I'm a runner

but not a track star

I am a runner but not in the physical sense. Well I love to run but my feet are so fucked from dance that I can’t do it often or long. But dance is a story for another day.

I’ve run my whole life, emotionally. Starting in a fight or flight mode from a young age, you start the race a bit behind, but you run faster, you pick up ground. Recently, I’m realizing I freeze and then I flee. Remember when it used to just be fight or flight then they added freeze or fawn? Why’d they have to make fawn so cute when it might just be the scariest of them all?

Mainly, I run from myself. I am so scared of what I will become if I let myself have the space to open up and roam free. The fear of being seen as myself, as I am, has always been terrifying. I’ve slowly hopped over that hurdle with friends in a lot of ways. I don’t freeze, but I can’t swiftly glide over the obstacle in front of me. The obstacle being my intrusive thoughts and deeply entrenched fear of abandonment.

In friendships, I have found some ways that I navigate the fears and minimize on the sprints. I’ve had the fortune of having friends that have shown me time and time again that they won’t abandon me. That I can run if I need too, to give myself, but my safety does not hinge on my mph. I can overshare, I can withdraw and cloister myself when I panic, I can sob unabashedly and they’ve stayed by my side, holding my hand through it all. I’ve found a sense of belonging that I didn’t think was possible or that I didn’t deserve. I have found in friendship, the completed requited love that I’ve always craved. I’ve found the acceptance that I am not often able to give to myself. I was finally able to find people who helped me regulate versus sending my into a tailspin. I adopted the pattern of a healthy relationship that I had not had modeled for me.

But in romantic relationships, I’ve struggled more. There was a firm barrier, a massive wall. Actually, last year an astrologist absolutely read me, saying, “You should work on building boundaries, not walls,” and I felt that so hard. Because it’s true. Historically my attachment has been both anxious and avoidant (hence the running). For a long time, I’d built so many fucking walls. They stood tall, hulking and made of solid stone. Don’t even get me started on the moat you need to cross to get there. The drawbridge has been fortified by titanium (I looked it up, it’s less corrosive than steel). And I can’t promise that there aren’t alligators in the algae filled water.

Over the past few years, I’ve worked on this a lot a lot in therapy and it’s gotten better. I’ve learned how to take a step back. I know how to express what I want more freely. I’ve built the skill to have harder conversations in person and given myself the space to explore what a good relationship means to me. I’ve broken down a lot of my shame and stared it in the face. I’ve come into my own with my queerness that I never had before. The anxiousness has decreased a lot, especially in the last year, but the avoidance still remains in many ways. The wall has yet to be torn down and no one has quite penetrated (emotionally) the interior of the citadel.

So I sit and I talk and I let the drawbridge down an inch, maybe two. You get a hint or a peak. I’ll talk about my interests and dreams. We’ll discuss how busy my dog is everyday, how absolutely adorable my nephew is and how Drag Race Mexico is arguably one of the best in the franchise. But I withhold what scares me the most. How good my mental health really is right now. How weird it feels to official stop drinking, like forever. How I fear that I am inherently flawed and thus, unlovable. How my ruminations are all consuming even if they are irrational.

I hold my emotions down until they burst to the surface. Until they rise, bubble, steam until they yell and scream and drown out every other thought. The overwhelm ultimately needs a release. And so, I cry. And I cry. Then I blow my nose and try to breathe out of it whatsoever. I drink water, I scribble furiously in a journal, I take a really hot shower in the dark. It might be in silence. I may have on a safe album (we’ll talk about this more soon, stay tuned). But it is in these moments where I realize how far I’ve come. Because despite these feelings of overwhelm remain, I have names for them, I have skills to minimize them, and I am able to acknowledge them for what they are. Fleeting, but very real to me.

For a long time I ran from myself who I was what I wanted what I enjoyed. I let that be dictated by those around me because I was comfortable being told what to do. I’d been trained to do so. For most of my life, clothes had been the only area where I was able to create my own rules and then slowly I let that drift away from me too. Wearing uniforms, confirming to the performance of femininity, not acknowledging that I’m pretty gay, will do that to you. I was floating and unmoored and disconnected from myself. The numbing was part of it. The fear of rejection was part of it. The lack of confidence was part of it. But I’ve started to let those go. I’ve leaned into the things that I do know about myself. That playing with a dress over jeans is fun as fuck. That I’m really loving a skirt that goes down to my shins right now and it’s soooooo slutty. My love of dogs, writing, crafting, whimsy, community, moving my body, a really good chicken sandwich, a funky soda, breakfast sandwiches, BOOKS. We’ll get to books soon!

But the moral of the story is: I’m trying to not run anymore, or at least not as much. I am laying my soul bare to those who are willing and able and embracing of my stops and starts. That take my blips in stride. Those worthy to be let inside. I’m slowing down and leaning into what truly makes me feel free to amble and saunter and go for a cheeky jaunty. I look forward to taking a walk together. Hold my hand, won’t you?