Runners, to your marks...

I am a runner.

Not a jogger or one who runs for general fitness, but a person who thrives on the competition involved in pushing my body to its physical limits.

The smell of cut grass brings me back to cross country races, losing myself in the back woods or far greens of golf courses filled with the sacred privacy and silence of my effort, hearing my feet and my breath in tandem, pushing me toward the roaring crowd in the distance. Seeing a track washes me with magic, remembering the precise race plans and split times, rounding curves feeling free and unchained, pressing against everything that screams to stop, and finding intense satisfaction in the effort of it all.

I miss running the half mile the most. A beautiful race; four 200 meter splits with four distinct sensations - a distance that is perhaps the most painful and difficult of them all. There is no pacing at high levels of competition; the race is a long sprint, a test of guts and stamina, and a challenge because the entire time your focus is on "hanging on." It's a rush, a dance, and an art.

The first 200 meters are for flying. No thinking, just lifting your legs, rounding the first curve, and cutting in to the inside of the track to "settle" into the race. The first 200 is always the fastest. Afterward, most runners settle into a sustainable pace and finish out their race. But for me, the second 200 meters is the most interesting part.

Imagine: running the back stretch of a track, the race having just begun, and your competitors have fallen into order. At 200 meters, with that order established, the pace slows a bit and the sprint becomes a bit monotonous.

Enter the art. If we create our own realities, then we don't have to follow any rules. We don't have to settle into the established order. We can shatter it. So, lifting my legs and pretending like the rest of the race is only that second 200 meter split, I surge. Rounding the second curve with naive and insensible speed, and finishing the first half of the race with some ridiculous split time that seems unsustainable and insensible.

Then comes the third section: where guts are the most important. You want to die, your muscle fibers are screaming for you to let up and stop, and instead you take your mind and bend reality again. HANG IN. My dad always used to yell to me, "Hang tough, Lee..." Even now, I can see his face, his hat and sunglasses, and hear him against the chain link fence screaming for me to be courageous. Hang on. Hang on. Because even though you feel like you can't do it anymore, the beautiful thing is that you can.

The last 200 meters are almost thoughtless. It's the end, the adrenaline pushes, and once the back curve is rounded, the home stretch becomes the goal. You lift your chest, lead with your heart, and cross the line hoping that you have held nothing back; that you have spent every iota of energy you can summon on that track under your feet. It is exhilarating and exciting, sometimes full of victory and sometimes full of disappointment and failure. But the feeling of of track, and your rubbery legs walking off of it, are filled with life and purpose and meaning.

Somewhere along the line, the beauty and art of my racing became obligatory and painful. Expectations developed about how fast I could run and what I could accomplish. My mind was filled with ideas about what I needed to do to be "good enough," and in the end I spent all of my time trying desperately to prevent failure. Instead of flying, I focused on "not falling." I was so scared that every race - each and every training run - felt threatening to the very sense of self I had established. I was filled with fear.

And yet, I pushed on. I kept running, and kept holding tightly to the feeling of freedom the sport had once brought me. I kept thinking that if I just tried hard enough, I could get that freedom back. I tried so hard that running became a prison and a punishment - a continual reminder of my failing to love that which once brought me life.

Onto today. I sit here, writing alone, while my best friends in the world are running a half marathon and supporting one another in the endeavor. I am here, in Santa Cruz, California, wanting nothing more than to be washed again with the energy of race day. But because I am sick, I am not allowed to run. And, because my brain is so easily distorted and twisted, I've made the decision to avoid the race entirely. Even going as a spectator could trigger something inside me that might trip me up. I am gaining strength, but not yet strong enough to enter the arena that used to so engulf my spirit. Even now that I am miles away from the racing area, I can feel the energy of it all: the finish flags and nervous stretches and concentration filled with hope and fear and challenge. I want to be there.

But I am also feeling something of a release. It hurts. I want nothing more than to be there - but having permission to stay away is also freeing. I want to love competitive running again, but so much of it has been filled with pain and tears and frustration. I still love the idea of it; but the truth is, is causes me a great amount of pain.

So maybe, what I am feeling now is grief. Deep, wide grief. I am grieving the loss of love and freedom that I once found in running - and angry that I have not been able to reach the life-giving energy that competition used to bring me. I have been trying for so long to find that freedom again, and staying away from the race today feels like a grand surrender. Maybe it is too hard. Maybe instead of trying to force it to be freeing, I need to surrender. What once was life-giving is not any longer; I cannot hold onto the past. Despite my gut reaction to "fix it," and keep suffering until I find that freedom again, I am taking my sail out of the wind to avoid getting carried away.

And this grief goes even more deeply. Until last Friday, I had assumed that once I am better - eating regularly and not purging - I would start running and racing again. It is something that I still enjoy (despite the complicated mix of pain that comes with it), and it is something in which I find intense meaning and success. But in my therapy session on Friday, I had the realization that I may never be able to safely be a "competitive" runner again. It will be weeks - maybe months - before I am allowed to run at all. And my therapist on Friday said that it is highly unlikely that competitive running will ever be a healthy thing for me to do.

I have been holding onto hope that one day, I will find the same freedom I used to in the pounding of pavement and pushing physical boundaries. I keep running in pursuit of that freedom - I want it back. And I've been assuming that once I quiet ED's voice, that freedom will be easy to find again. I have dreams of running marathons and winning races and opening my stride with ease and grace. I want to get better to find that freedom again. I want to get better so that I can fly again - and the closest I've felt to flying is in the beauty of sport.

What if I can't? What if I can't return to that freedom, and have to spend my life avoiding the addictive competitive situations that still make my heart race and feel so fulfilling? What if the thing that once brought me freedom, will now forever be something that takes hold of my mind and threatens my health?

It feels unfair. I like running. I have experienced moderate success. Even now, I'm curious about the winning times from today's races. I want to know what the winning time is - I ran 45:27 last summer in a 10K. If I had run this morning, could I have won? I want to know.

But why do I feel like I need to know? I'm curious, but is it because I enjoy the sport or because I need to compare myself to the runners today? Is it because I feel like I am only worthy when I can be successful?

I don't know that times from today; but I just researched last year's Santa Cruz 10K results. If I had run my last 10K time, I would've placed 10th overall and 4th in my age group. Not bad for a race with over 1100 runners, huh? I feel a sick sense of pride right now, but it's a pride that makes me feel safe because I know I could have been successful.

Maybe I won't be able to run safely again. Maybe my brain has been too twisted, and to keep myself healthy I'll need to avoid races and environments where I can base my worth on my ability to outdo others and "stand out" in some important way.

The realization is creating a well of emotion in my soul. I am saddened and filled with intense grief and emptiness; but I also have this visceral sense of release and freedom. If I don't have the opportunity to compare my worth to others based on my ability to outrun them, then I don't have to fear that I will fail and be unworthy.

But what, then, will make me worthwhile? If my worth isn't based on what I do - or what I can accomplish - what will provide meaning in my life? I don't know if the question terrifies me or brings me a sense of freedom and peace... Who am I if not a runner? If not an achiever? If not someone who has the guts to hang on? Where will my mark be, my starting place, and what is it that I'm trying to achieve? Where will I find the freedom and flight that I once found on the track? Who am I without any of this?

An overwhelming and scary question, indeed. Runners, to your marks. People of the world, to your marks. Leah, to your mark. Ready. Set. Go. But to where? And for what?