The last drink I had was on January 14 2010 and if I am being completely transparent (and why not be honest, the cat’s outta the bag) it was more like 18 drinks…near as I could count. I had a farewell party to myself.
The next day and the days and weeks that followed were filled with discomforts that I never want to relive and that I never want to forget. Forgetting would be disrespectful. Detoxing was hard on my mind and my body. I am afraid if I minimize the torment I felt, I risk pouring that first drink that will send me spiralling back into the world of lager and ale.
So, I remember, I respect and I run. It has been working.
When I run, it’s usually full speed ahead, just shy of what should be a 5 or 10k race pace. I like the punishment; it keeps me in the moment, so I won’t forget how far I have come. My mind understands that running so hard, so often is one of the reasons that I go from one injury to the next, but the part of me that needs punishment goes out too fast every time no matter what common sense would dictate.
Another part of me craves performance success, and that’s why I push so hard. It’s as if constant improvement, seen by posting decent and faster times might prove that I am good at something other than emptying wine bottles. I need to prove that I can still do something with the bit of running talent I had at one time. I am driven to prove that I can do more with running than just “running” a tab. I have squandered much time, money and talent and none of it can be retrieved but the time, money and talent I have left are going to be spent on running harder, faster and longer.
So from where I stand in these running shoes, punishment and vindication through pounding the pavement are what keep me on the straight and narrow.