OK, so I've stifled the hiccuped sobs long enough to blog.
Oh yes, I spent a good deal of time in tears. Not just tears - streams. Crying. Grief. Anger. Frustration. Look, I'm pissed just thinking about it.
I'm officially damaged goods, people. Some injury - shin splints? stress fractures? the Devil, himself? - has sidelined me. No more running. None. I tried, it hurt. I stopped. Walked home. And cried. And then cried again. Called The BF, cried more.
Alright, so I don't officially know yet what's wrong with my shins. It was shin splints, I know that. But somewhere between shin pain and Hell-taking-over-my-lower-leg, it got worse. (For anyone who cares to diagnose the problem - they ache. It's a deep pain. It doesn't ache too bad while I run, but it's stiff. After a run? Sore. But even when I'm not moving, they ache. They don't hurt too much to the touch, and only a little when I walk, but it's when I step down a flight of stairs that I'm paralyzed. That movement alone is what makes me want to, uh, die. Yes).
For now all I can do is ice them, pop ibuprofen, and not run. A doctor and a bone scan will tell me if they're stress fractures, and then what to do, but, hello, doctors cost money. So, no more long runs on the trail, in the sun, with my newly running (and very excited) BF - and no half-marathon. This is the end of the world. As I know it.
Stress fractures take at least eight weeks to heal. Eight weeks of immobility. No impact. Eight weeks of getting fat. Lazy. Banging my head on the wall every time I see a happy jogger. Eight weeks of me feeling very, very sorry for my broken self.
I feel like I'm locked in a cave. I had a plan, dammit. I felt good. I was going to run the half-marathon, do a triathlon in a month, start training for the Chicago Marathon. And if I can't do any of that? God. Dammit.
The worst part is The BF. (Now, stop. Yes, he sympathized with me. Yes, he told me, "Oh, it'll be OK." Yes, he feels bad). But we were excited. We were going to start running together. We were going to take our road bikes on million-mile missions. We were going to train for Chicago. That's a lot of we's suddenly turned into him's. And that makes me sad. Devastatingly.
So, um, God? It's me. (Yeah, whatever, I know I don't go to church). But pretty please make the injury go away, stat.
And in the meantime, it's me, a lot of swimming, a lot of crunches, a lot of swearing and a tear or two. Or eleventeen hundred and fifty-eight.