I’m a runner. Not in the physical sense – because fuck that shit, but in the metaphorical sense.
I run from loneliness as if it’s wearing a hockey mask and chasing after me with a bloody knife.
Once upon a time, loneliness nearly destroyed me. And before it attempted to take me down, it was what catapulted me into every bad relationship I have ever been in.
Sometimes I run with a bottle in my hand.
Sometimes I run with my headphones.
Sometimes I run while tapping the keys on my beloved laptop while tweet-tweet-tweeting away to everyone and anyone who’ll listen.
I run because I am terrified that if the loneliness grabs hold of me again, I’ll make the wrong choice; or worse, that I’ll find myself in the dark place I was a few years ago.
I never want to go back there. I simply can’t.
Must. Keep. Running.
Loneliness sneaks up on me when my son isn’t here, on nights like tonight when it’s just a little too quiet in my apartment. It creeps up behind me without making a sound, placing its twisted fingers on my shoulders.
And then it tries to consume me.
My heart starts to ache as the memories flood my mind of all that I’ve known, all that I want, and all that I’ve lost.
One miles. Two miles. Three…
But I’m so fucking tired of running. Because when I take a look around I realize I’m running in circles.
Away from it, then back to it; in a Figure 8 motion that truly exhausts me.
I can’t run anymore.
So here I finally sit. Learning how to deal with it.
Squirming.
Uncomfortable me.
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