Running from Eggshells

Running around the park, I probably look like a madwoman for anyone who cared to pay any attention. I don’t care. I just need to get away. As far and as fast as my feet can carry me, I just need to get away. I run and keep running my laps around the track until my exhaustion finally beats out my will and I collapse onto the ground gasping for breath. I flip into my back and sprawl out looking up into the sky, the tear stains drying on my cheeks.

I lay and watch the clouds morph and change shapes as they float in front of the moon, the swirling reminding me of my everlasting confusion. The questions creeping in as they did every week. I don’t understand. Why do words hurt? Others with good intentions tell me to let it roll off my back- it’s not physical, so it must not be serious. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. I hate that saying. I feel the tears build up again. I try. I really do. I try telling myself they’re only words. I should be able to just let them go in one ear and out the other. Simple as that.

But I can’t. And it does hurt. The little jabs and snide remarks like stabs of a sword. His words like weapons carefully aimed to strike where it will hurt the most. And what’s worse, he seems so nice when he’s around other people. So even when I do try to explain or reach out to someone, I get to hear how it can’t be so. He’s such a nice guy. I’m just being sensitive or it’s just a misunderstanding.

I reluctantly pick myself up and get back on my feet and shake everything out. Self pity time is over. Thirty minutes a week. Get it all out and feel sorry for myself for thirty minutes. And my time is almost up. Time to put the mask back on.

I have to head back to the house now so I’m not bombarded with questions like why I’m late, why I have to go for a run when we have a treadmill. I fight for few things anymore, but my weekly run is a battle I choose to fight. The only time I get truly to myself. I take my sweat towel and wipe the dried tear stains away. Otherwise, I would be in for a whole different world of verbal assault and interrogation. Heading back to my house, I take deep breaths, calm my heart rate and try to regain my composure.

I turn the corner on my block, the length of the sidewalk from here to the house becoming shorter and shorter. Like the sand of an hourglass, my time is almost up. As I count my last few steps of momentary freedom and solitude, I look over to my flowerbed. My marigolds’ vibrant hues of oranges and yellows able to be seen even in the light of the moon. The bright colors giving off warmth and comfort, but the original meaning of the flower a little darker. The vivid, happy colors cloaking the grief and despair they were renowned for around the world. I loved my marigolds. The last little reminder before heading inside to tuck my feelings back in their place and put on my sunny demeanor. As I turn the door handle, I take one last breath and plaster a smile on my face. I glance once more towards my flowerbed and give a slight nod. Until next week, my dear little marigolds.