Deep, deep into the heart of Scott - Caution!
WARNING: Even as I set out to write this post, I know that it is going to be grossly self-indulgent (even for me), as I suppose blogging is (at least on some level?) by definition. Thank you in advance if you choose to read it. For what it's worth, I hope, at least (fingers crossed here), to connect it to my training and my NEED to run.
Here goes....
I had a very troubled relationship with my Dad who passed away suddenly almost 9 years ago. (please, no need for consolation comments - I have grieved fully and well). He, like all of us, had his share of troubles during his lifetime; no doubt, the least of which was being a simple farmer trying to figure out how to raise a gay son. It couldn't have been easy in those days, long before shows like Will and Grace. Compared to today, it was the Dark Ages. He tried, and tried, and, then he tried some more. In the end, I realize now, he gave me the very best he had. While he might have failed in some respects, it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. The real truth is, that if I have any good qualities, I got them from him. Thanks Dad!
The saddest thing about my relationship with him though, is that I didn't (couldn't ?) really start to live my own life until after he died. In the years since his death, I have risen (some of which I have shared) to great heights from the depths of the lowest fucking despair. The present notwithstanding, you all simply have to believe me that at my gut core, I am a really, really content and mostly happy man (and earnest, and intense, and fearful, and self-doubting... blah... blah... blah... even my therapist gets bored). Go figure.
In his wisdom, he thought he was doing right by pushing me. He thought you made a boy into a man by being tough. He pushed and pushed.... and I tried and tried... though nothing ever seemed to ever be good enough for him. Tragically, I grew up believing that he didn't love me... that he was too hard on me. Even more tragically, I was WRONG. He did love me - he just couldn't show it.
And here's the point of this... for reasons that perhaps I can't really articulate or explain here... he used to call me a quitter. A QUITTER. On some level he was right - but without any understanding of the reasons. And how could he understand? How could he possibly understand how awful it was for me to be teased by my eighth grade gym teacher who teased me about my weight and who called me "his all-around friend". How could he possibly understand the cruelty of the other boys who used to call me fag? How could he possibly understand the feelings that I didn't even understand? To him, I was just a quitter who didn't want to take gym and who cried until I got out of it. But oh how I hated him every time he said it.
Do you see where this is going??
So... fast forward.... for my entire adult life, I have struggled with my weight (and drugs, and working too much and gambling and.... and.... pick an addiction, any addiction) and to be the athlete that I never was as a child. Though the story wass officially retired, I am going to tell it again here, my peewee hockey coach used to hit me with a stick for being off-side - trouble was, nobody ever explained to me what that meant.... you get the drift....
In my twenties though (after losing 100 lbs), I had it going pretty good with the aerobics thing. I could keep up with the best of em in step class doing pirouettes and the like over steps stacked three high... Jane freaking Fonda had nothing on me. I'm quite sure I was simply precious (I take some credit for starting the trend of men wearing spandex in Toronto).
In my thirties, I had the tennis thing going. Now, in my fourties, I'm trying to get it together to run a marathon.
So where is all this coming from? This morning on the treadmill, I was running along and, for the first time in a long time, I started to find the run... I started to really fly and I was without pain. But, seemingly, for no reason... other than perhaps boredom on the treadmill, I just wanted to quit... and here is where I find myself at the juncture of figuring myself out as an ageing wannabe runner. How prey tell will I ever last 4 ish hours (I want to write 3 ish but let's try to be somewhat realistic here) to complete a marathon if I can't keep my mind from fucking with me for an hour?
It totally has everything to do with my my thoughts of quitting my job. On some level, as hateful as my current environment is, there is a really good argument to be made for sticking it out.... but that's for another day.
I am somewhat lost for an appropriate finish to this post. I know perfectly well that all of this has something to do with my not believing that I can do it. Is it the voice of my Father calling me a quitter? Why can't I finally let go of these heavy emotional chains...
So... once again.... this is where I am today. This is who I am today - scouring the insides of my soul with an SOS pad.
Can you just imagine me the day I actually do finish MY marathon! And I will!
Here goes....
I had a very troubled relationship with my Dad who passed away suddenly almost 9 years ago. (please, no need for consolation comments - I have grieved fully and well). He, like all of us, had his share of troubles during his lifetime; no doubt, the least of which was being a simple farmer trying to figure out how to raise a gay son. It couldn't have been easy in those days, long before shows like Will and Grace. Compared to today, it was the Dark Ages. He tried, and tried, and, then he tried some more. In the end, I realize now, he gave me the very best he had. While he might have failed in some respects, it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. The real truth is, that if I have any good qualities, I got them from him. Thanks Dad!
The saddest thing about my relationship with him though, is that I didn't (couldn't ?) really start to live my own life until after he died. In the years since his death, I have risen (some of which I have shared) to great heights from the depths of the lowest fucking despair. The present notwithstanding, you all simply have to believe me that at my gut core, I am a really, really content and mostly happy man (and earnest, and intense, and fearful, and self-doubting... blah... blah... blah... even my therapist gets bored). Go figure.
In his wisdom, he thought he was doing right by pushing me. He thought you made a boy into a man by being tough. He pushed and pushed.... and I tried and tried... though nothing ever seemed to ever be good enough for him. Tragically, I grew up believing that he didn't love me... that he was too hard on me. Even more tragically, I was WRONG. He did love me - he just couldn't show it.
And here's the point of this... for reasons that perhaps I can't really articulate or explain here... he used to call me a quitter. A QUITTER. On some level he was right - but without any understanding of the reasons. And how could he understand? How could he possibly understand how awful it was for me to be teased by my eighth grade gym teacher who teased me about my weight and who called me "his all-around friend". How could he possibly understand the cruelty of the other boys who used to call me fag? How could he possibly understand the feelings that I didn't even understand? To him, I was just a quitter who didn't want to take gym and who cried until I got out of it. But oh how I hated him every time he said it.
Do you see where this is going??
So... fast forward.... for my entire adult life, I have struggled with my weight (and drugs, and working too much and gambling and.... and.... pick an addiction, any addiction) and to be the athlete that I never was as a child. Though the story wass officially retired, I am going to tell it again here, my peewee hockey coach used to hit me with a stick for being off-side - trouble was, nobody ever explained to me what that meant.... you get the drift....
In my twenties though (after losing 100 lbs), I had it going pretty good with the aerobics thing. I could keep up with the best of em in step class doing pirouettes and the like over steps stacked three high... Jane freaking Fonda had nothing on me. I'm quite sure I was simply precious (I take some credit for starting the trend of men wearing spandex in Toronto).
In my thirties, I had the tennis thing going. Now, in my fourties, I'm trying to get it together to run a marathon.
So where is all this coming from? This morning on the treadmill, I was running along and, for the first time in a long time, I started to find the run... I started to really fly and I was without pain. But, seemingly, for no reason... other than perhaps boredom on the treadmill, I just wanted to quit... and here is where I find myself at the juncture of figuring myself out as an ageing wannabe runner. How prey tell will I ever last 4 ish hours (I want to write 3 ish but let's try to be somewhat realistic here) to complete a marathon if I can't keep my mind from fucking with me for an hour?
It totally has everything to do with my my thoughts of quitting my job. On some level, as hateful as my current environment is, there is a really good argument to be made for sticking it out.... but that's for another day.
I am somewhat lost for an appropriate finish to this post. I know perfectly well that all of this has something to do with my not believing that I can do it. Is it the voice of my Father calling me a quitter? Why can't I finally let go of these heavy emotional chains...
So... once again.... this is where I am today. This is who I am today - scouring the insides of my soul with an SOS pad.
Can you just imagine me the day I actually do finish MY marathon! And I will!
posted by Scott at 5:06 PM
9 Comments:
Thanks for sharing your heart with us today. Feels good doesn't it? In my opinion, you can't heal a broken heart without first revealing your open heart.
the marathon is "the quit" and it is "the run" .... at least it is for me ... there are stages where in my mind i hear "quit" and yet i run (sometimes i call it off to fight another day) but in the end ... when you cross the finish line you have beaten "the quit"
I think we all struggle with the 'quit' factor. I know I encounter it on a lot of shorter runs. The legs are a lot stronger than the mind, and esp on a dreadmill. A lot of times music or thoughts can get me back on track - esp thoughts of crossing that finish line, or beating my previous time. I like how Kristin Armstrong thought of a different person each mile of her last marathon.
Scott - running on a treadmill makes it easier to want to quit. Make sure you put a tv (with closed caption on it) and a program that interests you in front of your treadmill. This will take away some of the boredom and keep your mind on something else other than the desire to quit. In a marathon, there will be people around (running in and spectating), changing scenery, etc to keep you mind occupied. You might try a local highschool track for some of your runs. The surface is usually more forgiving than concrete and you can time yourself.
Sometimes, with regard to our family relations, it helps to put things in a mental box and store them away and focus on you and improving you. I've recently decided to do just that because the anger and other emotions that come with it take WAY too much out of me.
Keep going - baby steps!
I can't run for more than 10 minutes on the tread without wanting to gouge my eyes out!
Once you get outside you will find your stride and you won't want to quit!!!
i feel you on so many levels with this, scott. my mother is the one that kept at me and at me and at me when i was growing up. nothing was every good enough for her. i did things a little bit different than you... i kept trying and trying and trying. now i know that even though she loves me, i will never be good enough for her. i have to be okay with that, because that is just her way.
loved the post. way to throw it out there, man.
and your hockey coach... i need a name before i can do any damage. and an address would help. sadistic bastard!! :)
I appreciate the fact that you know this is where you are today and that someday in the future you will cross that line. That, I think, is what you need to be focused on.
Your self-talk doesn't have to agree with your dad, your hockey coach, or the kids in gym class. Be proud you are a quitter- smoking! If you stop doing something you don't like I think it is called "moving on".
I agree with everything said here - get off the treadmill, find somebody to run with, and keep believing in yourself. The miles will get easier, and the marathon goal will inch closer.
Post a Comment
<< Home