Not so long ago, within the past few years, while I was lacing up a pair of beat up sneakers and getting ready to run, walk, whatever until my legs quit twitching and euphoria took over, someone took me aside and, not realizing how nasty I thought they sounded, said "Running! That's your answer for everything, isn't it?" What they didn't realize was, I generally try to help people long past the time I should, that I only move ON if there's danger, and that it wasn't snobbishness or lack of commitment, but a literal move, run, kill the stress with flight, type idea I had. Which should really have been obvious... of course, this person also had a tendency to believe any gossip they would hear and if they could find something negative about you, the better. No, running isn't necessarily my answer for all of life's miseries, questions, pains and woes. I walk away when I know I'll hurt you more than help you, yes. But that isn't a knee-jerk decision.
Now, when the cold snaps, and the snow piles up, and snow plows rule the night, when I keep taking headers on ice, and knowing someone out there is hurting, and I can't help them right now- I have to help me too- causes a touch of claustrophobia. I never liked feeling buried. Or not having free movement. I promised I would not be a prisoner to pain, and yet, right now I am. I broke a few of my promises to myself lately- no more "Stinkin' thinkin' " and "Don't let the pain make you a prisoner, you're better than that" and the guilt eats at me and aids in my cyclical craziness. I feel like a bear chewing my leg off in a trap.