Here I sit, broken hearted...

I went to bed last night with a throbbing headache from crying all day.

Yesterday, I got up early with an aching knee to make it to an 8AM event at the little Marina Green in San Francisco, kicking off the 15-week Nike Marathon training program. It was really just a day to sign up and get more info about the program. Oh, and have Nike try to sell us some new shoes. But they also had all the participants do a 1-mile "getting started" run, which I sat out because of my knee. My little big huge ego was shouting, "Hey everybody! You don't know me, but I just ran 8 miles last Sunday! I could do your stupid 1-mile baby run if my knee wasn't hurting from all the training I've ALREADY been doing!"

But this was not why I cried all day.

All along the green were vendor booths: Nike (of course), Jamba Juice, Luna Bar, See Jane Run, as well as Dr. Nancy Augé, a sports therapist, who looked at my new frankenstein running shoes and said, "Wow. I think you are severely over-corrected in those shoes." Great! This is my third pair of shoes! Am I soon to be purchasing a fourth??? I told her about the pain I'm having and made an appointment to see her Monday at noon.

I had to walk about a half mile along Marina Blvd to get back to the bus stop to go home. That is when my knee REALLY started hurting. Not a constant ache, but a sharp pain every time I stepped on or off a curb or did some other random thing I still haven't figured out. All I could think about was my scheduled 10-mile run the next day. I'd walk 20 feet without pain and start getting hopeful. Then, just as I thought, "Maybe I can run tomorrow if I wear my knee brace," the pain would shoot through again and go, "No! No you are not running, you idiot! What makes you think you can run? Mu ha ha ha ha ha!!!"

Still, I did not cry.

I got to the bus stop, rode to BART, descended into the BART station one very slow step at a time, and found a bench. That's when Michael called. And that's when the tears began. I cried all the way home on BART. I cried all over Michael when he met me at the station with my knee brace. I limped and cried all the way home with Michael. And when I got home, I sat on the couch and just cried for an hour.

All day, I cried until I was dehydrated. Then, I ate some food and drank some water and cried some more. Drink, cry, drink, cry. I watched 3 DVDs. After each one was over, I'd cry again.

I cried because I was so afriad of having to give up my dream. And I cried because I didn't know what to do. Should I try and run tomorrow? Should I just give up this week altogether? Would I still be ready for the 1/2 marathon if I missed one of my long training runs? What if the knee is ruined and never gets better? I finally understood how Michael felt when he broke his collarbone. Plus, I was having PMS, which doesn't create sad feelings, but certainly magnifies the ones that are already there.

Finally, some sense worked its way into my emotion-clouded brain and told me that I should not do anything involving my knees until Monday when I see the doctor. I've trained for 12 weeks. I'm not going to lose what I've developed by taking a couple of days off. But I could lose everything by overdoing it.

And for a bit of insurance, I took 2 valiums before going to bed. Valium knocks me out and leaves me hungover the next day. It strips me of most of my drive and motivation. This is usually an undesirable effect, which is why I've managed to save almost a whole bottle for a year. But in this case, I was worried that drive and motivation might cloud my judgment in the morning and cause me to do something I shouldn't. I wasn't going to take any chances.

Today, I feel fine about my decision not to run. But that's probably just the lingering effects of valium. Plus I started my period this morning, so the PMS flood has subsided. I need to go water my plants now. They've been neglected, as have most other aspects of my life that are not related to running. Obsession is a powerful thing.