She’s chanting me on, pushing me forward.
The concrete ladder-hill grows steeper and steeper. My inhales sharper, my exhales shorter. I don’t want to keep grasping. I want to stop. “You’re doing it. You’re almost there Leigh.” I don’t have energy to think, I’m just panting, feel like I’m barely moving. She’s jogging backwards for goodness sake.
But soon, it’s over. The ladder’s last rung has sounded in my ears, as loud as my beating blood pressure. Rising. Arrived. I reached the top. She cheers. Encourages. Tells me she knew all along I could do it.
Racing makes me feel inadequate. And truth be told – I already feel that way most of the time. I don’t need a new task to get me there. Dwelling on it all.
I’m the heckler in the corner shouting BOO. Even with the accolades of amazing friends – their knowledgable support and full-hearted compassion and understanding…I’m still drowning out their beautiful voices with ugly, spitting words of quit-while-you’re-behind.
It’s how I can feel…..
Unaccomplished. Late-blooming. Unconditioned for the tasks that matter.
Sure, there are things I can do. Things that come easier. That I enjoy.
The smirks and snickers cackle out the exhortations and bravos.
I hate that they do.
It’s just another way to make panting up that hill all the more difficult. All the more plea-full, my heart beats to stop.
It’s the scary. The stricken illness of fear. When the will to try to run with endurance the race marked out for me is nowhere to be tangibly held.