Run, Laugh, Roll My Eyes, Repeat

Lake Sylvia, my favorite running spot

My stomach burns almost constantly these days. It feels like hunger, as if I wrapped myself in a project and worked through lunch. I eat, and the burn subsides for a bit. But it comes back, and I realize that it's not hunger after all. The burn spreads to my chest. Angst? Fear? Anticipation? Um, heartburn?

I need an anthem to give purpose to this sensation. It feels like the prelude to a crisis, anticipation of something momentous. But momentous never follows. Just the burn in my chest, the weight in the pit of my stomach and hours awake at night. No feverish worry. Just wakefulness and a longing for sleep. Pointless, really.

This anxiety has no cause that I can identify. I have decided to chalk it up to hormones, annoying but manageable, at least for now. Occasionally, it leaves me wringing my hands, an attempt to calm the baseless fear that sometimes descends on me, the brief but intense frustration at feeling out of control.

Sometimes, usually on Monday mornings, I awake feeling wholly unprepared to face the day. I lie in bed and pray for peace, for courage. It sounds, and feels, so dramatic. It's not. I crawl out of bed, and by the time I have finished brushing my teeth, I feel capable. I drag myself out for a run, and after six painfully slow miles on the trail I even feel hopeful.

I never quite understood anxiety before. (I probably still don't.) Nor did I comprehend the concept of hope. Anxiety, I could definitely live without. But hope? It feels good. And it makes sense, even if just on a mundane, but essential, level. Feeling gratitude for muttered Monday morning prayers, muddy trails and the critical ability to laugh at myself.