Lacing up my running shoes for the first time in over ten years was daunting. I knew that the first run was going to be an incredibly humbling experience.
I walked most of it, and I ended up crying. Not a painful ‘I twisted my ankle’ sort of cry, but a lethargic release of pent up emotions. From that moment on, I knew I was a runner. I just wasn’t the same sort of runner I used to be.
Running
The first day of sixth grade turned out to be a test of my social standing before I even left the house that morning. I was already nervous as hell. A new school, new expectations, dressing for gym, locker combinations, how will I ever make it through the day?!
Wham! It hit me hard in the face. Many of my elementary school friends came to middle school that day wearing cheerleading uniforms. I was in shock.
I was at the neighborhood pool with them everyday that summer. Why did nobody tell me they were trying out for the squad? I didn’t even know you had to plan ahead and try out during the summer.
I vowed that day to be a cheerleader next year. I wanted desperately to be a part of that group, my old friends. Needless to say, I was devastated when I didn’t make the team.
I remember crying in the back seat of my mom’s faux wood panelled minivan. I simply wasn’t good enough. I would never be one of the popular kids. I would forever be relegated to the unpopular table. I internalized that story.
In seventh grade I joined the track team instead. No one got cut from the track team.
I wanted to be a part of a team, but I also enjoyed the solo aspect of it. No one was relying on me to make the catch, like when I played little league softball, or hit the mark in line with the other girls during dance class.
There wasn’t a really a uniform, which I called costumes to my brother’s dismay. I didn’t have to wear blue eyeshadow or tights. It was just me and a pair of tennis shoes. Now that, I could do.
I quickly realized that sprinting was not my forté. I was a distance runner. Much like the story of the turtle and the hare, I couldn’t go very fast, but I could run for a long period of time once I found my stride.
I wouldn’t say that I was a very good runner. I was usually the last one on my team to cross the finish line, jealous of the people who were faster and stronger than me. But I kept running for a few more years.
Rebelling
I hated school, all of it. My days were filled with bullying, harassment, and sexual assault. I kept my head down. I did my work, made decent grades. I checked all the boxes. None of it mattered to anyone, and none of it made me happy.
It all continued throughout high school. I joined the Cross Country team, where again, no one got turned away. We were a small group of girls, to whom I never really felt connected.
Friendships had been formed before I joined, and I became the outlier yet again. I was drowning in the feeling that I would never belong, that I wasn’t worthy of anything more than mediocre.
I found my worth in giving away my everything to please others. I thought if I tried hard enough that someone would love me back. Sometimes they did. But we were so young, and it was all wrong. I did the only thing that I knew how, I ran away.
At the age of 17 I was renting an apartment with my fiancé, whom I never ended up marrying. I drove myself to school everyday, because I must check that high school graduation box off the list. I also started college, held down a full time job, paid rent, and completed an internship at the museum from where my dad retired years before.
I did all the right things. I did everything that they told me to do. I should be happy. And yet again, I wasn’t.
I wanted so desperately to be a good girl. Those are the words I have been reciting in my head since childhood. I kept trying to be all of the things that I was supposed to be. After a while, I stopped being able to discern which version of me was the real me and which version was the made up character that I created out of everything that I was told.
I was just going through the day-to-day motions, not really caring. I mean, I had goals. I was definitely going to finish college. (I have got to check that box off, right?) Restaurants were an easy way to work around my school schedule, and the money was pretty decent there for a while. I told my advisor that I intended to be an event coordinator.
Well, my internship killed that dream pretty quickly. The job was nothing like what I expected, and I cannot under any circumstances sit in a cubicle all day. And that is about all I learned there.
Shutting Down
So here I am, a 23-year-old college graduate with a degree that I don’t really want (or need?) and crushed spirits. At this point I had also recently broken it off with the fiancé (That story should be a whole other post.), and I had started dating my now husband.
I fell back on the only other thing that I knew how to do. I dove headfirst into the restaurant industry. I quickly went from cocktail waitress to bartender. And a new dream began to form. I could run a restaurant.
I was groomed for this. I soon quit one restaurant, and moved to another for an even better opportunity (and bonus: no uniforms!). I climbed the ladder to the number 2 position, the owner being numero uno bosslady.
Then another dream formed. I could own a restaurant. Shit! I could own this restaurant.
The logical side of me was all for it. This is what I know. Owning is the next logical step forward. My emotional side said, “absofuckinglutely not!”
I started having panic attacks that would wake me out of a dead sleep at all hours of the night. My anxiety was at an all time high. It got to the point where I was taking half a Xanax as soon as I woke up in the morning.
I also stopped having a filter at work. I said whatever thought popped into my head (not always the smartest move when you rely on tips for a living). I no longer cared.
The kicker for me was when I started yelling at Ben. That’s when I knew something had to change. That’s when I knew that I couldn’t go down this path any further.
I wanted to run so bad. I wanted to flee, to escape, to run away. If I ran enough, than my problems would never be able to catch up to me. I could burn these bridges, just like the ones before. It would hurt, but it’s a pain that I am familiar with.
My habitual ways of escape and avoidance seemed to work really well for me as a child. However, my problems never really went away. I couldn’t outrun them. In fact, they multiplied. That’s the moment I shut down.
In truth, I was too tired. I was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. I was drained. My body was telling me to sit with it all, and I had no choice but to comply.
XOXO – Jenna
