So, I had a panic attack in the parking lot of the Big Peach Running Co. today.
I felt it bubbling all day, grinding and scraping away at my bones, my stomach lining, my fucking scalp. I feel so fucking angry. I want to cry, punch someone, and drink a milkshake, order negotiable.
So, I cried. I cried and sucked in wobbly breaths and steadied myself so I could go the fuck inside and pick up my race packet for tomorrow morning’s Pride 5k.
I’m not proud of fucking anything today.
I don’t know what to wear tomorrow. I haven’t run since the pandemic started, since my 2021 Disney marathon was cancelled. I have barely shimmied across the Earth on my belly. I feel frozen, I feel like I am dying.
None of my running clothes fit anymore. I completed half-marathons once upon a time and today I own no running shorts that I can successfully tug up over my ass. And I was too intimidated by the nice things at Big Peach, despite my 15% off as a race participant.
So, I went to fucking Target and I parked like trash and I bought two new sports bras because I don’t know which one (if either) will fit over these breasts that I resent more and more with each passing day.
I hate them; these lumps of fat and tissue on my chest. I HATE THEM. Just like I hated every human who called me “ma’am” at the coffee shop this morning, just like I hate anyone who has fucking looked at me today. I am not who I want to be, so don’t fucking look at me.
I’m sitting at my second job, clacking away and trying not to cry again and I just want everyone to leave me the fuck alone, but also I desperately want someone to stumble across me, see what’s wrong, and figure out what to say to fix it.
I’m donating blood in 13 minutes and good. Take it away from me. Lessen me, prick me, bleed me, make me dizzy enough that I pass out and I am allowed to go the fuck home, until I am allowed to be a coward and cancel on walking in the rain tomorrow morning, hating myself for not running. Carve me up and bake me into bread and feed me to the fucking ducks and leave me the fuck alone.
(Please don’t. Ducks shouldn’t eat bread.)
My knees hurt and my shorts don’t fit and I just want to sleep.
But I am trying to have something like hope, even if I can only approach it from a place of spite, so I guess I’ll get the fuck up and be really bad at this 5k tomorrow morning.
And then, maybe, I’ll cut my grieving, heartsick body a fucking break and take it out for brunch.