If I don’t run today, that means I would have taken three consecutive rest days, which is the longest amount of time I’ve taken off since the beginning of the year, and I can’t help but feel like I’m failing somehow.
Y’know, running sucks. I’ll give it that. It mentally and physically tears me down, but so does stopping, so sometimes I feel like there’s no winning.
I feel like I’ve always had a hard relationship with exercise since 2020, but it was never just exercise. I’ve had a hard time with any relationship, whether that be alcohol, drugs, food, boys, or overstressing myself. It’s always all or nothing. The need to be perfect. And it fucking sucks.
On the outside, it looks so fucking easy, and of course I know that’s the front I put up, but no one really knows how hard it is for me to fight my brain—always telling me it’s not enough, do more, don’t fail, don’t rest, keep going no matter what. You can do it. It just might kill you in the process. But see, it didn’t kill you this time, so you can do more.
It’s incessant, like the feeling of drowning but being able to get an inkling of air right before everything goes black.
I think that’s the problem with having an addictive personality combined with being extremely Type A. Everything has to be done at 100% and perfectly executed, or it’s not good enough.
Anyways, I’m not taking these three days just for fun or anything. It’s because my right knee has been feeling funny, and I’m only about two weeks out from my race. I’ll be damned if I don’t make it to my marathon.
I’ve run through plenty of injuries, and I want to run through this one, but for the love of God, I’m trying to listen to my body and not my brutal brain for once. I guess I’m somewhat growing as a person by allowing myself to rest.
That’s all I have to say.