He thought I could handle it all and anything together. Like I should just listen to him because he knew best.
No part of me wanted to admit that maybe he did know best, or maybe he knew me as well as I knew myself.
So, I hung up on him and threw on a sports bra and yoga pants.
I piled my wavy hair into a messy bun and started to tie my shoes. Katie popped up from the couch. “What in the actual fuck are you doing?” she croaked.
“Going for a run, apparently,” I said more to my shoes than her.
“What?” She shook her head like her own voice was too loud for her. Then she whispered, “I seriously feel like a boulder rolled over me. Indiana Jones’s boulder.” She groaned and threw her arm over her face as she plopped back down on the couch. “You are a masochist, you know that?”
I didn’t reply because she was more right about that now than ever before.
The sun blinded me when I stepped outside. The hot, humid air reminded me that summer in the Midwest packed a punch every single day. Winter would come and steal most of the year. So of course, summer had to make a mark.
Today, it made the mark of pure, unforgiving heat.
Instead of talking to him and trying to figure out what the hell we were doing, I started my jog immediately.
I thought I heard him sigh before he fell into step behind me like always.
Each step I took at first, felt like a hammer to the head.
The feeling reminded me of a time not too long ago when I’d drink way more than I should have without anyone around.
I ran harder, wanting to feel physical pain rather than the emotional pain I was in because of him and my father.
All because of them.
I pushed harder as I corrected myself. It wasn’t just because of them. I was unhappy with myself.
Unhappy with my life.
How had I gotten there?
Katie was right. I loved my friends, but what else did I love?
I avoided everything that I could get attached to. I let my room go unpainted and undecorated, avoiding anything of meaning for years.
I avoided relationships by attaching myself to Rome.
I sidestepped attention by dressing plainly and falling back into the shadows.
I’d succeeded in making myself unhappy. It was me. Not him. Not my father.
Not anyone else.
I ran to try to escape myself, hating that I’d somehow built something all on my own that I couldn’t stand. I had the control, and maybe I’d always had the control, to make my life better, but I couldn’t see past the misery I’d inflicted on myself to do something about it.
When I tried to push myself even harder, I was jerked back by him, grabbing my elbow and bringing me to a halt.
“Whitfield, slow the fuck down or you’ll end up …”
Before he could finish, I bent over and vomited all over the sidewalk.