Thirty-two weeks pregnant, and hardly able to walk more than a couple of miles at a stretch, it’s a little hard to believe that a year ago I ran my first marathon. My already-heightened set of emotions surrounding the race skyrocketed when the Boston marathon bombing occurred, six days before my race. As is true with most runners, ever since that day, every time I am out on a jog there is at least one moment where my mind turns to the bombing. While the thought saddens me, and makes me feel for the individuals and families affected, it also reminds me to be grateful for the legs carrying me, grateful for the people around me, and gives me energy to push on. Runners are a willful, dedicated bunch, full of strength, stamina and commitment, and the Boston bombing, instead of tarnishing this, cemented it.
I have two Mes.
Real me is caring and giving and kind. Real me is never bored, because there is always someone to love or something to create or something to enjoy. Real Me relishes weekends, family, friends and manically pursuing hobbies. Real Me even loves horribly gray days and days when the basement floods and days when a baking dish explodes in the kitchen because there is always so much more to be grateful for.
Monster Me is angry and fearful and inadequate. Monster Me is so depleted of energy that the effort required to attempt to enjoy a hobby or a person or even myself is insurmountable. Monster Me wants to cut and punch and scream. Monster Me feels completely hopeless. Monster Me thinks leaving the car running and shutting the garage door might not be unreasonable.
Real Me sometimes thinks Monster Me is gone for good. But Monster Me is sneaky and always creeps back around, eventually.
When the two Mes got pregnant, Real Me decided…
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