Of John Prescott and Exercise.
I can't think of anything to write.
I can't believe anyone would seriously want to sleep with John Prescott. I know that this is the least politically important feature of 'Black Wednesday', what with all the hospitals and the criminals, but really. John Prescott? I am somewhat incredulous. It's like being passionately drawn to the dog in the Churchill adverts.
I went for a run last night. I have new trainers to run in, and they are very bouncy and springy. I haven't got a new sports bra, yet, without which I wasn't going to start running again. Last night, however, I felt all frustrated and wound up, and I so wanted to go for a run. In the end I cracked, and just put three normal bras on and went anyway. It's trickier to breathe with all the strapping down that has to take place, but it's worth it for the lack of black eyes and knocking out of innocent passers by.
I ran the route that I had intended to do the last time I went running, when I accidentally got lost and found myself pounding the streets of some of the dodgier areas of Brixton. My favourite part, and what has always been my favourite part, is the point when I am nearly home, and I speed up so that I am sprinting. More than sprinting, throwing myself along with adandon and taking longer and longer strides, urging myself on. I love doing that, because I can taste the impending satisfaction of reaching out and touching the front door with the tips of my fingers before bending to hold my knees and suck air in while my heart slows. I also love it because I feel like, at that point in time, I am totally and completely on my own side. I believe in myself totally and wholeheartedly, and for those moments I tell myself I can do it. I have a mantra for the moments that I feel that my body might burst and my heart might rip out of my chest (through the layers of bra, of course). I repeat "come on Léonie", chanting as if I was cheering someone else.
This is something I rarely allow for myself. I am too self-critical to be on my own side, to truly believe and back myself. I have one set of rules for myself and one for everyone else, according to my therapist. She's a professional, she must know. I am cruel and vindictive and callous to myself in a way that I would never dream of being to anyone else.
In this situation, in these moments where I am running my fastest, forcing my body to go harder and be stronger, I am on my own side. If I was telling myself I was weak, useless and powerless I couldn't finish. I would stop and sit. Perhaps cry. I don't do that, though. I tell myself I am strong, that I can do anything and that I have power.
People often say that exercise is good for people with depression and anxiety, and I agree, of course. People, however, often cite the reason as the injection of endorphins that rush through the system.
For me, as well as the endorphin rush, the feeling of being kind and encouraging to myself is so wonderful, because it is so new. I feel it and think simply, oh. This is nice. I feel empowered. I can do this, perhaps.
What 'this' is, exactly, remains to be seen. I know that I will have to work to get it, and I know I will have to change my boundaries and think outside the parameters that I have set for myself. I know I have to be brave and powerful, and it scares me. What, I ask myself constantly, if I am not those things? What if I am weak and pathetic?
I didn't know what to write today, so I started to write about John Prescott and then meandered into a long pontification about What Running Means To Me.
These two are not related, I don't think.
I am going to be brave (read: lazy) and publish this post without reading it through. Spot the typos.