There are many references to caves in literature, usually as a metaphor for life and it's many analyses and realizations. As I sat on my couch this Christmas morning, waiting for my ex-husband to return my children, the house was quiet around me and the dog's head was a comforting warmth on my lap. I began to reflect on my own personal cave metaphor, and how good it felt to be free of it.
At the beginning of our relationship, my ex-husband and I went to Point Pleasant one summer night and talked for hours on a bench on the boardwalk. It was exciting and new, and with the ocean before us and the vitality of life all around us, I couldn't imagine being anywhere else than on that bench with him.
I imagine that bench in my cave set against a rock wall, hard, rigid wood underneath me and unyielding metal holding it all together.
When we were married two years later, we settled into our new home with its neutral walls and bland furnishings and brought that metaphorical bench with us. My son, from a previous relationship, fit just right on the bench beside us. As time went by, we relied on that bench to hold us up and keep us together through life's adventures and mishaps. Soon I realized I would need to look for some sturdy rocks to fortify our bench.
My daughter was born that year, and I found that I was placing more and more rocks around us as the days and months went by. When he owed gambling money on a bet gone bad and had to race to his mother's house to borrow hundreds of dollars, I quietly set a rock in place. When his temper grew out of control and he would cry uncontrollably, I brought him to a psychiatrist and I dutifully laid down several more rocks.
Eventually the rocks formed a wall, and after I made that wall, I made another one. To fortify our relationship? Or to keep others from seeing what was happening on our little bench?
After the first overdose, a mix of tranquilizers and alcohol with sleeping pills, I not only strengthened the three walls that I had built but I also began to construct the fourth wall.There were no windows and very little fresh air. When he would come home from work reeking of alcohol and stumbling to the bedroom, I would protest but immediately back down in the face of his temper. More rocks were added, with a touch of cement so that no one could see through the cracks.
There was enough room in one corner of the cave for my children and I to slip out now and again and shop, or ride bikes, or visit my family. We would return quickly, though, and I would make sure that the rocks were still tightly packed before hiding us all behind them again. When my third child entered the world, I brought him out of the cave with us, as well.
Through the ensuing years, every time I put him to bed or declined a rare invitation to be somewhere, not only did the rock wall grow, but so did my resentment. Every time I had to bring him to the ER for taking too much of something, or listen to him complain about my family, my increasingly infrequent visits with friends, or how much he hated people in general, my resentment festered.
What had happened to the man I first sat on that bench with? The one who now huddled in the cave, keeping the stone walls around him like a blanket?
By the time he had begun an addiction to painkillers, I had begun to look for a way out of the cave. I knew that my children and I weren't safe in there anymore, and as I pushed at the walls of rock, cement crumbled and tiny bits of light peeked through. We would leave the cave more and more often, leaving him to sleep or hide, depending on the substance he was taking. Not only was he taking more and more painkillers, but he was also hooked on strong sleeping pills prescribed by his psychiatrist. The bench had become too small for all of us, and eventually the wood warped and cracked and the metal bent.
The day he put two of my children in the car and drove high with them was the day that I demolished my self-imposed cave and beat through the smothering walls with my bare hands. No longer was I going to hide in there with him, wondering what life could be. As more and more light shone down on me and my children, I felt myself coming to life. We left that cave and never looked back.
I found my children and I a new place, not a cave but a haven. The walls are painted brightly, friends are welcome to come in and out, and the four of us have discovered how excellent being free of the cave is. Never again will I barricade myself behind rock walls; instead, I let the breeze blow freely through open windows, the sun beam through the curtains, and my own personal light shine like a beacon.
Life is good.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Running Towards Life
I realize that I may sound a bit like a character from a much loved movie who went on and on about a certain ocean delicacy at times, but I have to keep talking about how much running has changed my life for the better. Not just physically, although I definitely am loving those changes, but emotionally and mentally as well.
When I was married, I would try to do some kind of exercise for at least 25 minutes every other day, whether it was a walk around the block with the dog, bike riding with the kids, or a desultory run/walk in which I would run for a song, walk for a song, etc. My metabolism cooperated while I was in my twenties, but after my third child it was just a little bit harder to keep those stubborn extra pounds away. Plus, it became a hassle to have to keep asking my ex-husband if I could go exercise. There was always something he had to do first, like take a nap or watch a football game and he didn't want to always be 'babysitting.'
I am still surprised by people I meet who tell me that they exercise when they need to, leaving their children at home with their husbands. Just the thought of that freedom was inconceivable considering what I was dealing with. Needless to say, some of you know how that marriage ended up. It has been almost two years and I am confident, finally, that I am going to be okay. In fact, I know that I am going to be happy, and I am going to feel great, and love life, for many years to come.
Thanks, in a large part, to running.
During the divorce proceedings, in which those invisible yet tenuous bonds between my ex-husband and his perception of reality pushed me closer and closer to the edge of madness, I began to run. At first, during those 5 minute/1 minute sessions which lasted anywhere from 20 minutes to 30 minutes, I found solace in feeling my body begin to come alive again after so long. The sound of my labored breathing and the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement drew me in. Whenever the kids were with their dad, I would go for a run. Eventually, when my oldest was able to, he would offer to watch the little one while I ran.
A thirteen year old was willingly offering what had been denied to me for so long. Ironic.
Then I began to run with my older brother, Bob. He told me about a half marathon in Wild Wood at the end of that summer, and I knew with every cell in my body that I wanted to do it. Training began with a bang, and I had just made it to the five mile mark when injury struck while skiing. It was torture to have to wait so long before I could run again, and I felt the stress and tension from the divorce building. As I was dragged closer to the abyss of negativity, I noticed that I snapped at my kids, bristled at colleagues, and was in general, a bit of a bitch. Once physical therapy began and I was able to run again, though, I felt more able to deal with life. I slowly but surely built myself up to running three miles at a time without stopping, then four, and finally seven. Bob was there to run the longer training runs with me, and for those short periods of time I was able to run further away from the abyss and closer to salvation.
Seven miles turned to ten, and every time I ventured out for a run I would feel that much better. If I doubted my abilities to be a mother, teacher, daughter, I would run it out. If someone hurt my feelings, I would run. If I felt like I needed a boost, I would run.While the residue of the insanity worked its way out of my life, I had my training runs to keep my spirits up and my hope renewed. The feelings that come from running are pretty much indescribable. I had always heard of an endorphin high, but I hadn't realized how that feeling of euphoria would carry over into my everyday life It did, though, with the positive effects of making me a stronger- and nicer- person, more confident, and more alive. By the end of the summer I was able to complete the Wild Half in two hours and thirty minutes. Not too shabby, considering I had been running less than a year.
The abyss will never be a threat to me again. I have running to thank for that peace of mind, as well as the love of my friends and family who helped me through the darkness into the light. My comfort zone has been completely redefined. I find that people smile at me for no reason, which leads me to smile back. When I go somewhere, I know that I will be able to connect with people in my own way, usually through my passion for running and for life, and I will never go back to being that meek, semi-active girl.
While I probably won't do what the main character did in that beloved movie- although never say never, it looked like fun to run from one side of the United States to the other- I will continue my running regime. It feels awesome.
I'm going for a run.
When I was married, I would try to do some kind of exercise for at least 25 minutes every other day, whether it was a walk around the block with the dog, bike riding with the kids, or a desultory run/walk in which I would run for a song, walk for a song, etc. My metabolism cooperated while I was in my twenties, but after my third child it was just a little bit harder to keep those stubborn extra pounds away. Plus, it became a hassle to have to keep asking my ex-husband if I could go exercise. There was always something he had to do first, like take a nap or watch a football game and he didn't want to always be 'babysitting.'
I am still surprised by people I meet who tell me that they exercise when they need to, leaving their children at home with their husbands. Just the thought of that freedom was inconceivable considering what I was dealing with. Needless to say, some of you know how that marriage ended up. It has been almost two years and I am confident, finally, that I am going to be okay. In fact, I know that I am going to be happy, and I am going to feel great, and love life, for many years to come.
Thanks, in a large part, to running.
During the divorce proceedings, in which those invisible yet tenuous bonds between my ex-husband and his perception of reality pushed me closer and closer to the edge of madness, I began to run. At first, during those 5 minute/1 minute sessions which lasted anywhere from 20 minutes to 30 minutes, I found solace in feeling my body begin to come alive again after so long. The sound of my labored breathing and the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement drew me in. Whenever the kids were with their dad, I would go for a run. Eventually, when my oldest was able to, he would offer to watch the little one while I ran.
A thirteen year old was willingly offering what had been denied to me for so long. Ironic.
Then I began to run with my older brother, Bob. He told me about a half marathon in Wild Wood at the end of that summer, and I knew with every cell in my body that I wanted to do it. Training began with a bang, and I had just made it to the five mile mark when injury struck while skiing. It was torture to have to wait so long before I could run again, and I felt the stress and tension from the divorce building. As I was dragged closer to the abyss of negativity, I noticed that I snapped at my kids, bristled at colleagues, and was in general, a bit of a bitch. Once physical therapy began and I was able to run again, though, I felt more able to deal with life. I slowly but surely built myself up to running three miles at a time without stopping, then four, and finally seven. Bob was there to run the longer training runs with me, and for those short periods of time I was able to run further away from the abyss and closer to salvation.
Seven miles turned to ten, and every time I ventured out for a run I would feel that much better. If I doubted my abilities to be a mother, teacher, daughter, I would run it out. If someone hurt my feelings, I would run. If I felt like I needed a boost, I would run.While the residue of the insanity worked its way out of my life, I had my training runs to keep my spirits up and my hope renewed. The feelings that come from running are pretty much indescribable. I had always heard of an endorphin high, but I hadn't realized how that feeling of euphoria would carry over into my everyday life It did, though, with the positive effects of making me a stronger- and nicer- person, more confident, and more alive. By the end of the summer I was able to complete the Wild Half in two hours and thirty minutes. Not too shabby, considering I had been running less than a year.
The abyss will never be a threat to me again. I have running to thank for that peace of mind, as well as the love of my friends and family who helped me through the darkness into the light. My comfort zone has been completely redefined. I find that people smile at me for no reason, which leads me to smile back. When I go somewhere, I know that I will be able to connect with people in my own way, usually through my passion for running and for life, and I will never go back to being that meek, semi-active girl.
While I probably won't do what the main character did in that beloved movie- although never say never, it looked like fun to run from one side of the United States to the other- I will continue my running regime. It feels awesome.
I'm going for a run.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Ice & Ibuprofen
As with all good things in life, there can be some drawbacks, even with running. When you make the decision to become a runner, you will eventually become well-acquainted with sweat, chafed thighs and other body parts, Vaseline between your toes, the need to bring baby wipes, and which kind of power gels you can pop in around mile 7 or 8 that won't upset your running stomach.
The worst part of running, though, are injuries.
When you run, there is no guarantee that you will be injured, so proper injury prevention is key although some bumps and bruises are not entirely the fault of the sport, but the runner's ego. When I began my running journey, I blithely flew through a high school track team stretching regime- which worked until the day I first ran 5 miles straight with my brother. It was a cold December morning, just into our second mile, when I was taken down by a lifted sidewalk. Of course it happened on a busy road in Wayne, and there were at least six cars driving by, but when I was finally able to stand without throwing up from the pain, we decided to keep going. When we were done with the five miles, it was then that I lifted my pant leg and discovered a crater sized gash on my knee. Even my kids flinched at the sight.
Not two weeks later, on our first ski trip of the season, I slid my foot into my boot and actually felt every ligament and tendon in my left shin rip. I was able to ski that day, but running was out of the picture for at least six weeks. I was so disheartened until I finally smartened up and went to physical therapy. Four months later I ran my first half marathon.
Knock on wood, since then I have been relatively lucky with injuries. Normally I will feel fine after a long run with some ibuprofen and a hefty bag of ice on my shins. Recently, however, while running my personal best half marathon with my brother, I felt a burning in my knee around mile 10. Did I stop running then, you might wonder? Ha! That may have been smart. Instead, we huffed and chugged to mile 13.1 and celebrated our excellent time with some high fives and orange Gatorade.
The next day I realized I probably should have walked a bit after feeling that burn at mile 10. However, we novices make mistakes. After an incredibly long week of no running and lots of ice and ibuprofen, I am just getting back into my training routine with no discomfort. Note to self- if it hurts, slow down. If it doesn't: run, Momma, run!
The worst part of running, though, are injuries.
When you run, there is no guarantee that you will be injured, so proper injury prevention is key although some bumps and bruises are not entirely the fault of the sport, but the runner's ego. When I began my running journey, I blithely flew through a high school track team stretching regime- which worked until the day I first ran 5 miles straight with my brother. It was a cold December morning, just into our second mile, when I was taken down by a lifted sidewalk. Of course it happened on a busy road in Wayne, and there were at least six cars driving by, but when I was finally able to stand without throwing up from the pain, we decided to keep going. When we were done with the five miles, it was then that I lifted my pant leg and discovered a crater sized gash on my knee. Even my kids flinched at the sight.
Not two weeks later, on our first ski trip of the season, I slid my foot into my boot and actually felt every ligament and tendon in my left shin rip. I was able to ski that day, but running was out of the picture for at least six weeks. I was so disheartened until I finally smartened up and went to physical therapy. Four months later I ran my first half marathon.
Knock on wood, since then I have been relatively lucky with injuries. Normally I will feel fine after a long run with some ibuprofen and a hefty bag of ice on my shins. Recently, however, while running my personal best half marathon with my brother, I felt a burning in my knee around mile 10. Did I stop running then, you might wonder? Ha! That may have been smart. Instead, we huffed and chugged to mile 13.1 and celebrated our excellent time with some high fives and orange Gatorade.
The next day I realized I probably should have walked a bit after feeling that burn at mile 10. However, we novices make mistakes. After an incredibly long week of no running and lots of ice and ibuprofen, I am just getting back into my training routine with no discomfort. Note to self- if it hurts, slow down. If it doesn't: run, Momma, run!
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