February 29, 2016 by scratchtype1
and I don’t even know where to start or how to begin.
It’s often proposed that writing can be a catharsis. That running can be so too. I can give you running some, it’s helping right now to keep me moving and not dwindling into a small point of despair that can’t do anything.
But I’ve also come to wonder if maybe writing isn’t cathartic for me. Sure, maybe for others it works, but for me that act of writing is stressful. Trying to find the words and symbols that most closely resemble the thoughts that exist underneath the language and words we use. I often feel like I fail at that endeavor. Often. Like every time. And perhaps that’s why I find it hard to write prolifically or consistently. It hurts. It just fucking hurts a lot of the time.
My mom died last week.
I’ve kept the running streak going. I ran 8.4 miles on Thursday morning, around 10 hours after she passed away in the hospital, where I was the lone family member there to witness her last weak breath, the last flicker of pixels on on a screen showing that the weakened and dying heart had finally given up. No more ghost in the machine. No more. Her blue eyes were open to the ceiling but she was seeing nothing.
Oh I was so inadequate.
She knew I ran a lot, but I had never told her about how I was doing a runstreak. I was waiting until I reached a year with it. She died on run streak day 318.
It seems already so long ago and yet not.
I’m a terrible and slow griever. I don’t know how many miles it’ll take until my heart knits back together again.