This past weekend I ran a half marathon. Not particularly quickly--in fact, it was my slowest ever--and well, I can't pretend like I really trained all too hard for it. But it's over and done with. It was hot and long and, quite frankly, pretty miserable.
I kept running until I couldn't. Which was just past ten miles. I gave myself a good long walk break. Of course this is when that voice inside gives way to, what I so eloquently call, the "I-sucks:"
I'm fat. I'm slow. I'm the slowest runner I know. Everyone is looking at me and laughing. Look at everyone going by, they're wondering why I even bothered trying to do this.
Which ever-so-quickly segues into "I-suck-at-everything":
I am a shitty mother. My poor kids got me in the lottery of life. My husband has to put up with me. It's no wonder my baby died, I am a terrible person. I can't do anything well, everyone is better at everything than I am.
I don't know. I think strange things happen to my brain when I'm underfed and overtired. It's hard to not let the negative thoughts creep in at the edges. The wheels just fall right off my wagon.
I am a new person, though. The old me, the one who never really ever lived through misery, or had to do anything especially challenging that wasn't self-inflicted, probably would have given up. Watched the runners pass me by, felt sorry for myself and pouted. But the old me wasn't out there on that sunny, hot morning. The new me scraped my sorry sack of shit self off the pavement at mile 11 and started running again. And finished. Running. The new me knows a thing or two about keepin' on keepin' on.
C and the boys were there just past mile 11, cheering me on. They were there again just past mile 12, too. Hearing E shouting "go Mommy go!" gave my heart a jolt. I'm still not all that jazzed about my lackluster performance, but I finished what I started. I didn't quit even though it was hard. Go me.