I have made it no secret that running has been one of the key ingredients which make up who I am. If you have read my book (I hope so), I have clearly illustrated the qualities I consider to be pieces of my soul. They form the puzzle that defines me.
While most of these pieces cannot be taken from me, there are some parts of my life that have been affected by my illness. I can no longer run. I have been stripped of my wings.
I have been running since before I could walk. My dad used to say to me encouragingly, “Run like the wind!” I was the fastest kid at my elementary school and no one would race me during recess because they knew they would lose. I’m not just saying that to brag. I would ask other kids to race and they all turned me down. I held the fastest record for the mile in the Presidential Physical Fitness program at my school.
Growing up, I learned that running could be more than just a sprint. It was a long and therapeutic journey through the woods. It was running until I had no more energy, and kicking it at the end of a race with everything I had left. That was my favorite part.
The cheering crowd, the first place ribbon.
None of that compared to the the runner’s high I felt every time after I ran. A feeling of accomplishment. A feeling of euphoria that cannot be reproduced or bottled up. That is when I stretched my wings.
I live in a small town, the kind of town in which you can walk everywhere you go. In my case, run everywhere. For two years, when I first moved here, I was known as the “Runner girl.” I ran literally everywhere I went. I was daring, and crossed the street although the “walk” signal wasn’t green. I was fast, and very irresponsible. I wore shoes without the right support for my knees and joints. I ruined the capability of ever running again.
My wings weren’t stolen from me. They disintegrated slowly each time my feet touched the ground. I blame myself, but that doesn’t mean I don’t mourn them.
I don’t run anymore. Not everywhere I go. Not anywhere I go. For three reasons.
My knees are ruined.
I have ocular gyro crises.
I hear voices inside my head when I run.
So I don’t run. But it eats me up, and I still cry after all this time.
I find other ways to fly. I wear my hair down, and when I walk it flows like a cape behind me. I walk. I create art. I write. I illustrate. I make things for family and friends. I talk to you.
I wrote a book, and whenever I sell one, I feel like I can fly. I feel like my book is making a difference in someone else’s life besides my own. I can fly when I can help others.
I had thought I lost my wings forever, but now I have found them.
—SJB