running: a love affair.

I was forced to run for sports in high school---which I hated. I went to a (not the right one for my creative, shy self) private school that was all about the jocks.

"Get out there and run 3-5 miles today LSD," coach said, clapping his hands.

3-5 MILES? LSD? What? Freshman kids with little to no running experience.

LSD = Long. Slow. Distance.

And yes, for three to five miles. Without stopping.

Sounded like hell. And, for me, at the tender age of 13, a kid who had never even run a mile without stopping, it was pretty much that. I will say that all that running was very helpful later---out on the field while I got whacked in the shin, arms, back of legs, by much older, stronger, meaner girls. At least I could run---fast and far away from their whacking sticks---for long periods without getting winded.

But then I left that (mean, jock, rich brat) private school. And you know what I signed up for back at public school? Junior year. Age 16. Yep: Cross-country. What was I thinking?

I don't know.

What I couldn't understand was how some short chick could run faster than me. How did she do that? The mini greyhound against the Weimeraner. Built for speed while I was built for...what?...grace? Eh. I'll take it. Grace isn't so bad.

The endorphins were better than some other recreational activities at that time in my life, I'll say that.

At 19, I was running on Martha's Vineyard in the dry town of Vineyard Haven. Running at sunset by the harbor, through town, and up and down the narrow, winding streets. Running was my drug of choice. Has been for many years. It's a love/hate relationship, one that I abandon at times but always return to.

It wasn't until I faced a deep, dark depression at the age of 21 that I realized that running, and its effects, had the ability to not just transform my brain chemistry here and there and make my body tighter, stronger and better, but it had, well, the ability to save my life. I'd fallen down the rabbit hole. Way, way down it. I couldn't see up anymore. I was trapped down there, sleeping all day, not eating. I'd lost my sense of humor entirely. Nothing made me happy anymore.

The psychiatrist said it wasn't clinical. It was situational. I'd gone through a rough patch. Not only was I working in a smoke-filled office with no windows in the dead of winter, I was living with an abusive drunk who put holes in the walls when angry. And I didn't drink at all. So, one night, around 4AM, I went back to my parents. And curled up in a tiny ball and tried to disappear. It was my mother who woke me up one afternoon---after many, many days of sleeping around the clock with the two black cats---who handed me The "Cindy Crawford Workout Video" and told me she was going out for a few hours and that when she got back she wanted me to tell her I'd done this tape.

I did the tape. It was weight training stuff. I did it for a few weeks every day. And then, one day, I looked outside at the flat, treelined road outside my parents' house. It called to me. I went to it. And I ran. This was all way before that movie Forrest Gump. Run, Jess, run became me. I lost all body fat, I sweated like a mad man, my quads grew into lovely, muscular machines that made me feel, for once, kind of powerful. All alone, in the days before iPods, I ran. And I cleared out my mind. And my heart got stronger. And everything else got better.

A little fairytale of sorts.

It's funny because, just recently, I went through something painful again. Really painful actually. And instead of curling up into a ball and trying to melt into the fabric of a couch, I started running again. I'd had a bit of hiatus. Too long. It's strange how you can forget what works while you're looking for another outlet, outside yourself, to fill in the pain like so many cottonballs in your ear, silence it, dull it, numb it, make it go away. But there is a better way. And that's to fight the pain with pain. Because running is no easy feat. Especially when you've just come off the longest pity party you've ever thrown. A pity party on a couch with a laptop and a resume asking the world "love me, hire me."

Pity party: over.

Blood flowing warmth pumping in my veins at 8.0 on the treadmill: yes.

It's been 21 years since my love affair began. We've broken up a bunch of times. But we always get back together. Ah, running. I love you. Even though you annoy me.