Last night was the first full night of sleep I’ve gotten since Saturday. Why was I so tired? I tortured myself. I pushed myself too hard on the treadmill as soon as I got home, doubling my usual jog speed and running twice as far. I thought I was having a heart attack, so I stopped it there. And then started with push-ups and crunches… with my heart pounding so hard in my chest that my vision was blurry and there was an ocean of sweat on my floor.
I felt fucking alive. Sure, I also felt like I was about to die. What can make you feel more alive than ever than facing your own mortality? When I couldn’t lift myself up one more time, I collapsed onto the floor and rolled onto my back, and laughed. And panted. And laughed. And threw up. And laughed even harder.
Looking back, it was stupid. I could’ve hurt myself. Maybe I wanted to. I don’t really know what thoughts lurk in the darkest places of my mind. (Ok, I know them better than anyone, but I’m not going to write about them. Those are mine and mine alone.) Stupid or not, it was exactly what I needed. Shutdown. Reboot. Laugh about it.
This morning, my entire body is sore. I can barely lift my coffee (From the evil empire of Starbucks) to my mouth without my arm shaking. The soreness serves as a reminder to my patient depression, “Go ahead and surface again, bub. I’ll beat your ass back down just as hard next time.”
So today I am happy. And a little scared of myself. In a fun way.