Plantar Fasciitis is the Devil

I have Plantar Fasciitis. For anyone unfamiliar with that condition, it is a demonic attack on the heel and arch of your foot. It is a curse that will sideline you for ages. Activities must be sacrificed. Therapeutic rituals must be performed. Pain must be endured until at last the angels come to release you from your torment. I have not been released as of yet. I suppose I haven't made the appropriate sacrifices or performed all the rituals required.

Maybe that sounds funny to you or maybe you think I'm crazy. If so, maybe you're sadistic or simply have never been attacked by aforementioned demons. I hadn't before now, not even at my peak running period when I was logging 50 miles a week. Oh, but just you wait. They're nasty little boogers preying on the weak and ill informed. Once they take hold, you're in for a long, drawn out, exhausting, fitness stealing fight just to get your foot back.

I ignored the pain for months. It got better when I got moving, the worst pain occurring first thing in the morning. Ice and rolling. That's all I need. You know how runners think. "It's not that bad. I can still run. If I ignore it maybe it will just go away." Does that ever happen? Does it ever just go away? I've been fighting this since June, and after a 5k I wasn't really prepared for and a workout the following day full of jump rope, box jumps and burpees, I was unable to walk the next morning, and the pain has been pretty steady since then. That's when my doctor husband asked me if I ever planned to listen to him. Well, no. Then he said something about surgery down the road, and I kinda blacked out. When I came back to my senses, I decided to play by the rules and see what would happen.

That was almost two months ago. No running. No jumping. No heels. Everything is modified. I feel weak and boring. I feel like I'll never run again. I feel like when I try to run again, it's gonna be as bad as trying to get back in shape after my hernia surgery. Panic sets in when I wonder if it will affect my marathon plans for next year. It still hurts. I'm still not running. Not only am I enduring the torture of the pain and restrictions, but my family is suffering through life with monster mom.

I've read the cursed name on running injury lists and skimmed over it. "I run in minimalist shoes. I stretch and foam roll. I'll never get that one." Ha. I walked right into it. The monster jumped up and grabbed my foot before I knew what happened. I talked to a PT at one of my son's appointments, and she so graciously suggested, "It's the crossfit workouts you're doing. Going from running/swimming/spinning, all repetitive forward motion type of activities, to a less predictable and more dynamic way of moving, your foot wasn't strong enough. Injury. Inflammation, and here you are."

Yes. Here I am. Here. I. Am.

Next up on the list of rituals and sacrifices, anointing with oil (essential oils) and torture with needles (Therapeutic Dry Needling). We'll see if those are the extra penance I need to receive deliverance. Here's hoping.

Kneefees, saving birds and 36

You know how it goes. Some days I feel fit and strong, and some days I feel like a busted can of biscuits. Today is a busted can of biscuits day for me. It probably doesn't help when you put on compression socks and feel like they give you a muffin top above your calf. So, maybe today isn't a busted can of biscuits day, but a split overstuffed sausage casing day. That's what it feels like when I try to put on compression socks. Like I'm trying to stuff a sausage link with the wrong equipment. Or, maybe like trying to wear something that's too small and tight just so you can get some kind of relief from the soreness and tiredness you feel because you're old and inconsistent and you don't like to eat clean. I tried to take a pic, but I'm not so great at selfies...or kneefees. Whatever.

We saw a baby bird in the middle of the road on our run today. His parents were going nuts, and we just wanted to get him out of the road. So, we put him in the grass on one side. Only when we got back, he was back in the road. We decided he was trying to get to the other side. We put him in the grass over there and wished him luck. Poor thing. I'm glad we didn't come back around to find a birdie pancake, and I hope he's safe now.

I'm tired. 

I turned 36 last week. People say life begins at 40, and as I'm running and struggling in this Georgia heat and humidity, I wonder, does that mean your 30's are a slow death march for your youth? Are you slowly giving up the part of life when you didn't know what you were doing, but you could pretty much do anything you want because you were young and strong and recovered like a child? So, by 36, I should pretty much be in the throws of decay slowly reaching zombie status right before I give up the ghost of youth and embrace that big 40. I don't like in between numbers. It's my undiagnosed OCD. 36 is such a boring number. I didn't like 14, or 20, or 33. 35 was cool. Oh, well. I'm actually looking forward to 40 so the number can be divisible by 5 again. Because I'm weird.

I'm hungry. I should eat something healthy. Probably just gonna be a PB&J because I'm tired and making real food is hard.