Self-preservation kicks in on the brutal burn of a dry, painful throat, threatening tears and the unwelcome sense that setback could conquer yet again. It's the self-preservation that breathes in ragged whispers of drowning agony but moves through the torment, numb almost. Scarred, wounded, but ignoring the spasms of throbbing, aching emotion just for the moving. Just for the forward motion to be anywhere but buried alive in helplessness.
Self checks into auto-pilot, fingers running along the edges of familiar, abysmal territory. Flipping the switch of the internal motor still warm and heated from the friction of want, electricity and the vestiges of what had been hope. Lights flashing on as the machine that would give solace in pounding, physical energy, fuels the thoughts which would spur action - daring, telling, firing the bullets of determination; re-building walls and bent thereafter on shoring up the power to never to be scorched again.
Single-minded purpose closes out all else in a tunnel vision bent solely on survival, protection and the resolute, unwavering power of oblivion. No more conscious feeling. Back into the pursuit of unbreakable being; an untouchable fortress wherein no person or circumstance could breach, raise, or abandon one more time. Roaring calm. The machine balks under the gate of strides that become longer and faster, sweat running, dripping and mingling with tears in blinding frustration and yet demanding absolution and resilience.
Cannot lose. Will not lose. No pain. No pain. No pain. Running, running, running. The flexing of muscles and mind breathing in and forcing the beat of all yearning into complete and total submission, until the end of the session is marked by rapid breath and total exhaustion. It is over. It is enough. She has released the fury, the fear, the anxiety and the need to control all of it.
Bled dry but all the better for it.
Emotion burned up in the fuel of activity, fostering stubborn certitude, while fractured particles of spirit mix in the blackened dust of the running belt, left far behind in the cumulative distance of blinking numbers on a display screen of stationary traction. Illuminating almost what could be the comic hilarity of a human treadmill and the cycles of worry, failure, consequence and pain.
Knowing even still...
That she will rise another day because heritage and courage demand it and will not relent or accept anything less than continuing on doggedly through. Defeat, perhaps. But not defining. Even if she will never be the same.
Because she is better. So much better. Powerful. Wise. Seeing. Sightless, but clear all the same.
For in her heart she knows with a surety; she knows no obstacles, no threats, no vices, no darkness, and will not ever entertain conversations filled with can't. She will, because she was born to. And whether life winds in the manner she expects or changes on a dime in inexplicable surprise, she will greet it with a zest and verve, hope and rebellious passion. For it isn't in the trying; it isn't in will-power; it isn't in the stops and starts, the disappointments or successes. It isn't in taking a deeper breath and re-launching. No, after one last play with the fires of expectation and denial, she gets it.
She has let go and let God. Finally. And it is beautiful.
XO,
Becca
- Living Joy - This Carman Girl
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