I have never believe in runner's high.
To me, running is the highest form of punishment. It's awkward, bouncing movements strain my muscles and deflate my lungs to the point where I can think of nothing in my throbbing, air-deprived mind then the pain being inflicted on my poor body. People who claim running grants them clarity of thought, let alone a weird type of pleasure, are certifiably insane in my book.
Today, however, I do believe I went insane.
My life has not been where I want it to be lately. For the past few weeks, I've been sitting in my house wasting away on winter break, waiting for the new semester to start and slowly alienating myself from everyone around me. Being at home is slowly killing me. I don't mean to sound dramatic; I understand that I lead a quite lovely and privileged existence, and that my family loves me very much, etc...But to me, being back home from school, spending an unproductive month alone following an equally unproductive semester, surrounded by nit-picky remarks and snide comments from my parents, is roughly akin to a year of solitary confinement in a high security prison. I am caught up inside my head and am slowly deteriorating. None of this is helped, either, by my touchy attitude and my new, back-at-home restrictions. Faced with an entire day alone and no productive, achievable goals, I turned (albeit shamefully) to the treadmill.
Let me tell you why I think the idea of running (hell, exercise in general) bothers me so much--I hate the idea that I might fail. I've a terrible body image and self-perception. Basically, I hate the way that I look. However, I've never tried--I mean seriously tried--to work out and stay healthy because I know, deep down, that I do not have the self discipline and motivation it takes to be consistent.
Today, however, I resolved myself. I was going to get on that treadmill, and I was going to run. And I did. I ran a painful 1.5 miles this morning, and then a more painful 1.5 miles tonight. The entire time I was running, I let my thoughts wander and my mind go blank. I refused to focus on the pain and discomfort I felt. When my mind would drift to my burning lungs, swollen feet and dripping forehead, I tried something new. I kept thinking about how much I hated quitting. I thought of how disappointed I would be in myself if I didn't run for just five more minutes. Just one more song. Just a half a mile more. To be perfectly honest, it didn't make me feel a whole lot better. It did, however, keep me running.
I'm not going to sit here and say that I will keep this habit up. I want to. It's my goal. But I don't know if I will. Hopefully this whole "don't-want-to-disappoint-myself" tactic will hold up. I'm secretly a big coward and am scarred shitless of failing. I want so badly for this all to work out. I know it might not, though, and I'm okay with that. But right now, it feels like anything in the world is possible.
I guess that's runner's high.
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