Bridezilla Bakes

So, my knee… is busted. I’m not totally sure what’s wrong with it — but there is definitely something wrong. It means that I’m not running right now. Even worse… it may mean that I won’t run for a while. I might not be able to run my 10 mile race in May, which was going to be my my first race ever.

Needless to say, I am incredibly disappointed. I’m disappointed by the thought of missing the race. I’m disappointed that a huge part of my life is on hold, and I’m made anxious by the threat of it disappearing from my life altogether. I’m disappointed to the point of anger at the fact that my body seems to be rebelling, and that there is nothing I can do about it. It just won’t move the way it used to, the way I thought it was made to move.

Even worse than the disappointment, though, is the discovery of something ugly, some germ of judgment, a poisonous worldview that had remained, up until this point, hidden in the middle of my other, more mundane motives for running.

When it began to dawn on me that I was seriously injured and that I’d most likely have to take time off of running, I panicked. Absolutely panicked. I run for pleasure, for stress relief, to get myself out of doors for a few minutes a day. These are good reasons to run. I also run to keep myself in shape — a normal, mostly benign motive. The loss of these outlets is a big thing, I know — but surely not a big enough loss to explain a total tailspin. What is behind this total no-running meltdown?

It’s embarrassing. I’m seriously considering not describing this, because it’s just hard to face. But the minute I started examining — even on a surface level — the characteristics of my meltdown, it was immediately apparent that the freak-out had almost nothing to do with the loss of a hobby. Being a runner — yes, a long, lean runner, with a runner’s body — had wormed its way into the core of my identity, and started eating away at the other parts.

Let’s cut to the chase (ha ha, running joke). I like the sense of control over my body that running gives me. Not really in the healthy sense (“What a fantastic feeling it is to tell my body to move, and it moves… I am woman, hear me roar!”) but in the sick, unhealthy sense: “If I run 5 miles, write two emails to friends, and work extra hard today, then I’m a good person. AND, everyone will know it, because I’ll be known as skinny, a good friend, and advancing in my career.”

Gross.

When faced with a possible running hiatus, my thoughts — my panicky, self-serving thoughts — had almost nothing to do with grieving the loss of sunshine, relaxation, or stress relief. They ran in two directions: 1) If I don’t run, what will I use to feel good about myself? and 2) What if I get fat and out of shape — then everyone will judge me. Just like I judge everybody else.

Gross, yuck, I hope nobody ever reads this page.

Ready for what’s even worse? I have always known that this is how I felt about my running! Always! I’ve been running for five years, and it’s been propping up my self image for 4.99 of those years! I just never addressed this terrible, ugly, bottom-of-my-heart problem because, well… it’s a heart problem. No one can tell it’s there. I’m way too busy dealing with the outside — staying thin, looking kind, making sure everyone knows how smart I am — to give a crap about the inside ugliness.

Seriously, this is one page that may never see the light of day. It’s so awful to recognize this within myself! And, per usual, I have almost no thoughts as to what can be done about this problem. I’m obviously devastated and repenting — what an ugly scar to find in one of my deepest parts — but I’ll have to keep you posted on what changes come out of this realization. For now, I’m throwing it out there… and throwing myself at God’s feet, and asking Him to change me.