After several false starts, this is my first week of trying to actually train again. I've settled on a similar pattern to when I was training for Copthorne as it's what fits best around life although it does mean two or three double days of a run and strength work. I'm shattered already, but can't tell if that's because of post-covid fatigue or whether it's that normal shock to the system you get when you start structured training again after a break. I guess I'll have to see how things go and adjust what I do as needed. But three days this week I've had to go to bed before 8.30pm because I've been so horrendously tired.
A tendinopathy in my right arm has been making it really hard getting back to strength training but at long last (4 months and counting) it has eased enough to make some lifting possible although using a full range of movement in my shoulder is painful still. I've missed lifting as much as I have missed running- feeling strong has become so important to me- and in my first runs post-covid I couldn't even run with good form because of the muscle wastage. But I've returned to the exercises I did to get strong for my first Autumn 100 and although they are making me sore and feel much, much harder than I think they should, they will get me back on track eventually.
There's a LOT of life stuff happening too, much of which is not for here. But I am still very much struggling with the grieving process over the not-fella. I inadvertently stumbled on something the other day that has really knocked me back. It's not something I wanted to hear and certainly not the manner in which I'd like to have found out. Copthorne gave me the illusion of coping better than I was. In fact, I didn't need to cope when I was training for that race because it took over my life and emotional stuff just got shoved to one side as there was no time or energy spare. But when you do that, it always comes back at you- stuff needs processing and resolving before it will sit relatively peacefully in a corner of your brain and heart.
I remember reading something, an irunfar article I think, about the dangers of 'running from' and I think I've written about it too. Running can be a much needed source of respite, but it's not healthy to use it to escape things that need acknowledging. My local trails will always be full of ghosts, so many spots where I can recall specific conversations we had as we ran past, where I remember a smile or the particular rhythm of feet. Some days I can run with those ghosts and that is better than a year ago, but other days the sense of loss is still so strong that I have to stop, try to breathe, calm the horrible knots in my stomach. Sometimes the physical response to loss still overwhelms me. But at least by acknowledging it, learning to run and live with it rather than trying to erase it all, there's the chance of healing.
Amongst all of this I am trying to embrace life, to welcome new opportunities, the chance to feel loved and alive. I'm pretty bad at it so far, every step I take towards the light it feels like two steps back again and I am so tired of the struggle to keep going. But I've never been one to quit even when every fibre of me is screaming for it all to stop.
Anyway, we might be moving house soon. And I can't quit when, hopefully, we're about to have a house where no one can tell us to leave, and I'm finally about to get a room of my own.
