The Fourth of July

2009:

Curled in a tiny bodied ball on the plank wood floors of my Portland apartment- numb, tired, drained, dehydrated. I was trying to do yoga and I had collapsed, winded. It had been six days since I'd had a real meal. Instead of balanced nourishment, pineapple, water, and coffee had sustained me through the weirdness that was an amalgamation of days floating in and out of one another. The compounded acid accrued from this acrid diet had turned my belly hollow- Growling, churning, vile, inside out. I was alone in a way I couldn't totally grasp because I'd never quite had this experience before: wanting so badly to be near someone who simply didn't want to be near me.

"Oh. Here I am. Me by myself- huh." I thought.

I could barely stand up, let alone notice the world around me.

Some voice inside of me said: "Lacy, get up. Put on a dress. Go see the fireworks."

I relented- put on my cutest dress, snapped my giant gold hoops shut, and made my hair big. I took deep breaths and went outside. My stomach gnawed at itself and I moved my bicycle's peddles faster.

Upon my arrival to a small grassy knoll overlooking train tracks and the Columbia River I realized I didn't really know how to be or where to sit. Even with the throngs of champagne swilling masculine ladies and effeminate gentlemen (a special Portland, Oregon breed of androgyny exists that just simply isn't as well done any other place probably on Earth) I could find no point on the hill that felt inviting, no place that felt reasonable in the haze of my broken heart or with the awkward new bagginess of my previously most fitting dress. I watched fireworks alone from the outskirts of my neighborhood's most popular outpost and went home resigned to the fact that I was simply now unable to feel anything at all. I slept the fitful sleep of the half dead and woke at 1:00, 3:00, 5:00 am. I had no relief from reality, not even with the promise of slumber.

2010:

I rise at four AM next to someone who tries to love me despite my generally closed off disposition and I put on my running shorts. My number is already pinned to the the one athletic shirt I wear day in and day out as I do useless calorie burning exercises that deplete me and serve no other purpose other then keeping me as inhumanly thin as possible. For months I had insisted I could not run: it hurt my knees, destroyed my ankles, I didn't have the physical strength to go as far as I wanted to. I had a lot of ideas about the things I could and could not do and running seemed so far away that I had figured I may as well not even try.

Despite all my public protests I'd started jogging just a little bit in secret. Furtively, only on a treadmill, and only after I completed the exercise that I deemed appropriate for my goals, I'd lace up my shoes and run after midnight. What I discovered was that running was more thrilling then any other way that I could think of to use my body. It filled my head with a rush of something almost akin to happiness, it made me feel strong, it took me outside of my brain. Each time a jogger passed on the street I'd sigh. To be a runner! It seemed an incredible dream.

I had signed up for a 5K on a tiny government owned island 30 miles from my doorstep and luckily I was partnered with a person who had a similarly insane penchant to push one's body to its maximum while generally having a disdain for all things vehicle related. We biked there, and then, simply, we ran. It blew my mind that I didn't have to stop to walk once in my 3.1 mile traversing of paved farmland road. I cried when i crossed the finish line and had a split second where I felt almost human. That night provided me with a sleep that was more satisfying then any I'd had in the entire previous year.

Again, fireworks exploded before me and I wondered when I'd have the privilege of feeling totally human. Each accomplishment I experienced merely reminded me of all I thought that I should be doing that I was not. The drill Sergeant in my head was sometimes temporarily appeased but the fear of tomorrow always gripped me. I never felt safe from myself.

2011:

I live in San Francisco now and it only seems appropriate to me that I should run on this day, a date that stands as a tenuous nod toward my own independence, as opposed to my country's. I ruminated in the decision making process and felt the struggle of the expectation in and of itself, as I have really been examining what the point of thinking I "should" do anything really is at all anyway. I languished through my morning oatmeal and apple, considered the possibilities as I flung thick red velvet curtains open to assess the world outside.

Opening my window to San Francisco consistently takes my breath away, day in and day out. I am amazed, astounded at what this city means to me, what it has always meant since I was a tiny kid. As a girl, I had one role model, one person to look to for solace, for love, for safety. This person was my grandmother. Each year she took me to San Francisco on my birthday and gave me the gift of time alone with her. She would tell me I was her favorite (I'm pretty sure she told all the grand kids this) and take me to the restaurant she had deemed most special. Le Central. I don't remember what the food was like, but I certainly remember basking in the glow of my grandmother. She made me feel like I really existed- like my life wasn't some cruel and sarcastic joke- and like I was worthwhile.


I pulled on the same shorts I donned on the previous fourth of July and made an agreement with myself that I would spend this beautiful bright and sunny summer morning running for the love of my city, my self, and my grandmother. I'd move a little for the joy of the trifecta of those three things and if I didn't like it, I'd simply turn back. I made myself a promise of a run not based on "shoulds" but experiences. I took off out the door half smiling, half wondering if I'd be climbing back through my buildings thresh hold within ten minutes.

Sometimes there is an element of running that reminds me of the inherent athletic ability children cull, how our first form of play is simply to exert and how society, calorie counting, comparison to others, and general cultural sickness has bastardized something pure and beautiful. On this day, when I ran I sang. I smiled and I said good morning to passers by. I acknowledged that I am actually a nicer person then usual when I am in the graces of the amazement I feel at my body's abilities. Running can be a blessing just as well as it can be a curse. When I run in the name of self flagellation I feel ripped apart. When I run in the name of love I feel alive.

As I tore down The Embarcadero, past tourists and over piers, I inhaled the scent of the bay. On my way back up market and toward the high rise where I reside I felt a pang of recognition, a scent of somatic memory enveloping me. I instinctively turned up a hill that was outside of the route I planned. I came to an area peppered with patio dining, red awnings, and signs written in French. I felt the pull of my runner's legs drawing me forward, on an inane wild goose chase that I did not understand. I turned a corner and felt a stab of feeling in my chest. Le Central. My grandmother's special place. Before my very eyes and seven blocks from my home.

I pressed the saltiness of my over exerted face to the panes of the window and let the memories flood me. The slow and distinctly European service, the creamy sauces, the wink of my grandma swilling from a tumbler with rose colored liquid, the clink of our forks. I felt the corners of my mouth turn upward in a grateful smile as tears flowed from my eyes. My grandmother loved me when no other adult in my family really did. Now because of intuition, because of circumstance, because of solitude, because of spontaneity, I had the opportunity to feel the depth of that love. Just my luck, I got to feel the ways in which the universe has held me thoroughly.

(A three year long lesson: Even in a body that couldn't hold itself up, with an unending perfectionism, with doubt, with spiritual death, with deep rooted self destruction- i have continued to exist in a really profound and uncanny manner that reeks of persistence. Whether I know it or not, I have always been totally, joyously, insanely alive and capable of emotional depth. Sometimes it just takes the right circumstance to bring it out.)