Pounding. The cold concrete. Heart thumping.Feet moving fast. No air left to scream. The sweat hides tears. Pound it. Lift it. One foot in front of the other. Legs turn red with cold. Heart racing — reminding you it still works.
I love running.
I used to run away from home — in college. I would leave my keys and my cellphone behind and run barefoot through campus. I’d do this very late at night. It got more attention. Eventually Ashley made me promise to at least take my phone. She was tired of looking for me.
I haven’t run away in a while, but I still run at night. When I hit a particular height of emotional distress, I run. I let my feet carry out my fury, pounding my frustration into the asphalt.
Tonight, I have much to run for. Furious, I want to bolt into the cold night air and not return until all of my feelings have been pounded out of me. But I cannot, because I am injured. I have 6-8 weeks of physical therapy before I can run again. Grounded, I search for new coping mechanisms.
All week I have applied my old techniques to combat anxiety. I took myself on an artist’s date to my favorite art museum. I drank my favorite drink in my favorite park. I played my favorite video game. I watched Walking Dead with my favorite friends. But nothing soothes like a sprint.
I miss running.