As weeks pass into months and life settles into a very normal steady state I can’t help but look around. My habits and survival tactics are no longer pivotal and necessary. I have nothing to run from, nothing to tease out of my scull and onto a page. The drive is gone. It feels empty. It feels lonely. This place of health is different. It is a strange new landscape. Sure it is without pain and suffering. For that I am so very grateful. Should I be bothered that some of what shaped my life is now missing? should I just go along and not look back? Leave this blog and all those countless pounding miles of pavement behind me? There is this absence of any drive really, not just those main ones. My life before was about creating a way to muddle along. To distract myself and of course to dull the pain. Now that isn’t necessary. What I am left with is empty hours with no crippling anxiety. No looping endless ruminations and countless visits from thoughts of death. I guess I miss my normal. That had become my normal. Those panicked elopements onto the roads in search of some sanity. The desperate typing in an attempt to sum up and understand what swirled within me. As I sat home tonight rather than going to polo it struck me that I really have changed. Is this me? Is this a new me forged of chemicals? I guess I am in mourning of sorts. I have lost a huge part of me. Some might say why? Why not run, why not write everyday? When there is no drive, no push no nothing it is not that easy. I push myself out the door and continue to run but nowhere near what I was putting in at the peak of my misery. Just as my writing has dwindled to an occasional blog here and there. Often there were days in the past when blog posts piled up like cord wood just waiting for me to hit publish. I could not get home from session fast enough to get the words out of my head. My runs would be consumed with sentences. they are blank now.
I’m just struggling a bit in my brave new world and I kind of hate that I am.