Category: blog

A couple weeks ago, I got fed up with my body feeling sore all the time because I’m not taking better care of it.

I mean, I eat well, I haven’t touched alcohol in almost 11 years, and I take pretty decent walks every day. But my muscle mass still hasn’t recovered from the seizure I had a couple years ago, no matter how regularly I lift weights and do moderate exercise. It’s demoralizing for me, as someone who was relentlessly bullied by my father for being skinny, picked on my kids at school for being uncoordinated, who always felt like he wasn’t enough.

If anyone is wondering how badly mistreating a child affects them, wondering how long the pain and the fear and the confusion and the sadness lasts, how it all persists regardless of how much success you have in your life, I’m almost 54. So.

Anyway. I woke up about two weeks ago, and everything hurt: my hips, my shoulders, the spot in my upper back where one of my vertebrae rotated during my seizure and stayed that way for five months. And just to spice things up, a raging headache.

I was, like, “hey, good thing I quit drinking so I never woke up feeling hungover again.”

I’m big on gallows humor.

When I get that physical pain, which isn’t clinically chronic pain, but is practically the same for me, it’s depressing. It’s infuriating. It makes me want to scream. I’m impatient, I’m irritable, and I do not like the person I am.

I dragged myself out of bed, counted that as a victory, and started my day. Coffee, granola, another coffee, my fiber because I’m punk as fuck, a long and considered moment in front of the Chemex as I talk myself out of the third coffee I know will be Officially Too Much Coffee For Wil.

While I was not having too much coffee (water, instead, because I’m a goddamn adult), I began looking at couch to 5K plans. I last did that in 2017 (my best time was 29:59) and I loved it. It really helped when I was living my life as a sober person for the first time, losing the bloat and unhealthy bleh that years of abuse had inflicted upon my body. It was pretty great, watching my body shed not just pounds but a lot of trauma and self-harm as I got stronger and felt more and more like I wasn’t a worthless piece of shit (I was never a worthless piece of shit, to be clear; Depression Lies and trauma is a bitch). When I finally did my race, and I pushed myself like hell for the last few hundred meters to get under 30 minutes, I felt like a warrior. Like, Worf would have been so massively proud of me.

I felt so good, so solid and present in my life, that it was absolutely devastating when I hurt myself one day (hurt my Old, if I’m being technical about it) while I was out, and had to limp home. It was, like, step, step, step, PAIN. My calf cramped up, and before I knew it, it ran up my hamstring and down into the bottom of my foot. I still don’t know how it happened, but I can remember what happened next. This was a over a year before I did weekly EMDR and CPTSD recovery work, so I had not yet handled my lingering anger … and I was fucking enraged. I was so furious that this thing I love, this thing that was helping me reclaim my body and my spirit from literal decades of pain and abuse and motherfucking functional alcoholism was stolen from me, literally yanked out from underneath my feet, while I was in the middle doing it. I didn’t do anything wrong, I thought, and I still got hurt. Jesus fuck, could that be more on the nose?

The incandescent anger I felt, the sense of being betrayed by my own body, the futility of doing anything because some fucking bullshit always fucks it up anyway and it’s never going to get any better … that was a lot.

But I didn’t give up right away. I did my best to work out the injury with massage and other forms of exercise. I just couldn’t get whatever I had injured to tell me what it needed, and neither could the doctors I saw about it. Eventually, I just resigned myself to never running again.

Then my friend, Jenna, who is just two years younger than me, started running marathons. I have lost count but I think it’s got to be close to 50 now? At first, I was envious, then I was inspired, but I was always afraid to take the risk and start again. Sure, it had been a couple years since I hurt myself, and I had done a massive amount of recovery and healing work. I worked on how angry I felt when I confronted my trauma, until I didn’t feel angry anymore. I reparented myself, and lived every day making a conscious effort to be the adult I always needed.

Yadda yadda yadda I got better. I am better. I still have bad days (this year has been so hard, with so much loss and grief), and I get through them. I have good days, even great days, and I don’t take them for granted.

So when I woke up a couple weeks ago and my everything hurt, and I went through my morning routine, I made a promise to myself to get serious about regular, moderate exercise. The big hurdle for me was feeling like I am worth it. After all these years, after all the therapy and all the work, I still struggle to put myself first, to take really good care of myself because there are people who love me who will be really sad if I don’t. (I’m working on being one of those people, but it’s still a struggle more often than it should be.)

I looked at half a dozen plans, and saw the things they all had in common. I deliberately chose the easiest, slowest, you-haven’t-done-shit-in-years plan, set the intervals in my watch, walked out the door, and got started.

My first week of training was so fun! I started out doing 30 seconds of jogging and a minute of walking, for 20 minutes. The first day was easy and fun. The second day, the first half block felt like I was running through molasses before I broke free and settled in. I discovered that Keep Me Fed, by The Warning, was a fantastic companion album for my session. The rest of the week was an absolute joy. I felt accomplished and excited.

I was out for my first run in week two, doing 60 seconds of jogging and 90 walking, almost finished with my penultimate interval. I turned down my street. Step, step, step, PAIN. The exact same thing that happened before.

Are you fucking kidding me? What the actual fuck, Wil’s Body?

I stopped. I breathed. I grabbed a nearby pole and gently stretched my calves and hamstrings. I massaged my leg. Nothing worked. I limped home.

I was so incredibly disappointed, so bummed out, but I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t enraged. I wasn’t mad at myself or the incredible unfairness of this bullshit, all over again. I just limped home, took off my shoes, used the foam roller, and then I sat down and cried.

I cried because I miss Marlowe.

I cried because my body hurt.

I cried because it’s so unfair to do everything right and still my dad doesn’t love me.

I cried because I’m just so totally exhausted by the cruelty and the violence that could have been avoided.

I just cried and cried, as all this grief poured out of me.

None of it made my leg get better, but it was cathartic. And I was grateful for it, because choosing to experience grief instead of avoiding it with anger was a big time goal, something I worked really hard to accomplish.

When I was done, my body still hurt, but my emotional self felt okay. Sure, I was disappointed, but I didn’t get mad about something that wasn’t going to change because I was mad. I spared myself from that experience, and I’m proud of myself for doing it.

I accepted that I wasn’t going to be able to run for at least a week. I took long walks instead, occasionally stopping to do some squats for strength and mobility. I did gentle exercises inside at home, not because I wanted to experience a change in my appearance, but because I felt better, emotionally as well as physically, when I was done. I invested maybe half an hour a day, and it paid off at like 5:1.

Today, I woke up (saw, again, that it still hasn’t happened), ate my breakfast, and asked my body how it was doing. Every department checked in with a green flag, except for my injured leg, which was like “I’m about 96% there, I think.” So I decided to attempt a very gentle rehab walk/jog, just once around the block.

I started Recipe For Hate, walked to warm up, and then did little intervals — very gently — around the block. One lap in, it was a little achy, but didn’t feel like it was going to cramp up again. So I went for another lap, then another, then another. I ended up doing about 20 minutes, just jogging and walking when it felt right.

And when I got home, I felt like a champion. I felt like I’d done something good for my body that I have to live in, and for the me that lives in it.

I have to go back to the beginning, I think, but that’s fine. I don’t have a race on my calendar, and this isn’t a contest or anything. It’s something more special and meaningful to me than that, and I’m really proud of myself for having the ability to understand and embrace that.

I’m worth it. You’re worth it. Whatever your Couch to 5K is, I know you can do it. I believe in me, and I believe in you.

Thanks for stopping by.

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I’m so glad you’re here. If this is your first visit and you’d like to get my posts in your inbox, here’s the thingy:

Fourteen years ago, Anne and I went to Pasadena Humane Society to see some of the construction our fundraising supported. While we were there, we chatted with Kevin, who was our adoption coordinator for our dog, Seamus.

Seamus had been part of our pack for about a year, and we were talking with Kevin about how much we loved him, what an incredible dog he was, and how happy and grateful we were to have met and adopted him.

I remember saying, “I don’t think I will ever have another dog who isn’t a pittie. He is so sweet, and affectionate, and so gentle, and …” I stopped because I saw a volunteer walking a puppy toward us. She was tiny and underweight, but she had the biggest smile. I knelt down to meet her, and she did a somersault into my lap, wagging her tail so fast I couldn’t see it.

“Well, they are just like this!” I concluded. Then I loved on that puppy until Anne gently told me it was time to let her walk into the shelter.

I was completely in love with her, that fast. She reached into my heart and never left. The next day, it was Anne’s birthday. We went down to the beach for a long walk, as is tradition. We were approaching the Manhattan Beach pier when I said, “I just need to confirm with you that we are not adding another dog to our pack, because I can’t stop thinking about that puppy.”

Anne told me that she didn’t pet her, because she knew that she’d fall in love, too, if she did. I don’t recall what we said to each other, but Anne called PHS and asked them to put us on a waiting list to adopt her.

A few days later, Marlowe came home with us, and she was my baby girl for over a decade. Even when she was an old lady, she was my little girl.

Just over a month ago, we found out Marlowe had lymphoma. It was so aggressive, it moved so quickly, we couldn’t stop it. We did everything we could for her, but we had to say goodbye to her last month.

I miss her so much, my heart hurts. It’s been a month, and I still look for her everywhere in the house. I’ll be okay, and then something will remind me of her and I am sobbing in a heap on the floor.

This is the first time in my life I have experienced this kind of grief, this kind of loss. When we lost Seamus, at least Marlowe was here for both of us while we grieved (and we were here for her, when she grieved). Now there’s just a big empty house and my broken heart.

I will miss her forever, my sweet little girl.