I hate the fact that I have to move my legs because apparently work, school and a kid just isn’t enough.
I hate that I feel exposed while running. It reminds me of when I was little and exposed to violence that I did not understand until a few years ago.
I hate the shortness of breath that I feel when I go up-stairs, the treadmill, or god-forbid walk too fast.
I hate that when I do yoga to prepare for my run that I am not as good as the Instagram models.
I cannot stand the feeling of inadequacy when my legs and butt are sore for a day or two after I run.
I hate the fact that my body continues to evolve and change in ways that are painful after having my son. Why can’t my body regulate?
I hate that my lopsided chest is dripping sweat and bouncing in ungodly directions when I run.
I hate that when I look down at my body all I see is jiggly skin and stretch marks. It shouldn’t be like this.
I hate that my joints and throat ache so often even when I do not run.
I hate that my right knee swells after a minor fall when I tripped over myself.
I hate that when I am on calls with my Psoriasis group or read message boards that I have the audacity to complain about my pain. I know it could be worse.
I hate that this diagnosis peeks its head whenever it wants to.
I hate that my past creeps on me and makes me feel vulnerable and insecure about any activity I take on.
I am scared and filled with hate because I do not know where my diagnosis will take me.
I am scared because I do not know if I will sleep well tonight after running over a mile at the pace of a sprint or if my night terrors will win the fight.
I am scared for those around me who feel the same pain.
Even though I am scared, I will keep running.
I deserve to run.