Since I am often unable to comprehend much else, since I find things far too stimulating and I find the world around me has far too much going on and it all makes my head hurt, I therefore people-watch. It's less painful to people-watch than it is to think about how you feel. It's often easier to watch others than try to figure out the tangled and frayed cabling that represents my own thoughts and emotions. I write books in my head all the time, but the second I sit down to try to let it out from the ridged bumps of my fingertips, it runs away in fear of being revealed, of being shown out.

I watch people everywhere. I wonder about their lives, their thoughts, their hearts. I wonder what lives they lead. I look at the white business guy with the Rasta dreads and the Rolex. The Korean woman and her tiny, perfect feet. The teenagers in their schoolgirl kilts, giggling and texting on chunky pink phones.

I watch people in the gym-one woman in particular, a woman I call Oyster Girl. She's there nearly every time I go there and she's always pushing herself very hard. Where I do 20 minutes on an elliptical machine, she'll do an hour. My 20 minutes on the treadmill becomes her hour and a half, pushing herself at twice the speed. I've never stayed in the gym long enough to see what she does after that, but I imagine it's excessive.

There's always one like her. There was one in Newbury, and now Oyster Girl at this gym. She's hyper-skinny, a little rag doll whose thighs have a gap between them when she stands with her knees together. Her cheek bones are sunken, highlighting dark eyes that peer out of the sweat. Her arms are ropes of sinew, and along the back of her neck the bones still out like little buttons. Her elbow reminds me of the hinge in a hairclip-softly round with visible edges.

But it's her shoulders that get to me.

You can see every single curve of the scapula as she moves. The inside scooped out hollow of the shoulder bone is like the tiny cup of an oyster, defleshed and relieved of its pearl. It's her shoulder-and always her shoulder-that breaks my heart. I want to scoop her up in my arms and hug her and cry with her and tell her I know exactly how she feels, before taking her home and making her a cup of hot chocolate.

And I want to tell her that no matter how fast she runs, there are some things she can never outrun. Whatever demons she's trying to beat...she only has a head start on them, but they'll catch up with her in the end. That's what demons do, after all. They find you no matter where you try to hide.

I've been playing phone tag with the man that I hope will be my psychotherapist. It's his turn to call me today. I'm not kidding when I say I know I am damaged goods-all I have to do is look at the red 20% off damaged goods price tag hanging from my armpit to know that I am a Raggedy Ann Doll with an eye missing and her head sewn on backwards. The good news is, I know my heart is in the right place, a little candy-colored red dot over the center of my chest, often swollen sometimes, but definitely in place.

A few days ago in the gym I discovered something. I have recently started jogging again on the treadmill-to be honest, I love a good run but I have bad knees and they often ache when I do run, so I ruled it out for a long time. I was jogging lightly on the treadmill when MTV Jammed came on the TV monitor that is strapped to the top of the treadmill. I find MTV to be a good channel to watch while exercising-it's nothing you need to pay attention to, it's nothing that will change your life, it's just colorful noise. This show was about Eminem holding a surprise concert in Detroit, at the local university.

It was a good show to be honest, and I was enjoying the enthusiasm of the students who simply thought they were screening 8 Mile for free. I've seen that movie, I actually liked it and thought it was well made-no Hollywood happy endings in it, just what I expect would have been his reality some years ago. The end of the show had Eminem coming onstage as the credits to the movie were rolling, and he'd start singing "Lose Yourself".

And for some reason, once those opening chords started, I found I wanted to run faster.

So I turned up the speed.

Again.

And again.

Until, as Eminem hit the chorus, I was running flat out. My legs were stretching, the TV show was exciting, and it all felt good. And afterwards, my knees were fine.

Tuesday night I went to the gym again. Oyster Girl was already there and the place was heaving with people desperate to look good in their favorite pair of jeans. After some weights and a turn on the elliptical machine, I took a place on a treadmill and plugged my iPod into my ears.

I turned them both on.

I am a docile chick when it comes to music. Angry music incites violent reactions in me. I cannot listen to heavy metal or punk or anything like that as it makes me boil inside-I've reached the middle-aged "light listening" years simply because tough music affects me too much. Yet I knew what I wanted to listen to on the treadmill, I knew that the only thing that could help me was to listen to the rough stuff, the type of music that would vomit hard and painful music into my ears and let the acid burn a way to my brain, melting the synapses as it went.

I turned on a fast, bitter song and started to fast walk.

Then I turned on Nine Inch Nails and started to run.

And after that song finished, Eminem's Lose Yourself came on.

Up went the speed on the treadmill. I was now jogging at 9.0 on the treadmill. I turned the iPod up as loud as I could, so loud I'm sure others around me could hear the dripping leftovers that wouldn't fit in my ear canal waft around their heads (only they were all wearing headphones, too). And I ran.

And after a minute, I thought-Turn it up, Helen.

My thumb went out and punched the speed button. 11.0. I was running now. The chorus of the song thundered in my head, bouncing around my brain. I felt my thumb go out again. 12.0. My pace was fast. My steps matched the beats of the song.

Why stop there? my brain teased my body. Can't handle it?

And up the speed went to 13.0.

My legs stretched in front of me. I watched my bobbing face in the TV screen, not paying attention to what was playing, only focusing on my bouncing pair of eyes in the top center of the tiny set. I kept running, then started pacing my breathing automatically, anaerobically trying to stretch my body further. I felt like a machine, I felt like a robot, I felt alive and dead at the same time, with no room in my head even for myself. The deep-seated stress I had been feeling was under a layer of ice, untouchable to me.

You think you're so great? my brain sneered. You think you're so special? You're nothing. Nothing! Now turn the goddamn speed up.

And I did. 14.0. 15.0. My feet met the treadmill with force as I slammed my feet down on the treadmill. I was viciously angry with myself, my dream about inner rage and explosions making perfect sense with how much I couldn't stand the stretchy rayon feel of the inside of my skin at that moment. My grief and pain and anger and confusion came out, running down my face with the sweat and the acid vomit of the music.

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you'd better never let it go...
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime.

My body screamed in stress and my thumb went out, punching the speed down. I walked fast, feeling the sweat stream down my back. I downed a quarter of my bottle of water. Then in one gush I felt the endorphin rush pour through my brains and seduce my brain. I felt drugged, I felt high, I felt furious, I felt every inch of my skin, I felt alive.

I hit rewind on my iPod and started the song all over again.

And I started running again. Harder, faster, sprint, keep pumping up the speed, it doesn't hurt, it makes you feel better, Move your ass you stupid girl.

At the end of the song my body simply had no more running to give. I stopped running and did a 4 minute cool-down, feeling my thighs burn and twitch, feeling no pain in my knees. My throbbing eardrums and screaming thighs drowned out the thoughts in my head, so all I could hear was the sound of my own blood rushing in my veins.

Oyster Girl was grimly running a few treadmills over from me, her demons making her run longer than mine did.

Today my body still feels tight but great. My breastbone no longer feels like it's taken a few punches. My thighs feel like steel. My knees are absolutely fine, and the self-hatred firmly buried. I'm going to the gym again tonight, and looking forward to another run-although most of the darkness has been resolved in the past few days while I've been silent, a part of me thinks maybe running will check out the attic and sweep out any remaining cobwebs-if there are any-in my soul.

And at the end of the day, I think I've won Round 1.

World? You think you can fuck with me? You think you can run me over and hurt me, to grind me to the ground, to make me bleed? You think you can get to me?

Well fuck you.

I got to me first.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:00 AM | Comments (19) | Add Comment
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