I haven’t felt like writing for days. Even though I have so much to get out of my system, my hands just can’t face typing. My whole body is still recovering. I did a charity walk a few days ago. It was on a lovely mild night in London, along with 17,000 other people all hoping to raise money for a cause close to their heart: Cancer.
I did it for 2 reasons, mostly altruistic, but also because I wanted to push myself. I wanted to see how far I could I go, what my body would put itself through before it gave up. It turned out to be so much more than a test of my endurance though.
I crossed the start line just after 11pm, scared and lonely but with a peace in my heart that I wanted this. I wanted to do this, no one was forcing me. My friend had to drop out due to a bad back but there was no way I was quitting. People have sponsored me, my mum sponsored me; I couldn’t let her down, she was the main reason I was doing this.
Walking around the streets of London at night is actually fairly calming. Just me, my backpack, my Domo mascot and several thousand walkers all pounding the pavement to find a cure for those we love. I did I think of those I love. I thought about everyone. The man I loved when I was 19, cruelly taken from me, never to be loved by anyone again. My family, who I probably don’t tell enough just how much I love them. X/*****, who I’ve not heard from in so long, I can’t bare to think about. Time has gone so slowly, I don’t know if he’s ok or where he is and it eats me up inside. I guess deep down in my heart I have to believe that he’s ok and he’s happy because if I don’t not knowing will kill me. However much I love him and want him, his health and happiness is all that matters to me. I just want him to be safe.
So many things went through my mind. Guilt as always. I grieved for the people that are not longer with me. Cried tears in silent over those that hurt me, and equally over those that I’ve hurt. Whether intentionally or not. It doesn’t matter how heavy my backpack is, it’s nothing compared to guilt that I carry in my head. If only I could shift that, I’m sure I could move faster.
Every mile became harder and slower. Every step, more piercingly painful than the next until I could no longer move. With each mile bought more pain, blisters so raw, I could feel the blood between my toes. Each blood soaked footstep just another leap towards a goal that I didn’t think I was capable of.
Then, the last person, the person who this was all for: my mum. I’ll be honest, I didn’t think I could do it. 20 miles in and I wanted to collapse. But I couldn’t. How could I moan about a fleeting bit of pain, when my mother has endured more pain and suffering in the last 8 years than I’ve had in my life? Besides, this pain was taking away the hurt from my heart. All the heartbreak from this year, my ex, ***** and the latest fucker to piss me about were more painful than any bleeding feet.
But the fact that 10 hours and 26.2 miles later, I’d walked almost a complete circle of London was a surreal feeling. Something I never thought I’d feel. A sense of achievement, I’d accomplished something that would have been impossible prior to my assult 3 years ago. Old me would never dreamed of doing a walk at night on my own. Or getting a tattoo. Sometimes we don’t know what we’re capable of until we’re pushed to the edge.
As I was walking I swore to myself I’d never do it again, but I’m still alive, my feet haven’t fallen off. Yet. Maybe this is selfish of me, but part of this walk was as much a test to me as it was a way to help others. It taught me what I’m capable of. What I can do if I really push myself. I want to do more, I want to find my limit and smash through it. If I’m to be truthful, this is helping me more than therapy ever has. If I can help other people while I’m at it, well then thats even better.
@specksygurl
tetheredinthedeepend 