What if I am not a quitter?

The lies we tell ourselves

Two weekends ago, I pulled my running sneakers out of my closet, grabbed the high quality socks, slathered myself in sunscreen, took my Allegra Hives medicine, wore long sleeves and long pants, and went for a very slow walk. I didn’t know how far I would get, or how hard it might be, or if the medicine would hold up to a challenging exposure event such as this, but the cabin fever was threatening to take me whole and I clung to a tiny faith that my body would remain cooperative enough to engage in this bare minimum of outdoor movement.

As I walked alone, leaving family behind for this experiment of exercise, I was struck by how many times I had been in this position before — the former athlete now a ghost of herself. The clothing worn remembering the 10K runs they had reached, but questioning whether this was the same body who took them on those adventures. My brain and my heart who both spent half a year in sorrowful shame over the loss of self in the face of a strange collection of symptoms all incessantly whispering their maddening mantras:

My swollen foot and knee, Stay still.

The burning pain of the body-wide hives, Stay inside.

The physical deformities of these things combined, Hide yourself.

As I stepped out of the cover of the trees on the Staten Island Greenway, a path carved through the William T. Davies Preserve with so much tree cover that stepping inside on a summer day can fool you into thinking you’ve found outdoor A/C, I turned onto the part of the path that parallels Richmond Avenue — a harsh environment for pedestrians on the best of days. Richmond Avenue is a local street here with four lanes running in each direction. The Greenway is set apart from the vehicular masses by a sidewalk and a row of saplings that have years to go before they can boast any kind of helpful shielding of the elements, the eyes, or the din, of this part of the walk. Across the way a shopping center, Trader Joe’s, a gym, a furniture store and on and up the hill to fast food restaurants, pharmacies, Dollar Stores, laundromats, a gas station, a Starbucks, until, at the top of the hill, you will reach what some shopaholics may perceive to be a mirage of times past: The Staten Island Mall. While the rest of the country’s malls were faltering in pre-Covid years, ours was expanding and updating, so that now there are blocks of buildings and parking spaces to draw you within, or to entertain you outside with one of its seasonal visitors. On the day of this walk, a full blown carnival with game booths, rides and an enormous Ferris wheel blocked my view of the mall.

It was just as I first saw the Ferris Wheel break over the horizon that I had such a gorgeous personal epiphany about my own up and down, round and round health journey that, in hindsight, I can see the journey just like the ride. I am on this ride, round and round, finding myself with similar views — both spectacular and mundane —, the same old stalls on my way up and down, and ever fearful that this trip around will be my last. Time to get off! Quit. Move on to something else, the ride is over. “The ride” can be anything and, in the months preceding the walk I had started to tell myself a story about how many rides I had left, how many times I had quit something, no matter how much I loved it. In the months (and if I am being really honest with myself, years) preceding the walk, I was identifying as a quitter.

Oh the joy of that past tense.

You see, in an effort to ride the shame train, my brain spit out this thought, I can’t believe I am doing this again. Starting over back at square one!

And it continued with, How pathetic. I mean, how many times have you been knocked down?

Snidely, the inner sneer turned with the words, You won’t quit.

I won’t quit.

I stopped. I felt a little bit like the wind had been knocked out of me, but it wasn’t me, it was the inner voice, taken out with her own damn words:

I laughed and felt tears well in my eyes because there was such simple truth in those three words. It was f-ing exhausting, but if nothing else is true, this statement is: I won’t quit. I stop, I circle down, I change my views, but dammit if I’m not still on the ride waiting for a repairman, or someone to plug the thing back in.

So, if you are new here at Stop Writing Alone and you are wondering where to find the most recent podcast episode, or YouTube video, or, if you have been around since the beginning and got on the Ferris Wheel just as we were soaring up to the top of the wheel and you are wondering how long we will be stuck swinging in this bucket with views slightly less amazing than the Happy Camper days, or the very consistent 52 Stories in 52 Weeks prompts, I can say two things confidently, I am still on the ride and I am not getting off. I think its about to swing around the bottom and take another turn, so get your cameras ready as we slowly climb back up.