Steady As She Goes

Every once in a while my body betrays me. I imagine that I am free from the cage that once held me. I imagine that there are no limits to hold me, contain me. I imagine, for a moment, that I have escaped Daedalus-like, the prison of physical self.

This is a mistake. In many ways it is a mistake.

To think of your body as your enemy and captor is wrong-minded. It should never be a contender for your sense of self--lap band or no. One of the many mistakes I have made in the last three years, well, the last 28 years is to think of my body and my lap band as something I must fight. I even went so far as to name my lap band "Freddy" after Freddy Krueger for the havoc and dream invading nightmare qualities I felt it created for me sometimes. But "Freddy" is really an alarm bell for me--one I didn't seem to have naturally (something else I blamed my body for).

But it's not just Freddy I think of as an enemy. For me, most recently, it's also a matter of my own jumble of weaknesses and physical dailies. This last spring I was finally given an opportunity to do something I had dreamed of doing, quietly dreamed of doing, for a long time. I ran a half-marathon. Let me repeat--I RAN a half-marathon. That's 13 miles in two hours, forty-seven minutes, and 30 seconds (give or take a few). For me, preparing for the half-marathon and running the half-marathon were a test of something much deeper than my legs, though they too felt the lesson. That much time alone with your own brain and a body you have never trusted works out a few things.

I cursed, I cried, I labored, and I lied: "Please God, let this be the end and I will never eat ice cream again."

But more important I began to remember, remembering rising like dough over the last few months, that my body should never be my enemy. The things my mind and my body are capable of together are amazing.

In the last few months, I've struggled with my own weaknesses again in different aspects of my health and body. It's infuriating to escape the chains a burdensome physical self only to discover you're tethered by some other means. I haven't been able to run in three months, almost to the day. It chafed and felt like some cruel joke. Beyond not being able to run, it meant my sense of control over my body was completely gone.

And isn't this the real problem? There are things in this world that we, that I, cannot control. There are things we shouldn't try to dominate. My mistake has been that I want to command my physical self and my world when I should be asking myself why my body is demanding so much from me of late.

If you fly too close to the sun, your wings melt. You fall into the ocean. If you fly to low, the waves catch you and you can't get high enough to escape them. When my body "fights" me, it is trying to tell me something. Heal. Think. Be mindful. Remember. My body hasn't betrayed me; my mind has betrayed my body.

In ran most of the half-marathon by myself, utterly alone, and without even a single other runner to pace me. Except, I didn't. For each second my mind fluttered closer to quitting and closer to pushing myself too hard, my skin and bones and muscle and nerves reminded me--steady as she goes.