One year, twelve days.

That's how long it took for me to feel normal.

I have been overwhelmed by a need to write but I haven't had enough hardship lately to do so.  But here I am, inspired by happiness.  Who is this person I'm becoming?  Is this what I am supposed to be, what I always have been?

One year and twelve days ago I put on my running shoes and met some friends.  And I ran  And hated it.  I was slow and uncoordinated.  And it hurt.  But I kept running because it hurt less than the pain I had in my heart and I felt like I deserved it.  So I kept running.  Most people say they run because it clears their mind, that they can focus their entire being on that one task and it helps them find some kind of peace.  I ran because I wanted to be alone and be hurt.  Every run was another hour I had alone with my body, another hour of pain, another hour away from you.

Then four months and twenty-eight days ago I put on my running shoes and met some friends.  And I ran.  I ran thirteen and one tenth miles.  And it hurt.  But I didn't notice that until later.  What I did notice was over five thousand other runners and their families rejoicing in their victories.  A woman hugged me as I crossed the finish line and put a medal around my neck.  A man I didn't know offered me a slice of an orange and a bottle of water.  I had searched years for a sense of belonging and I had finally found it at the intersection of Delaware and West Huron.  I was home and I was loved.

Did it take me too long to realize that happiness doesn't always mean being happy?  I had wasted so much time waiting to find some kind of meaning and closure in all the pain and heartache that I couldn't see all of the beauty surrounding me.  I have found friends in strangers, love in darkness, and when I look in the mirror I see myself.

I started running because I wanted to get away from something.  I keep running because the more I do, the closer I get to me.