Run Like Hell

I cashed a check last week.

A check that supposedly reflected what the past two years of my life were worth.

Two years ago, I was attacked by a dog; I’m only just now able to really talk about it.

I’ve alluded to it. I’ve mentioned ‘something that happened” when explaining why certain routines and thought processes changed. But I couldn’t bring myself to sit and write this, even for myself, because writing something means reliving something, and for two years, I wasn’t ready for that.

I’m not going to get into the numbers of the settlement except to say it’s never enough when what gets taken from you isn’t something you can put a price on. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up a bit.

A few years ago, as I’ve written about elsewhere, I had re-embarked on a fitness journey (God, I hate that term, but here we are), based basically on defiance of everything I thought I knew.

Instead of counting points or choking down processed ‘diet’ foods, I focused on whole foods. Instead of running to burn off as many calories as possible, I started treating it as a form of meditation.

A chance to get out of my own head before the day had a chance to sneak in there first.

Here’s what you should understand about what that routine meant to me, and why losing it was such a kick in my ass: my life at the time was, to put it charitably, a lot.  

We had taken two young children in after their father had unexpectedly died from an overdose, and their mother needed to get help for herself.

One of those children was the hardest person I have ever tried to love, and I do mean tried.

At the same time, I was figuring out the nuances of raising a teenage boy (which, if you haven’t done that, is its own particular sort of chaos) and through it all, a custody situation that became the most emotionally and financially taxing experience of my adult life.

It dragged on. And on. And fucking on.

We were bleeding money and sleep and goodwill with no end in sight.

Running was what kept me able to keep on with that fight.

I would drop one of the kids at school each day, a child who did NOT want to be walked to school, did not want to be where she was, did not really want much of anything I had to offer (which was its own sort of fun to deal with) before I would take off on a morning run.

I would lose myself in the rhythm of my feet slapping the pavement to the beat of whatever was on my playlist. The miles put space between me and the emotions brought on by another morning full of passive-aggression.

I would feel like a badass when sweat was pouring off of me, and my hair stuck to my neck. I’d almost feel like a superhero when the wind hit just right, and my hair would banner out behind me while I raced at top speed (which, in actuality, was more like a desperate trot).

It didn’t matter; it was working.

The stress of it all was real and unrelenting, but running became my release valve, keeping me sane during an insane time.

Until that morning.

Not to sound like a Karen, but my city is riddled with irresponsible pet owners. I’m not on the neighborhood social media pages bitching about them, but I don’t disagree with the valid complaints. 

One morning, I was out on one of those runs when a dog being walked suddenly lunged at me from behind and sank its teeth deep into my thigh.

I later learned this was not a one-off incident involving that animal.

I was taken to the hospital. Photographed, wound cleaned, given shots, the whole undignified production. The puncture wounds and bruising were deep enough that I couldn’t sit or even walk properly, much less run.

And yeah, I know how that sounds. A damn dog bite. You heal, you bitch a little, you move on.

But.

There’s a particular type of psychological…I don’t want to call it damage, but it's definitely an impact that comes from being hurt by something you were never, ever afraid of before.

I’ve never been afraid of dogs in my life. I own one, and she’s not a small one, either.  

But when something ‘unthinkable’ happens, you can't assume that it couldn't happen to you again.

It’s the same thing that happened a few years ago: a stranger followed me for miles in traffic before trying to run me off the road. At first, you think you’re imagining things, then you realize with a cold panic that you are most definitely not.

From that moment, you become someone who constantly checks your review mirror; to this day, when someone follows me for more than two turns, I get a little twitchy.

But I have to drive – I don’t have a choice, so I deal with it. But nobody has to go running outside.  

The first time I tried, I saw every dog in my vicinity as a potential threat, so I had to find an alternative outlet.

I tried the treadmill. That sucks. If you’ve run outside and then are relegated to a treadmill, then you get it. I was slogging miles in a basement, surrounded by storage boxes and unused furniture (that I have no way to get rid of without my husband noticing).

It’s like replacing a window with a painting of a window and being told it’s basically the same thing.

I tried the track at the gym. It was always packed, and again, the sensory experience sucked. Fluorescent lights, crammed lanes, no fresh air…blech.

Unable to de-stress the way I wanted, I developed insomnia. And the stress just kept adding up.

Desperate and stubborn, I created a new workaround: I started running before 5 a.m., when the neighborhood was empty and mostly asleep. It was just me and the dark and the cold and four miles of laps around the same block, over and over.

I convinced myself it was a new level of ‘badassery’ to get my miles in while the world slept. And for a short time, that got me by.

But soon it was winter in Wisconsin, and my fifty-year-old ass is not built for subzero 'badassery' at four in the morning.

Something had to give.

Last year, I surpassed my health goal: fifty pounds by age fifty. I lost 63. And to be honest about how, it wasn’t just the miles I walked and ran.

For the first time in my life, I understood it was mostly a mental game. And once I started treating fitness like it was something I was doing for myself instead of to myself, things changed almost dramatically.

Running was a huge part of that, so when it came to a halt that day, it felt like a loss of something I consider part of my identity.

And for two years, I couldn't really talk about it. I adapted and ran in the cold and dark, telling myself it was actually better this way - that I was tougher for it, that I was okay, and okay was enough to keep going.

Right up until I burned out a few months ago.

Yeah, extreme pressure doesn't always create diamonds. Sometimes it just grinds you down until you can't move anymore.

And even then, you still tell yourself to just get over it and keep going.

"Resilience", right?

But here I am now. Check cashed, and the settlement…well, settled. Meanwhile, the dog and his owner still walk the same neighborhood streets I do.

It's like nothing ever happened, yet I have achieved boss-level hypervigilance every time I go out.

And I am supposed to be at peace with this.

I am not at peace with this.

But I'm trying to get back to running at "normal hours". Trying to stop treating anything less than four or five miles before dawn as failure. And trying to accept that strength training might actually be better for me at this stage of life.

Some days go better than others. All-or-nothing thinking is hard to let go of when 'moving on' isn't nearly as satisfying as all the motivational crap promised.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go look up something called a "skull crusher" for tomorrow’s workout.

Forgive me if I don’t find that inspiring just yet.

Heather Papovich is the voice behind Unfinished Business. She's seen some things. She'll tell you about them.