26.2

                Every good army wife will jump at the opportunity to escape.  Maybe its a few hours at the spa.  Maybe it’s a quiet night at home with a book.  Maybe it’s a drunken girl’s night out where you wear a pair of scandalous shoes and keep tallies every time a guy hits on you.  All of these are great, and I admit, I indulge in all of these mental vacations.  But my biggest—and most loved-- diversion involves over 800 calories, a long windy road, and about a quart of gatoraid.   For those that aren’t tracking yet, I evade life by running.

                Now don’t get me wrong, I never actually win a race. I have no Kenyan blood flowing through my veins, and my cheeks are purple for HOURS after I am done…but running seems to be about the only thing lately that brings me a sense of peace. Now before you ask, I am not some alien-life-form that will tell you how awesome it feels or how it will get easier the more you run.  Nope.  Not true.  It’s as much of a suckfest for me as it is for you.  My lungs burn, my legs cramp-- and worse yet, I am no longer afraid to pee by the side of a road.  I smell like a barn when I am done, and I have to rub lubricant all over my body in summer because I am somehow manage to chafe in places that I didn’t know existed.  Yet, I still run-- willingly.

                Why?

                The answer may sound just as crazy as the running itself.  Last year, when I first learned of my husband’s upcoming deployment, I started to struggle.  A small fault line formed along my soul that sent out waves of anxiety every time I let my guard down.  Simple things, like eating dinner with my kids or folding laundry, became riddled with panic attacks, and I was absolutely positive that I had earned enough frequent flier miles for a one-way ticket to Crazy Town.  It had only been a little over a year since his last deployment, and the thought of dealing with all of the crap again was more than I could consciously handle.  Life came to a screeching halt about three weeks after we learned of his future   ‘holiday’ to Iraq. I was driving home from a Chuckee-Cheese-like-restaurant with the kids, and the car was strangely quiet.  Music was playing softly over the radio, and all three kids were starting to head bob and doze.  I can remember debating with myself if I should stop the car and re-position all of their little heads— their current state practically screamed future chiropractor bills-- but I decided to keep going.  A storm was brewing to the South, and I didn’t want to be caught in a Texas deluge.  What happened next still mystifies and confuses me. I have no memory of anything suddenly spooking me—no deer jumped in front of the car, no sudden noises from my cell phone or my kiddos—but suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.  My chest started squeezing, my stomach started somersaulting, and I was certain that I was somehow in the middle of massive heart attack.  I could feel myself starting to blackout, and I gripped the steering wheel in a panic as my vision began to tunnel .  To this day, I am grateful that this grand-daddy of a panic attack happened on a back road in Sequin, a few minutes later and I would have been deep in the heart of I-35 traffic, and probably squished by a semi. 

                Thankfully, I did manage to regain control of my car, calm down my racing heart, and most importantly… I admitted that I needed help.  I was sent to an off-base psychologist through Military One Source, and started my weekly army-bashing sessions with a VERY patient woman named Sharon.   Now Sharon, as all shrinks, gave me a lot of good advice, but there was one thing she mentioned that very first session that brought me to my knees.  After listening to me rant and rave for a good forty-five minutes, she held up a hand and shushed me (a very bold move when dealing with a slightly-off-her-rocker Army Wife).  Slowly she handed me some tissues, and asked me… if I RAN regularly.  Wondering if this was some sort of test that she expected me to fail, I smiled and smugly responded, “Why yes I do.  I run 20 minutes on a treadmill three times a week.”

                Sharon nodded, patted my hand and calmly said, “Run more.  Because it's hard to run and feel sorry for yourself at the same time.”

                And so I did.  As my mileage went up, my life started to come back.  Slowly at first, just like my initial mile times, but started gaining momentum, just as I started gaining control again over my emotions.  Running became the ultimate metaphor to me— that your spirit needs just as much exercising as the muscles in your body, and the hours I spent pounding out a rhythm on a Texas road started to feed my soul.  Somehow, the simple act of running managed to save me in every possible way. 

                So, to those who are wondering if I still suffer from panic attacks, the answer is a very sobering yes… but not to the frequency that I once did.  I no longer consider myself destined for the sanatorium, but rather a very high functioning lunatic…just with a really firm ass. I guess what I am trying to say is this:  life is a series of hill and mountains, sometimes all you can do is just get over it.