Trapped

Everyone knows that some addictions are destructive, but some addictions make their victims look like heroes.  I am a runner with a history of exercise addiction.  This addiction was literally crippling.  As the weather has gotten chilly, I headed to the gym.  While I have healed tremendously from this addiction, the tendencies still lurk in the corners of my mind.  I have to be constantly on guard.  While at the gym, I often see individuals who remind me of myself four years ago.  The look in their eye is impossible for me to miss.  It makes me want to cry.  I often want to run up to them and tell them that there is hope.  But I know that this would be offensive, so I mind my own business.  These glimpses, however, inspired me to communicate the internal state that I experienced not so many years ago. And if any of you are reading, there IS hope. 

Frenzied, frantic, full-speed ahead.  

You cannot stop, can’t even slow down. 

The numbers, constantly rushing forward.  

Faster. 

          Longer. 

                      Steeper. 

                                   Harder.  

You never get there, because you are stuck.  

Puddles form. The “weak ones” come and go, come and go.  But you keep going.  Playing games, tricking your mind. Not three hours, but sets of 15 minutes.  Anything to make it go faster.  But you are in the whirlwind.  

Reason and rationality give up and wander out of the building, leaving you alone with your madness.  And the machines.  The gods. This is your sanctuary, your temple.  Your gods are slave-drivers, and you are never enough.  

The looks creep over, but they avoid eye contact.  You know that your eyes say, “Stay away.  Don’t you dare threaten my worship.” You are immortal, you truly believe.  The room may spin, stars may dance, but you will not relent.  

You are a king.  

Oh, but you are a slave.  The whip snaps. The tyrant screams. No coach is this inhuman.  You plead with him.  But he never lets up.  Your sanctuary is a maximum security prison, and you want nothing more than to escape.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe next week. Well, maybe in a year.  

You descend, legs jello.  Don’t stumble. Hold steady. No one can know that you are faltering.  

You can do anything.  You can outsmart the machines, the weak ones, the nay-sayers.  You are the exception. And this won’t kill you. 

And it is over.  You are released. Reserves poured out before your gods, you have nothing left for the rest of life, but really, nothing else matters.  You achieved your goal.  You revel in your victory and then remember that tomorrow is only 24 hours away.  You look down to see the ball and chain.  A wave of nausea sweeps over you.  The renewed awareness that you are no master or king, but still a slave.  Your prison, the gym.  

You lift your eyes, searching for someone.  But you scared them away.