Now, granted, the first mile tends to always be a liar and a bit of a struggle but usually after that I get into my groove and am okay.
Lately, though. Oh, man. Lately anything beyond two or two and a half miles is a struggle. As in want to stop and sit down in the middle of the road as soon as I hit that distance and just give up altogether and never run ever again.
I’ve hit a wall.
I know it’s not (and, well, even if it is, that’s why I have an editor) and I know my running isn’t crap either. Friday I was scheduled for four miles and because I was working from home I was able to take advantage of a park near my new place. It was a gorgeous day, a little chilly which was okay because I knew I’d warm up naturally. The first mile was the usual mental game and then I forced myself through two miles. I was ready to quit after that but I knew that if I did then it would just be giving into the self-doubt and encouraging it so I walked most of the second half of the run. At the end, my overall pace was under 18 minutes which, okay, isn’t fabulous but given all the walking I was prepared for something much worse so clearly that first half of the run wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was in the moment.
When I’m not running, when I’m not writing, I feel confident and secure in my abilities. But the moment I actually set out to do, the self-doubt increases exponentially and I feel like a fraud. A phony. A fake.
Some of this — nay, all of this — comes from a place of fear. I know that. Up until now, my identity as a slow runner has been contained to this small corner of the interwebz but in a year, it’s going to be out there for all the world to see.
And what if people don’t like what they see?
I know. Totally dumb question because I’m totally awesome and of course everyone is going to like me. Except, well, of course they aren’t. That’s just the reality of life in general. Not everyone has to like you and that’s okay. But it’s scary to be vulnerable like this, to write about these things, and share it with a wider audience.
I mean, my blog is sort of like a glossy magazine where I for the most part highlight all the good stuff. But I’m writing a memoir. Gotta get all down and dirty. Dig deep.
AND IT IS FUCKING SCARY AS ALL HELL. Writing a book is scary. Putting yourself out there is scary. Readers are fucking scary because they get all judgmental. I should know, I’m a pretty prolific reader myself. Hell, I’d kill for a book like this to read which I think makes it even scarier: I’m my ideal reader and so when I get into that mode of self-doubt I’m just like OMG THIS IS HORRIBLE TRASH AND NOBODY WILL EVER WANT TO READ IT EVER AND I MIGHT AS WELL JUST QUIT RIGHT NOW.
Love from the ashes,