped, both to keep me from passing out and to keep me from crying. He kept telling me, "Go to that place. Go where you need to go."

And I did.

It happened really fast, but for just a few moments, I knew what he meant. My feet were thudding away on the treadmill, and the thought came to me:

"I AM NOT A BAD PERSON."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Breathing. Again:

"I AM NOT A BAD PERSON."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Breathing.

For that thirty seconds or so, I got it. I understood, finally, that this was going to be my way to let it all go, all the bullshit, all the sadness, all those steamer trunks of garbage that I've been hauling around for years. I wanted to stop, and sob, and let it all out in an avalanche of feelings, but I didn't. I kept going, I finished my half-mile.

After the run, I was in the kitchen, coughing my brains out and slurping water. Smith heard me and said, "You knock some stuff loose there?"

Yep, I sure did. But not from my lungs.