The Loneliness of a PT Student. A New Chapter.

It's been a while.

I spent the past four years, post-undergrad, planning and strategizing a way to get into a career I would love-- physical therapy.

My days of track and field are long behind me, and the mountains I overcame then, seem like small hills to me now. It's strange how life works that way. I look back on old posts and journal entries and I am suddenly back to that place I was; that person I was. Everything appeared so much bigger than me then, and I never believed I truly had the strength or confidence to overcome certain obstacles.

But I managed to do so, and I did it. I am here now. All of the small steps took me the miles I had to cover to get here. The endurance was there-- but I need it back now.

The first semester of physical therapy school was rough. Not only was the material dense and the time constraints tighter than I was ever used to, I was dealing with my own personal questions and changes: Am I smart enough to do this? Can I actually become a good physical therapist? Do I have what it takes?

I think back, and realize these questions were similar to the ones I asked when going through Army ROTC, when going through my undergraduate courses, and when running track. I always wondered what my capabilities and limitations really were and are, and if I was aiming for things too far out of my reach. I suppose, most people would recognize these thoughts as "normal," and I would agree they are right. But somehow, the questions continue to come back and haunt me in different ways in other aspects of my life where I began to feel confident in myself. Is that also normal, I ask.

Well, I ended up surviving my first semester of PT school, even with the death of a loved one-- my grandmother, the woman who helped raise me. She died before my semester ended, and I didn't have much closure except to tell myself, "I can't quit now." I still have to tell myself pretty much every day, "I can't quit now."

I skated by with all B's, and while that is good for most (because B's get degrees right), it still took a hit on my self esteem and the person I thought I was. This image has continued to carry over into my fall semester, and in someways, narrowed my vision of who I am. Then questions of who I am and am I good enough re-emerge.

I admit though, in this short bit of time, I have learned things about myself I didn't expect to learn. I never thought I could learn the anatomy of the human body in just 8 weeks. I didn't think I would understand biomechanics since I struggled with physics. But, I have somehow managed yet again.

The loneliness though creeps in at night, when I'm tired, and it's late, and I am no longer able to focus on studying. It creeps in the way your body screams at you for air when you've been under water for too long. It starts out like a mild twinge, that quickly escalates to panic. I get that feeling sometimes thinking about the life I left behind in New York. The person I was in New York and the person I am now-- am I better? Will I be better? It sets in even more when I realize the people I love and care about are so far out of my reach. Meeting up with a friend to talk over wine or food is impossible here, not because there are no bars or restaurants here, but because those friends are not here. I was accepted somewhere, and now, I find myself trying to start all over. Almost reinventing myself. But why?

That's the loneliness that I speak of.

Peanut Butter Running

The gun goes off and a surge of adrenaline goes running through my spine; it makes the legs quiver, arms and hands antsy, and the nerves jump at the slightest touch, sound, or sight. 

I feel my legs pushing and my arms inching forward as I watch in disappointment my competitors running past me. Catch up! Catch up! I tell myself, but for the first time, my mind and body feel like separate entities, no longer collaborating together. Five minutes in and my breathing becomes deep and raspy. Why can't I breathe? Where has Endurance gone? I panic. I search the area around the track-- the bleachers, the in-field, the starting line-- in hopes that no one is watching. The burning sensation of blush bloom all over my face. Effortlessly, other runners glide across the track taking quick glances at me with their eyes saying, "You're not going to make it." I begin to lose hope as I reach my all time lowest moment; a mere jog, in which for me still feels like running, but to the spectator it is a quick step or walk. I tell myself, I must be strong, I will make it to the finish, and for that moment as I think this, I imagine myself as strong as Frank Shorter or Roger Bannister-- gliding gracefully, if not flying. To the observer though, I am only inching towards the finish line in the way a caterpillar scrunches its body up and then uncoils itself only to move a centimeter or two. But I can't see myself that way and therefore I have no self-pity-- but I have the pity of others, which to me, I am not sure what's more humiliating.

Finally, I look down and realize my feet are mudding through thick, creamy peanut butter. I left my right leg with so much force and effort only to raise my knee just a few inches; barely enough to take a leap. I lift my left leg and attempt to get farther, but Fatigue has arrived. I feel the lactate acid building up in my entire lower body, slowly making its way upward to my abs, arms, and shoulders. I'm going nowhere. It is often thought that the mind can override the body in extreme situations, and for this brief moment I thought I had that ability. I tried to find something in me that would go against the odds and lift me out of the gooey mess that was slowing me down. I panic when I can't find it in me and I begin to give up. 

I was going nowhere. There's disappointment in my eyes and a heaviness in my
 heart that won't go away. I hear the spectators judging me with grimace across their faces. I don't want to look or show my face because defeat has won me over. I give up.

Then, my alarm goes off... It's 6:30 in the morning. 

The Set-Back

Injury after injury, I am set-back each year in some form or another. It's unexplainable, or at least, it has not been explained to me-- yet. Without fail, I come across at least one dangerous running injury per year. Most times, I don't train much differently, I change my trainers often, I don't increase mileage or speed without transitioning, I eat well, and I weight-train regularly. What have I been doing wrong?

I've bought books, watched YouTube videos, sought help from experienced running associates, and most importantly, I've rested. Still, nothing explains why each year some foreign injury occurs preventing me from reaching my peak goal. Am I simply prone to be injured no matter how I go about this? Is it the awful, grim truth that I will suffer to run, or run and then suffer? I'm sure biomechanics and genetics play a significant role in all of this, but I'm not a sports doctor (good ones are so hard to find) and I'm not a geneticist (not that I think it would explain all that much). But I am a runner. And I cannot live without running.

At first, I am certain it was my running form. It's a huge deal and it does make all the difference, I don't care what any runner out there says. Bad form equals bad injuries, and man, when I first started running, I had the most awful form. My coach tried extensively to train me into a better running form; hurdle drills, hip exercises, walking on the balls of my feet for periods of time-- you name it, I've done it. Of course, nothing worked. But to his avail, it happened one day, naturally. 

I woke up one winter morning-- these were the days when I lived with four other roommates in a large 4-bedroom apartment in uptown Manhattan-- and I went for a run in some new Mizunos that I bought on sale from Amazon.com. They weren't like my traditional trainers at the time, they had less cushion, basically no arch support, no cool colors or designs, nothing more than a simple running sneaker, which made it ten times lighter too. I gave them a try and sure enough, I was at mile 4 not having realized how far I ran or for how long, and how I got there just on the balls of my feet. I was no longer a flat-footed runner, but instead, a mid-foot runner.

Not long after that day, I was putting on the miles quick and with ease it seemed. But also not long after all those miles, my body broke down-- or should I say, my bones. I ended up with a stress fracture to my right foot. Before that injury, I had dealt with some tendinitis in both ankles, and recovered better than ever through physical therapy. But a stress fracture was not the same, there was simply no way of running around it, except to let it heal. It took forever it seemed. The pain went away with rest, but returned whenever I had walked for more than a mile or stood on my feet for too long. I was disappointed in myself, and I blamed myself for putting on so many miles too quickly. I was a novice, but I was eager to gain speed, endurance, and experience. This just wasn't the kind of experience I had in mind.

After two to three depressing months of absolutely no running and finally experiencing no pain, I slowly returned to running, only starting with the elliptical and the treadmill for several weeks. I eased my way back into running, trying to stay clear of my previous poor judgment. At the time, I felt I had learned a valuable lesson about my body, and I felt that the experience (to some extent) was worth having; I learned to listen to my body.

Since then, I run consciously. Yes, I like to run with music but I still zone-in on the inner voices of my body, telling me, "Your lungs are about to explode," or "You're too tired, just stop," or the worst, "You're injured; this will get worse if you don't stop now." I cannot run and ignore that kind of conversation. 

Now, I stop. I listen. But the keener I've been with my body, the more fragile I realize it is. I train for strength, I train to run, but my body sometimes cannot or will not handle it. Is this my mistake? Am I forcing something onto myself that I was no longer meant to do? I have feet, I have legs, I have calves and hamstrings, and knees, all of that is meant for standing, walking-- running! 

It's a war between my mind and body sometimes. I don't know if anyone experiences this or if anyone understands what I'm talking about. But my mind knows I can run, it knows I can reach my goals, as long as the work, will, and dedication are present. On the other hand, my body appears to be breaking down, slowly. 

I'm 25 though! I'm not anywhere near my casket or grave, and I'd be damned if I have to act like that. 

Maybe the set-back is all in my head. Maybe the set-back isn't about the war between my mind and my body, but it's about healing something that goes beyond just running. 

I haven't written or posted anything to this blog in a long time, and now suddenly, while I'm in the midst of recovering from another running injury, I feel compelled to vent these feelings, which I cannot explain what they even are, except to say that they are overwhelming and frustrating. 

Maybe something else is in the process of healing, and it must be healed before I return to running. But how long will that take, and I'm not even sure that I'm aware of what it is. 

For now, I guess I just sit-back and let time do what it's always done best-- heal and move me forward. 

Hit the Ground Running.

I survived.

I survived LDAC. Surprisingly, I had a lot more fun that I had planned, and while I left New York with doubts about my future as a potential Army officer, I came back feeling more confident than ever that this is something I want to be a part of.

I'm sure a lot of my doubts stemmed from the issues with people I dealt with here, in New York City. While many of the cadets I dealt with all had the same goals I had, their way of getting there (stomping on others toes... and dreams) didn't coincide well with my method.

I joined my school's track team to find, understand, experience, and embrace the concept of team-work. Team-work. The ability to work with others, even individuals you may have never met before, to fulfill one main goal- win, lose, train, fight, laugh, cry, but never give up.

We have survived the trials of miles and miles of trials together. We are a team. All I wanted was to feel like I was a part of a team; something bigger than me and my life.

Over the four weeks I was at LDAC I again found this sense of comradery within my platoon, and even more so within my squad. I was surprised and shocked. No one tried to step on my toes, no one tried to put me down or tell me I was incompetant. I was exactly the person I wanted and needed to be and they accepted me. I accepted them and we carried on.

I was right though; four weeks to four laps. The first week went by so fast, all excitement and adrenaline. The second lap was pure shock, "Holy crap, I'm really here... I'm really doing this and there's no turning back." The third lap was exhaustion, but I had to keep running; I had to keep moving, the finish line was too close to stop then. Finally, the fourth lap- time slows down, your legs tire, your lungs want to burst out of your chest; "I can't hold on," I tell myself. But I hold on anyway, and I keep running, even if that means I've slowed down for even just a second or two. I keep running.

I crossed the finish line.

Now here I am, back in New York City, back at school; back in my normal routine- work, class, track, homework, sleep, and all over again the next day, and the day after.

I find myself daydreaming back to certain days at LDAC. After a long day of patrolling, we all picked a spot on the ground outside, laid out our mats and sleeping bags and talked about our lives back home while looking up at the stars. It was a clear night and the moon was as bright as I ever seen it. In New York, the lights of the city outshine and dim the light of the stars and moon. This was something new for me. I told my guys how much I missed running, and all the places I'd like to run at when we graduated.

I run now, and I imagine them running right next to me, or running after me, hollering, "Run Ash! We're gonna get you!" and then laughing as they come after me. We were kids once. We'll be kids again.

Four Weeks, Four Laps.

For the past two weeks, I've been worrying about leaving to LDAC. What is it going to be like? Will I be able to perform to the standard? Will I fail and then fall a part afterward? So many questions and no answers.

I leave tomorrow morning, alone on my flight to Ft. Lewis, Washington. I have no idea what to expect and how miserable the experience will actually be.

Something occurred to me today though. I thought about people like Wes Santee, John Landy, and Roger Bannister. The best milers during the late 1950's. My heroes. I also can't forget the Father of Modern Day Distance Running, Frank Shorter-- my idol. I've read through and through the backgrounds of these four individuals, and what I found was, despite their different backgrounds, these individuals broke barriers-- world record barriers, as well as emotional and mental ones.

These four individuals have worked towards their goals through adversity. There were many failures, many victories, gold medals won and lost. But the experiences that counted most for each of them, were the ones for which they took the impossible and made it possible. Yes, there was fear, pressure, the possibility of another failure, but when they inched onto that starting line, no doubts crossed their minds.

I mentioned in my previous post, I have felt the tortures and slavery of the 1500m run. While I hate the world and everything in it during the race, a feeling of overwhelming strength and power comes over me whenever I complete it to the best of my ability.

Four laps for 1500m. Four weeks at LDAC, and I imagine it being just like the 1500m race. My first week, complete adrenaline and excitement; I am full of energy, ready to work-- holding a fast, hard pace. My second week, it will hit me then: "This is really happening, I am really doing this." I'll fight to maintain my pace without slowing down for more than a second. By my third week, I will be ready to give up and waive my white flag in. Everything mentally and physically will be exhausted beyond belief and I am just looking for a damn good reason to quit because I fear the shame of blush and embarrassment.

I don't know what we're fighting for anymore and I don't know why we're at war. I don't know why we have our soldiers and comrads dying overseas, fighting for something that everyone back home doesn't understand or care about. Something that soldiers don't understand, but have to care about. But this wasn't a war that required a draft like Vietnam. This was all volunteer-based and we all gave our lives away when we signed on the bottom-line. I signed on the bottom-line and I still don't know why.

I wanted to belong to something bigger and stronger than me. I wanted to be stronger and better than the old me. I want to be brave and courageous and selfless, but I don't want to die, and I don't want to see my friends die. I don't want to see my friends return from a deployment, no longer the same cheerful characters I once knew them as. War changes you. The degree for which one changes, varies. Everyone is different.

But decisions and choices have already been made and I will get on that plane tomorrow morning. I will get on that plane in fear of shame, blush, and embarrassment-- because I have too much damn pride. And like my four idols, I will break my own barriers and do what it is that I don't know I can do.

The fourth week, the final-lap bell will ring, and I will suddenly get another surge of adrenaline; hoping for some sort of encouragement from someone, somewhere; anyone, anywhere.

My mind and body will push through that last week just like it pushes through that last lap of the 1500m race. The desire to quit will be there, but I will not quit...

Who knows, I might come back feeling stronger... For once, feeling proud. Maybe.

It's Only Pain.

The majority of things I've learned in life, I learned from running. While that sounds like a strong claim to make about something that is only considered a "sport," like all other sports, I can say that statement is true for me, and maybe me only.

I leave for LDAC in just a few days, and suddenly the anxiety and nervousness has started to kick in. This year passed by so quickly, and like fog in a mirror, it now looks like a blur. It feels like just yesterday when I was telling myself, "Yeah, I only have a year before I leave to LDAC- I've got time." Time is nearly up now, and I have to face a reality once I go and come back: I will be an Army officer next year.

I've been struggling for a long time with my choice to join the Army. I was set on joining the Air Force a while ago, and when things went wrong with that, I thought, "Well, it doesn't matter what branch I join, what matters is that I serve the same country." I've always felt a sense of pride in the security and comfort that the military has always provided. There is something about the act of being selfless that I am drawn to and somewhere in my life, I needed to find something that would make me act that way.

Army ROTC has been an emotional roller-coaster for me. Between making nearly no friends and then losing the few friends I had to all the cut-backs the program is making, I find myself alone, trying to make it through. I'm outnumbered by males and they don't even understand half the struggles I've dealt with and continue to deal with just being a women in the program. Men constantly treating me like a piece of meat, or treating me like I'm helpless and incompetent. The incompetent part is what frustrates me the most; being viewed at as a piece of meat, well, that's something men will do no matter where you are, if you're a woman.

I joined my school's track team in hopes of physically becoming more competent. Army training is all about enduring something; mostly things that suck, mostly pain... but as a soldier, you endure it. What better sport to teach me how to endure things than running?

I've been on my team for two years now. I've gone through so many up's and down's with running. As I mentioned in my last post, the amount of injuries I've had in a year is great enough reason to quit all together and move on to something else. But I couldn't do that. I can't do that.

The injuries are unavoidable. I've pushed my mind and body to limits that I never imagined before. The workouts- what can I say? They're gruesome, time consuming, and most importantly, painful.

Running the last repetition of a 12 x 200m workout. My hamstrings want to give out, and my calves are screaming at me to stop. My mind is fighting a war with my body, commanding it to move faster, move faster because the finish line is only 30 meters away and I have too much damn pride to just stop before the finish line. Too much pride. 

I cross the finish line, finally, knowing that my body just endured something incredible. The desire to quit, without actually quitting. Everything in my body was crying in mercy for me to stop, but my mind wouldn't and couldn't let it. I know better.

I know better than to quit in the last lap of a 1500m race. My first lap, all adrenaline, I feel invincible. The second lap, reality sinks in, "Holy shit! I'm really running this... FAST!" And the third lap, my body is telling me, "We can't take this anymore! QUIT! DIE! DO-SOMETHING!" The bell of the fourth lap rings, and my mind commands precisely at that moment, "400 meters to go! We have to finish this shit, and finish it NOW!"

I turn the last turn, 100 meters left, and there is nothing left in me. I am sprinting my heart out. Every step is heavier and harder, searching for some traction in the ground to help push me through. I'm even praying that a gust of wind will blow along with me as encouragement and hope that I will get through this. But no such wind usually comes along, and the ground below me doesn't change, it is all up to my body now to push me through those last final 100 meters to that finish line.

And I have endured the pain of that fourth lap many times, and each time it gets harder and more painful, but progression shows when I see that my times have gotten better and better. My hard work is paying off.

After all, it's only pain... And then, I can breath again.

"Why Do You Run?"

I've been asked many times from numerous people, "Why do you run?"

There's only one simple answer: Because I just have to.

Immediately, eyes open wide and seconds later the thought of sarcasm settles in, and they laugh or giggle. But I'm not laughing or giggling when I tell people, I just have to.

Most people don't understand the extent for why I run and what suddenly got me so crazy about it that I just can't stop. I've been injured so many times- stress fractures, shin-splints for months on end, tendinitis, ITB-syndrome, you name it, I've probably had it. If they are lucky enough to hear about my range of injuries, the next question that follows is: "So really, why do you run again?"

Because I just have to.

I know it seems that those five simple words don't really explain much, but if you're smart, you will know and understand that there is a story behind it all and how it happened and why it has stayed for so long.

The story, I admit, is a long one, and not a victorious one; I never won any gold medals or made it to the Olympics or even placed first at any of my track meets. The story is kind of sad and tragic, and long. But I won't tell you why I started running, not yet at least. It's too soon and it's a lot to put out there all at once, and I'm not sure if anyone is even listening or reading this. There's always the fear that someone isn't listening or reading because then it seems as though I've written all of this for nothing and for no one.

But I just have to.

I have to one day tell you why I run.

It's the way I feel when I paint the earth with my feet and remind it that I am still here and I still care. The way I leave footprints in the soil so the runner behind me finds my trail. The way I run in the footprints of others before me and think to myself, "I want to make my own path someday." It's the way I feel when my lungs want to explode out of my rib-cage and beg for oxygen, and at the same time my legs are pressing on-- forward, forward, forward, even though there is nothing left in them... but they somehow move. It's the freedom I feel when I've finished; no one can touch me, hurt me, make me feel bad about myself, tell me what I can or cannot do, judge me, laugh at me, or ridicule me. I'm free to be who I want to be, the person I've always dreamed of: strong, confident, and capable of anything. That is why running matters.