all kinds of honesty.

remember when i said giving up running was easier than i thought it would be? i lied. i don't think i knew i was lying. but this week, it's becoming clear. giving up running is sort of equivalent to stabbing myself in the eye. every day as the clock strikes 6 p.m. and 11 a.m. on the weekends.

and it's sort of killing me.

see, for as long as i can remember i've had what others might call a vice. in high school, when i was stressed i didn't eat. in college, i drank away my anxiety. then, post college, i found a healthier way to deal with stress. running.

and i fell in love. because every day, i pushed myself farther and harder. it was a passion. i studied it. learned how to do it better. got friends involved. shared my love for it with the blog-reading world. paid money to do it in massive crowds down roads that stretched 13.1 miles. i ran through injuries. through pain. through snow and ice and sticky, thick humidity. and each time i finished, i felt a little more alive.

then there was the added bonus - it made me skinny. but not gross skinny. healthy skinny. and my metabolism went through the roof. so i could eat whatever i wanted to. i didn't have to worry about that any more. the 20 pounds i gained due to the drinking in college came off. i looked and felt better than i can ever remember feeling.

the last time i really ran was in the brew to brew. that was over a month ago. i've tried to replace it with hot yoga. and the elliptical. and lots of dog walks. but it's not exactly doing the same thing for me. i feel yucky. all the time. i keep looking at my body, swearing that it's gaining pounds and pounds of cellulite in place that used to be toned, firm and beautiful. i try on jeans and take them off again. i get depressed. so i just eat salads for a week. but that doesn't matter. why? because the medication i'm on slows your metabolism. great.

i'm struggling with this. a lot. and it's really hard.