I finally ran again last night. It felt SO good to get back out there, on my feet, in my body, and move. I have a lot of trouble with my body, whether its psychological or physical (usually a combination of both, unfortunately). Running helps to keep me inside my body and outside of my head, which I think is generally a better place for me to be than the opposite. When I run, I feel strong and confident and alive. I trust that my body will do what it is supposed to do, instead of turning on me when I least expect it. I feel strength and capability instead of frailness and fear. I trust my body. The trick is to get that feeling to translate into other areas.
Running helps me relieve stress, sweat out frustration, pound away anger, and breathe through anxiety. I know I love it. I know it helps me. I relish the results. So why did I spend over one month sitting on my sagging ass without doing it until last night? I know there's no sense in beating myself up over it, and that I should move forward with the good feelings it gave me and make the committment (again) to continue doing it regularly. But I can't help but think its one other form of self-punishment for some sin or another that I waste time lazing instead of running.
Why is it so hard to do the things that you like and that you know are good for you? That should be the easy part. Let the hard part be eating chocolate. Let the hard part be meanness to others. Let the hard part be distrust. And let the easy part be running.