You know those times in life when there is just way too much going on and you begin to question if you’re able to handle anything at all? I don’t mean externally; too many people to see, too many things to do. I mean internally; too many emotions to process, too much weight on your body coming from somewhere you can’t see or pinpoint directly, if even at all. Those moments when you find yourself gasping for air or praying for something to give. For just an inch of space to open so that you might be able to breathe, to steady yourself and get a grip on things.
I always imagine these times are like when I was little and thought that playing on my parent’s treadmill was fun. It occupied my mind and it was an interesting machine to use. I remember loving how I could control the speed and change it whenever I wanted. When I increased the speed, I had to move faster. When I slowed it down, I could stop. It was all in my control.
There were times on that treadmill that I would pump the speed up to an amount that excited me. Would I be able to keep up? Who knows! Up one notch and then another, I would feel my adrenaline pumping and I knew that my favorite part was coming up. The part where my legs were moving far too fast, almost machine-like, just before I pulled the safety plug out and stopped the mechanism entirely. I would push myself to a place where I knew it either had to stop or an explosion of chaos would occur. In the moment just before I would lose control and fly off, I would shut it down. Just like that. From speed to silence in only a moment.
Sometimes life feels like that treadmill, only I’m no longer in control. It feels like the speed goes up without warning. Faster and faster, I begin to panic. Can I handle it? It’s much less exciting and a lot scarier when you’re not the one with the safety cord brushing against your fingertips. It’s much more uncomfortable and overwhelming when you can’t control the speed but you still have to run because you can’t get off. Not without falling. Not without hurting yourself.
My life has been an out of control treadmill recently. I found a brief pocket of peace last winter and rode it as far as it would take me. I was safe, comfortable, and stable. My life was easy and predictable, quiet and void of any deep emotions or connection. I was numb but I told myself I was healing. Maybe I was. Maybe I needed the numbness, the quiet and the space to find equilibrium once more. But when I was ready to step out of that bubble, life hit me like a freight train.
At first it was exciting! Spring was here and I was reborn. I was finally vaccinated against Covid-19 and for the first time in over a year, I felt freedom and I felt alive. Little did I know that embracing the spring I felt blooming within my body meant stepping into an extremely dark and harrowing journey. It meant hopping on a treadmill that I did not have one ounce of control over. Because I had no idea what I was entering into, I began to run.
At first the pace was easy. A brisk walk, my lungs were expanding and my heart was beating loudly once more. It felt like how I imagine it must feel for a big grizzly bear to leave its hibernation and run in an open field for the first time since the beginning of winter. It felt refreshing and it felt good.
Then the speed picked up. I felt excited and raw, like I was free falling into a cloud! My business was booming and my dreams were finally showing up. My social calendar was jam packed and I began to greet the world in a very confident, energetic way. Sometimes I feel like I became a brief extrovert and to be honest, it was kind of nice to expand out into the world in a way I never have before. It felt powerful and that power called for more speed.
My legs were moving fast. Too fast for me to question if I could do it, so I just kept moving. I let my muscles take over and I cruised. At first it felt good but then it began to take too much. Too much breath, too many heartbeats, too much movement. I was ready for the speed to drop but it never did, so I kept running. Only now, there were cramps. Aches. Trouble breathing. The freedom I felt was slowly turning to fear. The confidence I had in my grasp was floating away, just out of reach.
I began to doubt if I could take it. I doubted my legs, my feet, my muscles. I doubted my belief in self and the more I doubted myself, the more my feet began to trip. At first it was just a fumble but the fumble gave way to falling. The handles on the sides of the machine allowed me to keep up and get my feet back on the ground. But eventually those handles began to disintegrate.
I suddenly found myself reaching for something that was no longer there. Without those handles, I was sure to go down and it wasn’t going to be pretty. I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I wanted that emergency plug to be pulled. For the machine to come to a standstill and for my legs to just get a break. Even if it was only for 5 seconds, I needed that break. I was constantly praying for that break but it never came.
So I ran and I stumbled and I ran and I stumbled. At first I tried to make it look like I was stumbling on purpose. In my mind there was an audience and this audience was full of harsh critics sitting in their comfortable seats. The fear of their shameful judgements fueled me for a bit, keeping me going. I was surely going down but maybe if I ran hard enough before falling, no one would hold it against me.
My mind was convinced that I could keep going but my legs were ready to admit that I couldn’t do it anymore. Since I wouldn’t allow myself to fall, my body fell for me. It crashed to the ground and was thrown off of the moving floor in a violent, painful way. Bones cracked and muscles strained as the hard ground caught my weak and tender body. I had finally found stillness. I had finally pulled my own emergency cord.
Of course, this is only a metaphor. There was no single moment where my body gave out and crashed, but rather weeks and weeks of my body crashing and my mind chastising it for not being able to keep up. There were many days -and nights- spent lifeless on the couch. Hours of mindless tv and social media scrolling. Days on end of isolation and solitude. A harsh sentence for such an inevitable crime. I was punishing myself for falling.
You see, I was always going to fall. That’s what happens when life controls the speed AND the emergency cord. Falling becomes our only way out. Hitting our breaking point becomes our only way to hit the ground and bounce back. But I didn’t bounce back. I sunk into a deep depression where some days, taking out the garbage or making food for myself was impossible. I began to rely on take out and my safe spot on my couch to keep me alive.
The treadmill was still moving full speed but I was lying on the ground next to it, motionless. Lifeless. Breathless. My body was still yet the world of weight spinning on top of me was beginning to crush me. I had fallen and I could not get back up.
I’m not here to tell you some brave story about how I got back up despite how difficult it was. I didn’t. I still haven’t. I am still lying on that cold floor next to the manic movements of that machine. But for the first time in my entire life, I gave myself permission to break. This life is not easy or simple. In no reality will I get to control the speed or the emergency stopping of my journey. But I can thrust my body to the side and fall to the ground. I can choose to stop running and I can give myself a break. I can give myself room to breathe, even if those critics in the stands glare at me and scribble on their notepads with their own egotistical amusement.
Not everyone can stop. Not everyone has the support, the resources, or the room to stop. For some, stopping means dying. It means losing their safety and their lives. I am grateful that I was able to throw myself off of that treadmill and just stop for a while. I am grateful that I have friends and family who came and laid next to me on that floor. They combed my hair, they fed me, and they dusted me off so that I could continue laying there for however long I needed.
Now because of all that, I have the option to stand once more. Although my body is still recovering and will need more time before I can fully stand, let alone run again, I have the option. I have the chance. I have a choice to make. I can lie here and let my body waste away, letting people care for it and feel sorry over it. Or I can fight. I can fight every inch of my being that begs me to stay down and motionless. I can fight all of the doubts and fears that whisper “all hope is lost”. I can fight the urges I have to slip away into a permanent peaceful slumber and reject my responsibility to my own life force. I can fight for my life, so I will.
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