This is a post of a previously written work a lot of you may already be familar with. If we have not been properly introduced: My name is Audrey. I am broken. For your reading pleasure. Enjoy.
[If you truly want to get to know yourself, train for a marathon]
“Only seven miles,” I said to myself as I checked my training schedule for the next day before setting my alarm. Not only has seven miles become a “short” run, but I have also become one of those “disgusting” people who works out at 5am and then goes to work. And I love it. There is something so amazingly inspiring about rolling out of bed to walk The Marley Dog and then strapping on my running shoes and hitting the gym. Charlotte is dark and quiet and the small, clean skyline rises up in the crisp, damp air of the early morning. Even in my groggy state I can appreciate the stillness. I find my treadmill. I like the ones that are between the televisions and face the windows instead of the walls. I steal glances at the local news but my main focus is on the shadows outside cast by passing cars, and the steadiness of the coming day; the blueness that forms out of the stars and black, and the music that streams from my ipod. I like lyrics. And a good beat. Give me anything with strings and I’ll melt: cello, violin, mandolin, acoustic guitar. If my life were a movie the soundtrack would feature Ryan Adams, Josh Rouse, Red House Painters…These are what I run to. I save the hip-hop and the rap music for the dance floor. And in the last month I have compiled a play-list of worship music that lifts me out of those pre-coffee hazes. My morning runs have become a quiet time of sorts. A little conversation before I head into my day. My anxiousness and hurriedness is slowly being replaced by a calmness that I thought would always remain a quality I could admire but never possess. I no longer fight back tears on my way into work and the ticking clock of the forty-hour workweek is muffled by the hysterical laughter of my co-workers and myself. I laugh hard at least once a day. This is a miracle in itself. God is good. And He has the most ridiculous sense of humor. I am convinced.
So I belt out lyrics in my head (at least I hope they are only in my head…that could be really interesting for the neighboring runners) and I pose questions and wrestle answers and sometimes I find myself returning from somewhere else. My mind has wondered off, I’m not quite sure when it happened, but there are miles on the machine and minutes have ticked by, and best of all there is a lightness in my chest. Through the panting and pounding of my heart, there is a lightness that I haven’t felt in an exorbitant amount of time. And it’s in these waves that I burst out laughing or bust into tears because I can see so clearly where I have come from, what I have stepped out of and I am in such great anticipation of what waits over the next great rise.
Training for this race is one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life.
I run. I have been running since I was little. Cops and robbers with the neighborhood kids, 800 and mile relay in middle school, soccer and lacrosse in high school; I have run races and trails and blocks and bridges, but I don’t claim to be “a runner.” I realized this at the beginning of my training after a lot of defensive posturing about the fact that I know I don’t look like a runner, but that I am fully capable. Defending myself against someone who had only offered an experienced suggestion. I had something to prove. I always have something to prove. I had initially set out to run the half-marathon. Something I have done before and although it was difficult, I knew I could do again. I don’t like doing things I’m not good at. And I had all but convinced myself that there was no way my knees could hold up to a brutal 26.2 mile beating. A marathon was simply out of the question; I gave up before I even started. But my pride got the best of me again. I couldn’t sit back and watch Staci and Tanner try something new while I played it safe. I am too competitive. So I copied down their running schedule and posted it by my bedroom door to keep track of my progress. I love lists and things I can cross off and this chart quickly became a source of pride, something to tally my achievements, 8.5 x 11 inches of self-worth and value. The first three weeks were wonderful. But it wasn’t long before my nice little schedule became a suffocating trap. If I woke too late to fit in my run I was devastated, not just disappointed. I was a failure before my feet even hit the floor. And what started as a fun trip to Nashville became a daily chore that had to be done in order to cross it off the list. I promised myself this wouldn’t happen. But it did. I made three promises to myself before I started this adventure.
1. I will stay healthy. Eat well and eat enough.
2. If it stops being fun: STOP!
3. I will ONLY do it for myself.
From past experience, I thought this first promise would be the hardest. I’ve wrestled with self-image and disordered eating for as long as I can remember. My mother and younger sister were always very thin and what I considered to be beautiful; slender arms, lean legs, the sharp angle of the collarbone; Natalie Portman, Keira Knightly. I didn’t measure up. And I have done horrible things to myself and thought vicious thoughts because I didn’t know until this past winter that they had been sick. I sat in the back of my mother’s car next to one of my closest friends as we drove home from Chinatown. Philadelphia’s industry lit up the sky making the black fade to a pinkish-brown as it blanketed the skyscrapers. I read billboards along the highway and faded in and out of the conversation carried on in the front seat. My sister said I was too skinny. That she was worried about me. And I laughed because my perception of myself is still misguided. Too skinny might actually be a compliment. She said I was starting to look like she did when she was in high school. When she only ate carrots and bowls of water with a spoon. And how she had stopped eating lunches in the fifth grade because some boy called her fat. And my mom chain-smoked and mainlined coffee to keep up the energy she needed to take care of the two of us. And she hardly ate. And I grew up thinking I was fat and that if I looked like the dancers my father dated maybe he wouldn’t have left. Maybe I would be good enough to spend time with. And I learned how to fly under the radar. I knew every fat gram in every item on the grocery store shelves. I starved myself just enough to feel accomplished, but not enough to draw attention. I was, however, saved from being a bulimic. I have a fear of throwing up and this strange phobia may well have saved my life. But I exercised all hours of the day. And somehow not showing the symptoms of the typical anorexic or bulimic allowed me to continue on with my crazy habits for years. In college my lack of food was combined with insomnia. Late night baking became a wonderful hobby. I could stay up all night making cookies, sleep for two hours, run ten miles, take all my goodies to work with me, and no one was the wiser. People ask a lot less questions about your weight when you’re always carrying around baked goods. It was the perfect cover. Except it wasn’t covering anything. My weight was never stable. And my weight was directly proportional to my happiness. But the Lord is delivering me from these destructive thoughts. My controlling nature has always been more focused on my surroundings (cleaning & organizing) than on my physical appearance. And although my OCD tendencies have caused me physical pain they have not done the kind of long-term damage a full-blown eating disorder could have ravaged. But I am not free, yet. These thoughts still have the power to creep in. Last winter I was forced to give up running for four months. My life had unraveled a bit too much for my comfort, and in an attempt to hold things together I literally ran myself into the ground. Avoidance. Control. In my arrogance I told God that I would die if I couldn’t run anymore. So He took my knees. I went from running six miles a day to hobbling around my apartment. Every step was excruciating. Even hurrying across the street was an impossibility. He took my knees, so I wouldn’t take my life. My life is one remarkable circumstance after another. I attempt to throw myself in front of every self-destructive bus that happens by, but the Lord’s arms are wrapped around me and guide me to safety again and again.
I can’t explain it any other way.
So I was forced to find new ways to cope. Running was my stress reliever and not being able to run was really stressing me out: the vicious cycle. But I took the new time I had freed up to delve into the lives of a few girls I had met when I first came to Charlotte. And I shared my story and they matched my history and calmed my fears and soothed my struggles with phrases like “I understand” and “you’re not alone.” And I realized I wasn’t. I have gathered the hearts of so many young women who share these similar hurts. Whose brokenness has crippled huge aspects of their lives. And there is such a comfort in knowing my fears are not unique.I love these bruised, damaged, self-deprecating, sad, women. I love them. Because I am one. And I can grow to love myself through loving them. I can have my wounds healed by accepting theirs. I have wasted so much energy loving people who don’t know what to do with this gift before them. And I have been disappointed again and again. And used and unappreciated. But these women are accepting and giving. They pour out love to me. And acceptance. There is strength in numbers. I am giving these fears names. And many claim them, and somehow that makes my burden less heavy. I am not in this alone. I am not alone.
And I stand here today, one month from the starting line and I am healthy. I am not free, yet. That gift still lies ahead. But I am able to walk away from the mirror when I feel my thoughts turning downward. And I remind myself that every step is a testament to how far I have come. I ran 18 miles on Friday. The longest distance I have ever run. And I did it with strong muscles and a good night’s rest, a healthy breakfast, and a long conversation with the Lord.
My second and third promises are interrelated. If I lose sight of why I am running this race, it wont be fun anymore. It started as a challenge to myself to see what I was capable of, to expand the little box that I draw myself into on a daily basis; to raise awareness and funding for people with disabilities and to encourage others to challenge themselves physically, emotionally, and spiritually. The running has been difficult but the real challenge has come from battling my strongholds. The negative ideas I have taught myself to believe over the years. When you are physically exhausted it makes it extremely difficult to be emotionally sound and you have to call on your spirituality to rescue you from yourself. Last Saturday I found myself in Kelly’s room completely overcome by defeat. We had spent the morning cleaning apartments and I was tired and cold and the weather forecast was calling for rain, but I hadn’t run yet. “Tell me it’s okay to wait ‘til tomorrow?” I pleaded with Kelly. “Tell me it’s okay that I rest and wait for warmer weather?” And she assured me it was fine. But it wasn’t. I wasn’t fine. Staci and Tanner had already run and they were back and showered and on with their day; two smiling, friendly reminders that I completely suck at life. I was done. I was ready to throw in the towel. My knees ached. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt “not-tired.” And sixteen miles lay in the wings. But I sat in Kelly’s room and took a deep breath and talked myself off the ledge. I apologized to Kelly for my freak-out. And I apologized to myself for creating unnecessary pressure. I am so inspired by the athletes that I will be running along side of. Cyclists, runners, tri-athletes, Ironmen: but I forget that these are not my competition…these are my teammates. And it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things how I finish, or even that I do. But I haven’t fully realized that. I can repeat it to myself again and again, but I still have this wash of disappointment come over me when I think of the race; the fact that I will probably have to walk a bit and the trivial embarrassment I will feel when people ask me what my time was. I haven’t even left the gate and I am already anticipating a poor finish. Preparing myself for the disappointment.
I was sitting in devotion the next morning and the Lord told me to confess my fear. I had sixteen miles sitting on my shoulders and it was ruining my Sunday morning. And the girls were encouraging and they prayed for me and Jo pulled me aside as we walked to the lobby. She was frustrated with me. I could see it on her face. And she grabbed me and made sure I was listening. “You have nothing to prove, “ she said. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.” And I couldn’t help but smile, and tear up because she had read me so well. It’s embarrassing that I am so transparent. But it’s how I have felt most of my life.
I procrastinated as best I could, but eventually found my way to the park. Just show up: That’s as good a way as any to start something. So that’s what I did. I had the “where” and the “when,” I was a little fuzzy on the “why” part but the elusive “how” was nowhere to be found. Just start running. It’s only four miles to the end of the trail…run to the end of the trail. So I did. And when I got there I turned around and ran back. And I did this the entire stretch. I ran four miles, four times. I had tricked myself. I had found a way around the intimidating numbers and broken it down into something more familiar. The sun was shining and it was warm, but not hot, and I thought about how grateful I was that I had waited until that moment to run. Music buzzed in my ears and Jo’s words rang out between the verse and chorus. “You have nothing to prove.” And I spiraled. My thoughts spun out and settled on two images: ten year old Audrey with her face pressed against her bedroom window, watching her father’s Honda civic diminish in the horizon, and the final meeting of Matt Damon and Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting. “It’s not your fault,” Williams told Damon. “I know,” Damon responded. “It’s not your fault.”
It’s not my fault. I have nothing to prove. It has taken twenty odd years to come to that conclusion. My dad left. And I am textbook. You could read off a list and place a check in every box, and I thought, for some reason, that recognizing the problem would somehow make it go away. But it doesn’t. It just makes me angry that my actions are so predictable and sad that so many others share in the struggles of being left behind. My dad left and I have blamed myself and I have spent my entire life trying to prove my worth to someone who wasn’t even looking. I am exhausted from all the emotional calisthenics. It’s a dangerous thing to place your worth and value in another. And although the Lord has promised to never leave me nor forsake me, my earthly father has taught me that I am unlovable and abandonable. And I struggle daily with placing my trust in Christ. I want to believe His promises. But I’m not quite there. He is my last hope. If He fails me, I have NOTHING. And I will not be able to bounce back from that one. So I cling to whatever illusion of control I can. And the Good Will Hunting scene plays over and over in my head and I wait for the moment when my fear gives way and I am set free. And I finally understand and believe that it is not my fault; that I have nothing to prove, that I am “stronger than I think.” And the Lord continues to deliver me daily; moment to moment. And I am learning to forgive myself. To find a bit of grace for the women I have grown into. And I pray three things:
1) Into marvelous light I’m running. Out of darkness out of shame. By the cross You are the truth You are the light You are the way. I once was Fatherless. A stranger with no hope. Your kindness wakened me. Wakened me from my sleep. Your love it beckons deeply. A call to come and die. By grace now I will come and take this life, take your life. Sin hath lost its power. Death hath lost its sting. From the grave You’ve risen victoriously.
–Marvelous Light :: Charlie Hall
2) Heal my heart and make it clean. Open up my eyes to the things unseen. Show me how to love like You have loved me. Break my heart for what breaks Yours. Everything I am for Your kingdom’s cause.
–Hossana :: Hillsong
3) My heart and my soul I give You control. Consume me from the inside out, Lord. Let justice and praise become my embrace to love You from the inside out. Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades. Never ending, Your glory goes beyond all things. And the cry of my heart is to bring You praise. From the inside out, my soul cries out to You.
-From the Inside Out :: Hillsong
I think this is the hardest point in my life, yet. But I can say with confidence that I have never been happier. I feel like I am in this accelerated canal system, the emotional waters rising and falling with the closing and opening of the locks. I’m bobbing along in the current, but I’m afloat and that’s more than I can say for many times in my life. And I am looking forward to where this journey is taking me. Be careful when you ask God to show up in your life. You had better mean it…cause He tends not to mess around. Nashville, Maine, the Wild-West…I’ve got big adventures ahead of me and nothing to prove to anyone.
{Kapow!!!!!}
I just kicked Satan in the Junk.
Since the time of this original work I have completed the marathon. 26.2 under the belt! YeeHaw! And I continue to be encouraged by fellow runners like Ann Mak, who as a member of Team in Training, is gearing up for the Kiawa Island Marathon in December. Katie Rosenberg will also be supporting Team in Training through the Nike Women's Marathon in SanFrancisco this October. Lauren Kaiser will also be strutting her stuff in Kiawa as she kicks some tail in the half marathon. And my mom (the woman who swore she would never be able to run an entire mile) is signing up for her very first 5K. Ladies and gentlemen...give these girls a round of applause. And donations too!Ann Mak:
http://pages.teamintraining.org/nc/kiawah08/amak
Katie Rosenberg:
http://pages.teamintraining.org/md/nikesf08/krosenberg
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