It was the most difficult marathon I've run to date, for a myriad of reasons. I should feel good about finishing, about getting my best time to date, about showing-up for work the next day when I'd intended to take the day off. I really should feel good about myself, about this accomplishment. I suppose somewhere, deeper inside than I'm looking at this moment, I do.
I'm still suffering though. I lost a lot in my life and have only myself to blame for it. My dear ones all tell me it was never right, and that I'll see that someday. They tell me I'm not entirely to blame. But I know that it was, and I know that I am. And he knows it too.
He closed the door finally. And while that's a wonderful thing in the long run, it's what we both needed, being shut-out never feels good. I gave it everything I had to give at the time, and it wasn't enough. Or, perhaps, all I needed was to stop giving, and everything would've balanced out.
Anyway. I ran a marathon. Yay me.
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