Stepping outside the box.

I love running.  Call it "runner's high" or whatever you would like but I only get that feeling twice--when I'm running and when I'm helping the less fortunate.  Personally, it's when I feel the most "spiritual" or in tune with myself and the world.  I feel whole.  It's also the one thing I do to alleviate my stress.

Training for and completing a half marathon went on my bucket list a couple of years ago but it wasn't until I went to Africa that I decided I wanted to do this goal in 2013.  I met people who were so similar to me but wiser and more experienced with life.  One of the gentlemen I met, who I would consider an awesome person, told me that a half marathon was just the beginning.  Beginning of what, I wasn't sure.  2013 rolled in and since I don't believe in making resolutions (because I'm a believer of the trans-theoretical model of change) and running was on my list of things I'd like to do more of this year, I figured, why not try to complete a half marathon?  Or maybe even two?

In January, just as I was about to start my half marathon training, I got into a car accident.  Running and working out became no-no's because it could trigger my whiplash to hurt my back, particularly my lower back.  The one thing I could do to de-stress myself, I wasn't allowed to do.  It wasn't until early April when I got cleared to start running and working out.  I had 7 weeks to train and train I did.  I committed myself to making sure I followed the training schedule.  Did I wanna quit along the way?  Heck yes.  Did I want to just stop?  Oh yeah.  But I didn't.  Did I train and eat as healthy as I wanted to?  Nope.  But I did the best that I could.  

Learning how to pace myself and last for 21.1km was a struggle like no other.

I am a 5km to 10km racer.  It's what I do, it's what I breathe.

Race day, I knew I would at least last 16km but the other 5km, I wasn't too sure.  At kilometer 5, I was still pacing myself to last while others were passing me, which was extremely discouraging, but I sticked to my pace.  At kilometer 10, I could feel a blister beginning on my right foot.  The one place I forgot to put anti-blister on.  At kilometer 15, I hit my wall earlier and longer than expected.  It lasted a total of 4 kilometers.  4 kilometers!  At kilometer 18, I told my body that 3 kilometers was a long enough wall.  I told my body that regardless of how it felt, when I hit kilometer 19, I was going to hit overdrive.  Whether or not my body liked it.  At kilometer 20, I started overtaking like I've never done so before.  Before I knew it, I was done.

Something to take off my bucket list.  Something to be proud of.  Something I accomplished for me.   

The tune that a street performer plays on his guitar.  The way the car of a subway train smells.  The taste of chocolate milk.  Monday.  A high school student’s uniform.  The set-up of the lounge/member eating area at work.  Church.  Mass.  My camera.  The force I put into almost every smile.  The sound of laughter; some belonging to others while at other times, my own, though it doesn’t seem to belong to me.  Some days, its the way sweat lingers in the air.  My old black fall/winter jacket.  The simple question, “What’s your favourite sport?” April.  When people mention ”Frankie’s.”  Disney movies.  A football.  An innocent joke that pulls at my heart strings. The rhythm of a song on the radio.  Rainy days.  A song that he would have loved and annoyed me with.  Aviators.  The way a building looks or is designed.  September.  

To anyone else, these are just fragments of their day. Some people may not even think twice of these events that have caused their day to pass. For me, they are just some of the triggers for me to miss Alan. Some days, it is everything that gets to me; other days, it is just one or two.  Regardless, they are not just blurred events of my day; they are the little things that frequently burst through my concentration through the day.  I am constantly on the verge of tears, fighting them back.

I miss the ability to write an email or text telling him that I need a chill date to save my sanity.  

Yesterday I went for a hair TRIM.  

My hair hasn't been this short since some time in 2011.  Devastated is the only word to describe how I feel seeing as how in 2012, I vowed to never again have my hair shorter than my shoulders.  

For my volunteer work in Africa, I went through the organization African Impact (AI).  One of my setbacks of going to Africa was not knowing which organization would be legitimate when I would arrive.  There are so many organizations that exist that claim to do good volunteer work however, I have also heard numerous horror stories; basically, arriving in unknown territory and finding out that the organization does not exist.  In my profession, we hear horror stories of much worse when young women travel to foreign countries in chase of their dreams.  I had to be cautious.  I chose African Impact because in 2011, one of my girlfriends and her boyfriend volunteered in South Africa through their education program.  She had heard about the organization through a family friend that had gone through African Impact's conservation program. After knowing that numerous people that had gone, survived, and had exceptional experiences, and after exchanging numerous emails with one of African Impact's program co-ordinators, I concluded that African Impact would be the right organization to go with.  

When I arrived in Livingstone and after getting debriefed about African Impact and The Happy Africa Foundation (THAF) I was more than convinced that the choice I made was the best one I could have made.  African Impact was established by a family in Zimbabwe in 2004 and is now one of the largest on-the-ground facilitators of volunteer projects in Southern and East Africa.  One of their partners is THAF--a charity that African Impact was influential in establishing.  Donations, and volunteers of African Impact, are managed and distributed on behalf of THAF within the communities.

Ever since I was 14 years old, it was my dream to go to Africa. Of course, when I was 14 I had no idea what I wanted to do, I just knew I wanted to go. 11 years later, September 2012, I made that dream a reality. It took me some time to make it a reality because other things took priority as my life happened--high school, summer school, friendships,a trip to Europe, university, more summer school, trips to other places around the world, and most pressing at the time: the simple idea of trying to figure myself out. In January of 2012, my director at work asked me when I wanted to make this dream a reality and with hesitation I replied, 'September.' She told me that the time off was granted. Excitement and nervousness rushed through me. In April 2012, a life changing event occurred and I knew more than ever that going to Africa had to happen.

On September 1, 2012, I left my home of Toronto, Ontario for a month long trip to Livingstone, Zambia. I would be doing a Sports and Community Project through an organization called African Impact. I was more racked with nerves than excitement but I once read quote that said, "The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it," Henry Thoreau. Somehow in the nervousness, I knew it would be worth it all.

It’s been a rough couple of weeks and I need a bestie. Seriously.

On April 16, 2012, the man that unknowingly held the title of being my best friend, committed suicide. I have yet to say that sentence out loud to another person.

Alan and I hadn’t had a conversation for almost two years but, I always knew that when I was ready, I could rely on him being there for me. I miss him a lot. EVERY DAY. I honestly do. I miss him at all times of the day but I miss him most between 11p.m. and 9a.m. That’s when I’m usually falling apart. It’s even worse when I’ve been having a rough day or week. I don’t talk to anyone about the way I feel any more. Everyone is tired of hearing how much I miss him and how much it hurts. Majority of people think I should be over his death by now but, I’m not. At this point of my life, my one regret is not reaching out to him when I was missing him most. I could have heard his voice, his laughter, his presence, his understanding, at least one more time before he died.

I miss him. No one talks about it any more. At least, not to me. And I think a lot of people forget how much he means to me; that I never stopped loving him. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just going to go insane from all the pain and hurt that I have inside about Alan and his death. I try extremely hard to see a positive change in myself, or others affected by his death, but I don’t see it very often. When I do, it’s in short bouts and because I know it’s what he wants; he always wanted me to be happy and live in the moment. He wouldn’t approve of my misery.

Between April 16 and today, I can guarantee that I would have started talking to him again. I can guarantee that because in early April, I was ready to reach out and I was just thinking about how I was going to approach it. What a little more time could have done.

I would give almost anything to be in the same room and have a conversation with him, one last time. I still remember the last time I talked, tearfully laughed, and hugged him: Friday, May 21st, 2010. My last in-person conversation with him. If I knew I wouldn’t hear his voice again, I would have recorded the moment and remembered every detail. I just remember the tub of gummy worms he brought me as comfort food, his futile attempts to change my mind in going to Virginia’s birthday dinner, and his belief that the hurt I was going through would get better. The tub of gummy worms was temporarily comforting, that hurt still hasn’t gotten better, and Virginia and I are no longer friends. I’m optimistic that one day, the latter two will heal. Eventually.