The tears were mostly gone this morning, but my face was swollen up in all sorts of ugly places. As I struggled to recognize the girl in the mirror, yesterday’s ick came flooding back into my mind and the sadness returned.
Thank goodness I had a busy day filled with mindless activity to keep my head out of too much trouble.
I went out for 5 miles, against my will and my desire. It was on the schedule, and I’ve been trying to be committed to the schedule. It was an angry run, I must admit, and it didn’t clear up by the end. My lunch fought its way back up, but I didn’t lose it, thankfully. But I could taste the foul, bitter bile of anger and resentment in my throat and in my mouth as I pressed through the chill and wind in the countryside I usually adore. Today it felt like the enemy with its hands around my throat, and I just wanted to sit down and throw up.
And my whole body is puffed up like a pasta noodle that sat in the water way too long.
I am uncomfortable. I’ve been uncomfortable. And while I keep thinking I’ve found the source of the problem, I really haven’t at all. My body is not my own these days, and neither are my emotions. The Universe controls them like a puppeteer, who, in its infinite wisdom decided that women my age haven’t been through enough pain and torture in our lives and need a dose of some really nasty stuff before we enter our golden years. Thanks. I’m pissed at you, too.
If I knew what would make me feel better, I would do it. A vacation? Maybe. An ultra marathon? Maybe. Going to bed? Yeah, probably.
Wait it out. Is there really any other choice?