I was thinking about my relationship with discomfort this morning on my long run. Walt and I set out to do 12 miles, and sure enough, at about mile 6, this twingy thing I’ve got going on with my left hamstring reared its ugly head.
Of course Walt is of the opinion that I should keep running, even if my leg were broken. Times like these, he spouts this mind over matter shit that makes me want to punch him in the neck.
He claims he developed a totally different relationship with pain when he crossed the finish line of the Vermont50. That by running through discomfort, you eventually come out the other side.
This was the very same race, I might add, I pulled out of at mile 33. I mean, really, people were not designed to trail run up and down 15 mountains, across 50 freaking miles.
The only problem is I have to go back and finish this heinous, unreasonable race because I do not want to slide back into my old avoidant ways.
I think we get ourselves in trouble by running from discomfort. As obnoxious as Walt can be, I know the man has got a valid point.
When I first came out of college, I hadn’t the faintest clue who I was or what step I was supposed to take next. I’d taken up the study of chemistry simply to impress some guy. Poised to go out into the work world, to take a laboratory job I knew I would hate, I was desperate to find an out. Of course, like so many confused young women, I wanted to take the easy way out by getting married. I wanted someone else to take on the fears and doubts so I could sit back and enjoy the ride.
I got totally thrown off course when I married my Iranian boyfriend. I had allowed my overwhelming desire to be rescued by a man, to evade all adult responsibility, to cloud my judgment. I lost the ability to be selective, to recognize what I required in a mate, what I yearned for from life. All because I was terrified to face discomfort.
Of course, I don’t have to look too far to spot other people doing damaging things to avoid pain as well.
One of my oldest friends, for instance, is in the process of divorce. He and his wife still sleep in the same bedroom because they can’t bring themselves to tell their children. Thanks to the stress, he’s down to his fighting weight, AND he’s making himself seriously ill.
A former client couldn’t throw her unemployed, grown son out of the house because she couldn’t face his anger. He still lives in her basement, and she’s got her head back in the ostrich hole.
Let me ask you a few “coaching” questions:
- What conversation are you avoiding that will precipitate WWIII?
- What question are you not asking because you don’t want to know the answer?
- What situation are you putting up with because better the devil you know than the devil you don’t?
- What are you not doing because you’ll wind up rocking the boat?
- How are you, in other words, playing it safe?
Wilma Mankiller, the first female principal chief of the Cherokee nation, once described how the cow runs away from the storm while the buffalo charges directly toward it—and gets through it quicker. Whenever I’m confronted with a tough challenge at this point in my life, I have no intention of prolonging the torment. I become the buffalo. I think you should too.
You may be wondering how I handled the last 6 miles of my run this morning.
Well, I sent Walt ahead because I didn’t want to hear his guff. And I shuffled along just like Cliff Young. I played with the edge of discomfort, pushed myself further, imagined healing light, and directed my breath to my hamstring, just like I learned in yoga.
And, yah, I hurt. But it sure as shit beat walking home in the cold for 6 whole miles.
We are all faced with storms. As long as we are alive, we will never be free of them. We have two choices. Be the cow who runs frantically in the opposite direction as long as it can. Or be the buffalo, and charge that bitch so we can get it over with.
Be the buffalo.
