Perhaps unsurprisingly, I am thinking about frogs today.
And not just Kermit, but we’ll get to him. (Always.)
No, I am mostly and vainly thinking of myself for the past nearly seven months. I’ve been saying for a long time that I feel like I’ve been having a months-long panic attack that began on Monday December 17. Because it did and I am. A few weeks at the tail end of 2019 changed my entire life in ways I am still discovering and understanding, and here we are, a breath away from July and what is different?
Am I okay yet? I’m supposed to be okay by now, right?
As I walked in pursuit of iced coffee (again, always) this morning, I said to my mother on the phone, “For the past seven months, I’ve been a sad little frog on a log.”
And I really have been. And I think I’ve given myself the space I needed to really lean into my sad frogginess. I’ve cried, I’ve drunk too much red wine, I’ve shouted at Dead Poet’s Society, I’ve taken so many depression-naps to the oddly soothing backdrop of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.
I listened to sad songs and I wrote about you in my diary and I ate a lot of cookies and I don’t actually know if I’m “okay,” but maybe I’m “ready,” and maybe that’s enough.
Because, honestly, I still feel like a sad little frog. I’m gonna need more time before I am a happy frog. But where I am not okay, again, I think I am perhaps READY. Ready to hop back into the swamp and try and try again. To fight for happiness, because maybe I am not trash, whatever else has happened.
(I was not wrong. This soft animal of my amphibian-body has loved what it has loved and there is not enough lemon pound cake in the world to stuff those feelings all the way down.)
(I was not wrong.)
The first thing I’m letting myself hope will actually happen in this Brave New World of ours is in January. And I know. A lot could go wrong by then. Who knows? But, if you follow this blog, you know that I’m a big ol’ sucker for a runDisney race and I just needed some hope.
If I am very, very fortunate, I get to run my first full marathon in January of 2021.
I am excited. I am terrified. I am already tired.
Training starts tomorrow.
I’ve had seven months to be a sad little frog on a log, but tomorrow I hop. Tomorrow I move and groove and celebrate my body’s potential. Tomorrow I hope and dream and imagine again. Tomorrow I think of a future wherein I am happy and sweaty and so very proud of myself.
So, I’m tiptoeing off of my log. And I’m packing lighter than I have been.
I need the room to breathe.
Cummings instead of Whitman this time, forgive me, dearest:
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
(I still have the space for that, I promise.)
Tonight I will be a sad little frog on a log. I will wipe popcorn oil onto my not-yoga’ed-in yoga pants and I will cry here in the dark. I will let Detectives Benson and Stabler sing me to sleep.
Tomorrow I lace my shoes back up and try and try again.