I have loose rubber chicken arms and legs now — where fat once was, and muscle hasn’t quite grown in to replace it.
But maybe the mirror at the Great Wolf Lodge is the problem. The one at home has me flexing and dancing in front of it like I’m on stage at a bodybuilding competition.
I’m not worried. Just a bit vain.
I’m still feeling the after-vapors from last night’s dream. In it, I’d cheated on Dave. Or had I? I woke up tangled in that internal debate — guilt, insecurity were all-eclipsing — like I’d woke up in a jacket too heavy for the season.
Usually, guilt pushes me to action. To confess. To get the priest’s absolution.
But in this case, there’s nowhere to go.
That’s something I’ve been getting from daily outside running. When I’m out there, it’s like a blazing fire. All the wonky, wiry, knotted thoughts and feelings get burned up and purified. The sky of my mind clears. Things make sense.
I got to see an upturned armadillo — deader than dead on the side of the road. I stopped and took its photo. An odd thing to want. But I felt grateful for the up-close shot. I’ve passed several before while driving, but the pace and business of life never allowed the pause.
Running gives me a pause.
I crave that. Not the dead armadillo part. The feeling of being powerful. Strong. Capable. The clean feedback loop of effort and payoff. I move my body; my body responds. I show up; I feel better.
I haven’t found another feedback loop quite like it.
And that’s how I know the addiction is catching hold. I want to be out there, not here.
Today is a break day. A forced recovery day. Not because I really want it — but because that snowstorm in the Northeast shifted our southern warmth for a day or two. So I’m staying inside. I’ll have to make do with tucking a float under my arm and climbing the stairs to the waterslides as a consolation prize.
Still, the guilt lingers.
It feels like a hangover — subtle, in the backdrop — but tugging at my eyes in sadness. It isn’t attached to the present. It’s old. It belongs to other versions of me.
Maybe what unsettles me most is not the dream, but the absence of a ritual to cleanse it. No miles to log. No confession to make. No punishment to endure. Just me, sitting with it.
The times I fell short. Way short.
The times I believed the only path forward after being irresponsible or hurtful was self-bullying. I thought the responsible thing to do was to demoralize myself before anyone else could. To point the finger first. To say, “See? I know. I’m awful.”
Even though I was already wrecked.
As if I weren’t already feeling like shit, I’d pile more on. I believed shame was the currency of growth.
That makes me sad now.
For how long I was stuck in that loop — not knowing I wasn’t bad or worthless. Just sick. Just overwhelmed. Just needing support and love.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 