#1
“Go Hot Dog!”
There
was nothing I wanted to do more than cut myself.
I kept a jittery record of the passing minutes
as midnight approached. The stars jumped out of the cold black sky; in another
half hour, I was sure I would see fireworks somewhere.
Holidays made me nervous. I had feared tonight—feared
facing my twenty-six-year-old self and seeing I spent my New Year’s Eve all
alone.
My breath clouded in the December air. Despite
being less than thirty degrees outside, I had known a far deeper coldness. So
often I had pretended not to care that somewhere, not too far away to be heard,
people were celebrating. People were happy. It was a brand new year, time to
welcome another fifty-two weeks of possibility, time to rejoice in the
experiences to be had over the upcoming year, time to participate in the
holiday that exists simply to celebrate being alive.
If I did not start to act alive soon I would lash out at
myself. How unworthy I felt of life when I only heard it celebrated from a
distance.
I had not cut myself in ten years, but I
knew I was veering too close to the edge to be sure I was safe now. Over the
past decade, I had thoughts about it from time to time, but I rarely felt any
commitment to these thoughts. Now I felt the intention growing with the
thoughts; they grew as my own realizations of my life grew: I saw little value
in myself. I was still living with my parents, even though I was a full-grown
adult. I had no one special in my life. I had no degree beyond high school, and
even though I had left most of the terrible feelings about myself there, they
were crashing against those doors as if I had never overcome my struggles. I
looked at my arm and saw it as if it were already opened up.
I could not forget the panic of going
too far, either. I had stopped hurting myself ten years ago because the
self-mutilation was starting to not only punish me, but terrify me. When I
first started at fifteen, it was hard to even make a mark. Within two years, I
became afraid that if I went much further I would end up killing myself. I did
not know if I was ready to live, but I was not ready to die.
I ran in place, trying to keep myself
warm as I looked up at the stars. I had the unshakable feeling that something
far above this snow-covered park watched me and knew of my battle. I felt ready
to run forward; there would be no hiding in my parents’ basement tonight. People started to gather on the pavement, jogging
in place with me as the time drew nearer to midnight. Everyone had large numbers
pinned to the front of their running clothes; they chatted and laughed in eager
excitement. My stomach started doing gymnastics as I took a deep breath and
found myself in the middle of a large crowd.
Although I did not know what to expect
in the next half hour, I had heard that some people planned to wear outlandish
costumes. The spirit of this adventurous crowd soothed my fragile nerves; in
fact, as the front of the crowd suddenly rushed ahead into the black night, I
was practically laughing.
There is something about seeing a hot
dog running down the street that puts a smile on my face. Maybe because it was
so late at night, or because it was winter time in Utah and so cold I ran
through my fogging breath. Maybe it was that this man just felt like dressing
up like a hot dog tonight and did not let anything stop him.
As I ran, I saw Father Time and a high
school boy wearing a cheerleader uniform—with a skirt. Several people ran with
golden retrievers, undoubtedly chasing the hot dog.
So
this is what I would have missed had I stayed in my comfort zone tonight,
I thought running among the three hundred people circling the park for the annual
5K: “Beat the New Year.”
The race started promptly at 11:30 p.m.,
giving runners a half hour to run 3.1 miles. My feet crunched over the
snow-covered pathway at Sugarhouse Park in Salt Lake City. My legs ached as I
pushed them forward, but in that moment, I felt like I was leaping over all the
ruts in my life.
Keeping pace with a girl wearing nothing
but a red bikini and running shoes, I watched as the bare skin of her legs and
back began matching the color of her swimsuit. The race gave awards for best
costumes and the C-c-coldest Runner. Circling rolling hills of twinkling snow,
we looked like cartoon characters escaping into a human world, running in the
night cold because we didn’t know better.
Three bundled-up children stood beneath
a lamppost, cheering on participants. “Go Runner! Go Bikini Girl! Go Hot Dog!”
In the crowd of spectators, I spotted
Heidi, a close friend of many years. Her blonde head poked out of blankets piled
high around her shoulders. I heard her cheer, “Go Holly!”
I crossed the first lap of the 5K with
only fifteen minutes remaining on the large race clock. The cold air bit
through my ears and numbed my fingers, making me regret not bringing gloves or
earmuffs. In this crisp winter air, it was becoming hard to breathe.
My lungs burned, my mouth tasted like a
bag of frozen peas, but the girl in the bikini didn’t stop, so I wasn’t going
to either. Looking around at all the
runners, I saw focus, excitement, and struggle in their eyes. Yet every face also
had its own spark of elation, something I would not believe beside the
twinkling midnight snow unless I saw it for myself. Even in this cold, I had
never seen a happier group of strangers.
A ten-year-old running behind me looked
at his watch. He turned to his dad and huffed between heavy breaths, “Five
minutes ‘til midnight.”
One last hill to conquer. I could see my
shadow as I lifted my knees high against the steep ground. It moved like
someone I hardly recognized, refusing to yield to the challenge of the
environment. I pictured myself running tall, a small-framed, green-eyed girl with
a long, brown ponytail whipping behind her. At the top of the hill, my legs
pushed to a full sprint. I spotted Heidi in her blankets, cheering at the
finish line.
28:45 flashed on the clock as I finished
my first 5K. I rubbed the sweat from the back of my neck. I did it! And I’m sweating in
this icy air!
A gloved man standing just beyond the
finish line smiled warmly. “Congratulations,” he said, handing me a wooden
plaque engraved with “Beat the New Year!” I held it against my chest as I
slowed down to a walk. The crowd began to chant, “Five, four, three…”
Fireworks sparkled against the black
sky, the loud bangs and whistles mixing with the sound of cheers. So much for
harming myself. Now I was celebrating in front of the fireworks instead of only
hearing them from a distance.
I could see Heidi walking towards me, handing
me a steaming cup of hot chocolate.
“You finished!” she said, practically singing
her words as she wrapped the blankets tighter around her shoulders.
“I kn-now!” I spoke out of numb
lips. “It f-f-feels so good!”
As I sipped at the hot chocolate, burning
the tip of my tongue, I knew I might be finished with this race, but I still stood
at the beginning of something much larger. Right now, it was easy to feel the
pride of having beat the new year, of having beat the fear of pushing myself so
far out of my comfort zone. Next week, I might feel so bad again that I stand only
millimeters from a razor.
Although I had managed to stop my
self-harm behaviors all those years ago, somehow I knew, if I returned to
cutting myself, there would be no coming back.
I needed to find another new experience
to keep me feeling alive.
