Breathe

It's early. The morning air brushes the skin I have exposed, leaving goosebumps on my legs and arms. Lightly pinching my face and brushing aside what's left of last night's sleep. There's only a few that stir at this time of the morning and I take in the serenity. The peace of sunrise before the world wakes and takes up its beating drums. Before we're engulfed by sounds, sights and smells. And buried under to-do lists. And chained to that ticking clock. At this hour time seems to slow down, each minute feels longer. I have so much time. Yet never enough my mind reminds me, get a move on.

Starting is hard. Legs heavy, lungs tight. Mornings like this one, particularly so. I feel the weight sitting on my chest. I gently prod it, testing its size and texture and it makes the pit of my stomach tighten and my skin crawl. Today I need this. It's been a few too many days and that weight is starting to become unbearable. Suffocating. I breathe. In. Out. Pushing the air out through my mouth and with it trying to move some of this weight so it's more comfortable. It seems solid and immovable.  

"Let's go," she breaks through to get me moving. "Let's do this."

There's mist on the river this morning. Dulling the rising sun, and I can hear the echo of the rowers further out on the water. Gliding up river, the only sound is that of their oars in the water and that voice calling encouragement and shouting instructions from the tinny running alongside them. I let their activity distract me as I hit start on my watch and take up my leaden rhythm. My breath is short and sharp. "Breathe," she reminds me. "Nice long breathes from your belly, slow it down, breathe."

I'm trying. But my mind is in the driver's seat this morning. I battled with it when I woke up just to get out here. "God this is hard today," it huffs. "Look how sore my legs are, they're so tired." "I can't breathe." "I think my left shoe is tighter than my right." "Bloody hell this is uncomfortable, I can't breathe." I roll my eyes and double down on trying to focus on my breath. 

"That's it," she smiles. "Just keep focusing on that breath." It's easier said than done. The tightness makes it feel like my lungs won't work. The weight as though some invisible force or person is sitting on them. I can't get my breath in further than my chest, it's painful. And my mind is letting me know how frustrated it is. It has the patience of a disgruntled toddler. But she's stronger. "Keep going, you know the first kilometre or two is the hardest. Keep going."

On any given day the weight sits precariously on a ledge. It could tip over into panic if I let my mind take over and fail to keep it steady. Or, if I can get enough strength under it, I can push it up and get some breathing space. It takes constant work and care. This morning I'm in desperate need for that space and I can only trust that she's strong enough to hold ground while I loosen the grip my mind has on it.  

I pull my focus back to the water sliding past me and I push my body forward, slowly increasing my pace. One foot in front of the other, a rhythmic thud that echos out into the water and the mist. My breath is still catching and it's beginning to get uncomfortable. "Relax and breathe into it," she encourages. Breathe. Slowly in. Slowly out. It's like a guidepost. The moment I start focusing on it my mind's chatter fades to background noise.

I'm reaching the two kilometre mark and I can finally feel the weight move a fraction. It's taken longer than usual today. It's that feeling of being dumped by a wave, the weight of the water on you as you tumble and fall before you reorient yourself and start swimming for the surface. The light begins to shimmer and dance and you know you're about to break through it. I pick up my pace again, eyes locked on the horizon, steely determination and zero time for my mind's crap. I've had enough of it's chatter.

She's smiling widely now. "There we go, now we're talking. You've got this," she cheers. And I do. I always knew I did. It's hard, it's hurting, but I can see the surface. I've got this.

I finally break stride. My lungs open up - pushing past my chest and filling, expanding down and out. It's that first gasping breath as you break the water's surface when you've been down a little too long. It's deep. It's greedy, as it floods my body with oxygen. My body instantly relaxes and I sit back into the pace, letting the big muscles do the hard work. My shoulders, which I hadn't realised I'd been holding so tightly, drop and relax into the rhythm of my swinging arms. I let out a huge sigh of relief and smile. There we go.

My mind has packed up and left. Wiped clean with the wave of oxygen and endorphins that came with that first real breath. It's all beautiful, enjoyable running from here and I'm smiling. I CAN BREATHE. Now I can put my body through it's paces and give it a challenge. She's smiling too. "You're killing it this morning! Great pace, well done." And I give myself a moment to acknowledge she's right. I've managed to push that weight up off me, I'll breathe easier today. I shake out my arms and shrug my shoulders, the last of that crawling feeling going with it. It feels like sweet fresh air. Clean, crisp, cold water. I've taken back my body and I can feel its strength.

Tomorrow morning I'll have to fight my mind again to get up and put on my shoes. Tomorrow morning that weight will have dropped back towards me. By how much I don't know. That's the thing with anxiety it's always just there at the edges, threatening to get a little heavier and a little harder to breathe if I let it go unchecked for too long. But she's there too. And I know when I give her some space to move, she's far stronger. That's why I run. Because my mind needs running in the same way my body needs oxygen to breathe.

Sx