My Story of Love and Low Self Esteem (part 1?)

I was never the pretty girl.

Cute...maybe. Awkward...certainly; more at some times than others. Chubby? No, not really. I had a little chubby phase in my tween years before I magically melted down to 108 lbs in 8th grade and then normalized thereafter. I didn't know how to style my dark, partially curly hair so it was often just a poof (hell, these days I KNOW how to style it, but I just DON'T, so really, how far have I come?).

I guess you could say I was just "meh". Average. I didn't excel in sports. I dabbled in drama. I was the yearbook editor and newspaper staff photographer. I didn't make waves, I didn't shine, I didn't impress. I got good grades, I had [have] great friends. Funny, but not the class clown. Nice though--I was nice. To quote Maeby Funke, "You couldn't pick her out of a line-up of one".

I didn't have my first official boyfriend until the summer before my senior year. Prior to him, there were quite a few guys that I went out with but things never progressed to "official couple" status. I ALWAYS had my heart shattered. I would imagine it had a lot to do with the intensity of my desire to feel wanted and special...it probably came off too strong for a 15/16 year old guy. To me, falling in love and having someone to hug and talk to all night was the Holy Grail. That was just IT; there was nothing else.

The unexpected passing of my dad when I was sixteen made that hole feel more empty and the desire to be loved even bigger. About a year after that, I met Stan* and he immediately began to fill that hole. He thought I was pretty, funny, smart, etc. He acted like I was just the most amazing girl in the world and that there was no one else. If we were being completely honest, I think that was a big part of why I loved him.

With Stan worshiping the ground I walked on, my self esteem blossomed. I no longer had to try so hard, because I had the Holy Grail; my everything. However, I was obviously dealing with some very heavy emotions and grief that I was not quite mature enough to process. This all made my age 18/19 years very interesting. Stan was there all along. He was very sweet and supportive. We definitely didn't fit together (many people and friends noted this), but I loved him anyway. I followed him to tech school and we stayed together 2 1/2 years.

It was my second year of college that I kind of had an identity crisis. I was still with Stan because I didn't know anything else; even though by then we had absolutely nothing in common by that point and just fought all the time. I became very interested in other guys and began to flirt heavily. At one point I broke up with Stan just so that I could explore that new world, but then cowardly went back to my comfort zone. Things really, ruh-lly ended shortly thereafter. After it ended, we probably spoke about ten words to each other since then. The last time I saw him was about a year later in a group of people and he looked at the ground the whole time. I do know that he married a really sweet girl who (from what I gather) is a perfect match for him. So I have no desire to Facebook stalk or selfishly "reach out" and apologize, but if I could, I would say this: Thank you for being so nice and essentially an amazing friend to me for 2 1/2 years while I went through a lot of hidden and unprocessed emotional baggage and pain. Thank you for allowing me to realize that I am lovable when I thought I wasn't. I was just a broken and dysfunctional girl, and I'm sorry for any pain I caused.

Back to the story (...it really is going somewhere, but I fear I may not get there tonight.) For about 2 months after I ended things with Stan,  I had my fair share of partying and craziness (not, like, hard core partying, like small town underage drinking party in a barn). Self esteem, at this point, came in the form of Mike's Hard Cranberry Lemonade and Smirnoff Ice (back when it only came in one flavor) and I certainly was not lacking in either. I joined the cheerleading squad (again...we're talking small town here) and felt like I was living the life. That is,  until I woke up one morning on my former dorm-mate (AKA- guardian angel)'s couch, in her pajamas, unsure of how I got there. She explained how the night unfolded. Thankfully, nothing terrible happened outside of your usual frat party shenanigans, however there was a sneaking suspicion that I may had consumed a beverage that had a "roofy" in it. That is the only time I have ever drank and gotten to the point that I really, truly, still to this day, do not know what happened. I heard a story that they drove me to the ER, but the nurse who checked me out laughed and told them to take me home and let me sleep it off.   I cried and cried many, many tears mixed with intense relief, horror, and shame. This was not the life I had wanted.

No big deal, just running a HALF MARATHON next month...and other big things

So...yeah. I guess I have been running a bit lately

Let's start by saying that I am one of the least naturally athletic people I know, and I have historically said that runners are crazy. I did Couch to 5K with my neighbor for a couple months last summer just so we could laugh, talk, [and mostly walk] through the Portland Color Run.

One of my BFF's started C25K around the same time I did, but she stuck with it. As the months went on, I saw her become a real, dedicated, legit runner through Instagram and Nike+ app postings. I "watched" her tackle some long runs and the health and happiness that she exuded was apparent. In January I decided to bring the BOB Duallie back out and jumped right into some 2-3 mile runs. I had been doing Zumba classes 2-3 times a week, so I think I was fairly conditioned. I kept with it and ran consistently 3-4 times a week. Suddenly one day I ran 4 miles; something I have never done before. I felt so empowered by that, so I signed up for the Bridge to Brews-Portland10K. Three of my cherished friends from high school had tried talking me into running a half marathon in May, but I said that was just cray. Zee. Crazy.

Fast forward to Sunday- April 7th, 2013.

This girl...this girl right here; the never-could-be-a-runner girl; ran 6.2 miles in 1 hour and 5 minutes. (About 10:30min/mile). Now that pace is surely nothing to write home about, but what is amazing is that:
1) I ran the whole thing without stopping to walk once
2) I didn't pee myself or have to stop to pee (Lets be real. I've had 2 kids.)
3) I enjoyed myself the whole time; chatting with other racers and cheering on the mamas who actually pushed their jogging strollers during the race
4) I felt so jazzed and energized at the end that I was smiling and ready for my beer at the end (when I ran my 5K Shamrock run in 2011, I was so exhausted at the end that I passed on the celebratory green beer).

Running across the Fremont Bridge and all through downtown Portland on a Sunday morning with a few thousand other runners was such an amazing experience. The first mile was the hardest (mostly uphill), and the last half mile was pretty tiring since I was pushing myself at the end. I heard my name and time called out as I sprinted across the finish line and it made me want to cry. I did it. I just accomplished something big.

 

The whole thing made me decide to go ahead and sign up for that half marathon. Yep, all 13-point-something miles of it. If I could smile my way through 6.2 miles and chug a beer at the end, surely I could make 13. Even if I feel like I want to die at the end; even if I have to stop and walk a couple times to make it through; even if it takes me 3 hours to finish; I'm going to do it. And I seriously can't wait for that feeling when I cross the finish line because this has already required much more intensive training (um...hi 9 mile run before church yesterday...I was not smiling through that one.)

 

I think the finish will be even more emotional since the Boston Marathon tragedy on 4/16.  Not only will I be accomplishing the goal of running such a long distance, but I am also crushing my fears and anxiety about such a tragedy happening to me. After our family's near-miss of the Clackamas Town Center shooting, I have learned what it truly means to rely on God. In this world, there are sooo many things to fear and be anxious about, but day by day I am learning to let it go. There is a song that plays in my head over and over,

 

"I will fear no evil-

For my God is with me.

If my God is with me,

Whom then shall I fear?

..Lord, You never let go of me."

 

[the song is called, "You Never Let Go", I believe, but it seems like a contemporary spin on Psalm 23].

 

So there you have it. That's just ONE of the big things going on with us right now. The next time I write, I will talk about the story of how Ross's current employer told him that he's awesome and everything, but he might not be working out in the position they hired him for. So, they might let him go. Are you curious to know what happens next? I am, too...