Break Free & Be Broken
Read Break Free & Be Broken Online
Authors: Eros Winter
Break Free
&
Be Broken
Copyright © 2015 Eros Winter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Violations may result in broken limbs.
Contents
To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else i
s
the greatest accomplishment.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Beep! Beep! Beep!
My eyes snap open, bringing me from the black of sleep to the black of my room. My head is groggy, my limbs: heavy.
God damnit. Morning always arrives too soon.
I let my hand fall hard on the shoddy plastic of my alarm, silencing its shrill morning cry. Good morning, world. And good morning, life. Deep breath in, deep breath out, and rise.
I don't bother looking back at the clock as I get to my feet. I know the time. It's five AM. It always is. My body screams for me to lie back down and, at the very least, wait for the sun. I do not heed the cry. Rather, I slap a palm to my forehead and give a little shake, shrugging off the last remnants of sleep. Sleep and I have no love for each other. It grips me tight in the morning when I don't want it and leaves me stranded at night when I wish it would come.
But alas, it matters not.
I remain in darkness as I travel from my room to the kitchen. There's no real reason for this; black just seems to match my mood at this hour. When warm carpet turns to cold tile, I know I've arrived. From here, it is only three more steps to the sink, and next to the sink, same spot as before, is my water cup. I fill it up and drain it into me, not once but twice. I savor the feeling of moisture washing over my dried out throat and tongue. The second helping lacks the pleasant sensations of the first but must still be done. I once read that you should drink two cups of water in the morning since you dehydrate during the liquid free hours of sleep. I don't remember the source, but I've done it since I read it and have never thought to quit-just one of those pieces of information that became part of me.
Hydration complete, it's time to run. Still in shadow, I retrace my steps out of the kitchen and make my way to the front door. The only light in the room is the lazy red flick of the smoke detector-not nearly enough to see by-but I don't need light for this. I've traced this path a thousand times; it too, is a part of me. My shoes, always where I left them, are easy to find. I put them on and begin the careful process of lacing.
I move slow and smooth, leaving no room for error, for surely I can't afford two tries on a single knot! Twist, loop, spin, pull. Equalize the knot, pull again. Finished with the first shoe, I move on to the second. This lace requires even more care. One wrong tug and I could end up with a varied tightness on each foot... that would drive me mad. With careful precision, I create the knot and stand, flexing my ankles to check my work. Feels good. Feels right.
Marvelous.
I throw on a jacket and take a moment to jog in place-let my blood start flowing now before it becomes thick with the cold from outside. I can't warm up for long. I am eager to get started. This is my first major task of the day. The sooner I get to it, the sooner I can check it off the list.
Oh, how I love checking things off my list!
The last thing that must be done before departure is simply starting the timer on my watch. A few easy movements of my fingers get the job done. The seconds begin to tick. I wait with brittle patience. I always start at ten, and it
has
to be exact. The count reaches nine. I grab the door, swing it open, and run.
Snow crunches under my foot with the very first step out the door-an auditory reminder of how damn cold it is (as if the icy wind scything through my jacket and wrapping around my legs wasn't indication enough). I don't particularly like the cold. It bites into me without care: without mercy. In theory, I could dress warmer. Most would not consider a light hoodie and shorts as appropriate winter attire, but I suppose for me, that is exactly what makes it appropriate. I pride myself on being harder than the rest, and besides, effort will bring me warmth soon enough. I concentrate on my breathing to distract myself from the cold as I gallop down the street. I have to push myself harder than I'd like in order to increase my core temperature-another benefit of my skimpy attire.
It's Wednesday, so naturally, I follow the Wednesday route. This route is one of my favorites: a quick 4.3 miles, mostly flat with a couple gentle hills; no quad roasting climbs or knee busting descents. I have it set this way because Wednesday is also leg day, and it wouldn't make much sense to beat up my legs running before I brutalize them lifting... but damnit Chales! You need to concentrate! Last week you put up a record time on this route-25 min 22 sec-beating the previous record by an unprecedented eleven seconds. It is going to take maximum effort to match that, let alone beat it.
I tuck my chin, lean slightly forward, and put my feet to the task. I can do this. I
will
do this.
About two thirds of the way through the run, I'm hit with the ugly realization I've been pressing too hard. My breathing is too ragged for this spot; my heart beats are too sharp. I check my watch: 16.47. Good. Good. I can afford to slow for a moment and regain my composure.
I reduce my speed by a couple percent. A minute passes, and I don't feel better. I reduce my speed a little more. Still, I do not recover. Hm. A dilemma. Do I maintain this speed to the end or slow even more in hopes that I can sprint the finish?
I think of the glory success will bring and it makes me greedy. I decide to try for the best of both worlds. I will maintain speed
and
sprint the end. After all, what good is the body if it can't surpass limitations?
No good. No good at all.
By the time I reach the final turn, the air in my lungs is a solid mass and my heart is pumping jello. On top of that, my feet have turned to stone. I clunk along, struggling to step, struggling to breathe! My home looms in the distance, a little less than a quarter mile away. I check my watch: 24.10.
Shit. I need the sprint.
I pull all my awareness into my eyes and stare at my goal, imagining it as a magnet and myself as a hunk of metal, willing myself to be sucked in. Half my imagination comes true-I certainly do feel like I'm full of lead-but my house doesn't become a magnet, and I'm stuck hauling along a heavy metal frame.
I'm not going to make it...
The thought angers me, giving me a heaven sent burst of speed. The burst, however, quickly falters. As it fades, I reach inside for one last huzzah, but the only thing I find within is a raging ache in my side. Fear of defeat warps into acceptance of it, and the weight of acceptance crushes the little momentum I had left. I slip from run, to jog, to walk in a matter of seconds, two buildings away from my own.
Failure. Fucking failure.
Just for fun, I check my watch to see how wonderfully I underachieved. The time is laughing, concealing its truth behind a wicked grin. I have to glance twice to comprehend the sight before me.
I still had ten seconds.
I could have made it... I could have fucking won... the thoughts are panted as if spoken through my throbbing lungs. God damnit.
GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!
The poor sapling at my feet is taught the harsh lesson that sometimes you are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I stomp it with the soles of my shoes, rip at it with my hands, and then-when I become unsatisfied with the ineffective nature of my attack-throw my whole body onto it. I bounce off and into the snow with a hurt shoulder and wounded pride.
I lay for just a moment to gather my breath, then slam a handful of snow into my face and get to my feet.
Fuck this fucking shit.
I have no problem finding the energy to stomp like a troll to my door OR to throw it open with a savage heave. The door knob slams home into the comfortable divot it has in the wall. The violent bang startles me and crams a bit of calm into my being. I threw the door a bit harder than usual, so I check the divot to be sure it hasn't gone any deeper. Fortunately, no more damage was procured.
How quaint. A bit of luck on a luckless morning.
I kick off my shoes like I'm punting a skull, giving them freedom to travel anywhere they wish to go, then rip off my jacket and hurl it as far as the flapping fabric will allow it to fly. I make a mental note: I will have to reposition them into their usual placements later.
I'll be damned if I'm going to do it now.
I slap on a light and sulk into the kitchen, moving straight to the sink for more water. A thought so evil enters my mind I experience a moment of devilish glee. I could neglect myself of hydration: punish the body that punished my mind by being weak! But no. No. I must drink.
I always drink.
I only down one cup this time, but that is normal. My hydration will continue at breakfast in the form of a tall, cold glass of cranberry juice.
Speaking of breakfast, it's time to begin.
I move to the fridge and pull out a carton of eggs. I carefully select six, making sure to leave the remaining eggs in a pattern that doesn't jeopardize the balance of the carton. I could never take eggs from only one side or pull out an odd number. Such a thing would surely make me insane. The carton must always be balanced. Anything less would be unacceptable.
I crack the eggs into a bowl, mix in a handful of spinach, and stir. Next, I put coconut oil in a pan, place the pan on the stove to warm, and begin the breakfast timer in my head. As soon as the pan touches down, the race is on. I quickly throw some bread in the toaster (whole wheat, of course, of the thickest, grainiest variety). When my mental timer reaches 80 seconds, I pour the eggs into the pan, then it’s back to breathing and back to counting. 150 seconds later, the eggs are ready to be flipped. 150 seconds is just enough time to turn the eggs golden brown on bottom and form them into one solid mass, turning them into something of a pancake. I do this because it's efficient, for one, and also because when the flip is done correctly, no rogue egg spreads across the pan. It makes it exceptionally easy to clean AND eliminates waste. Genius, I know.
Shortly after flipping the eggs, my toast pops. This is the most crucial time. 90 seconds after the flip, the eggs are ready to eat. In those 90 seconds, I have to get out a plate, butter my toast, and fill up my cup with cranberry juice. A minute and a half may seem like plenty of time to accomplish such-and normally it is-but one can never be sure when the unexpected will strike and throw them off their game.
Luckily, the unexpected leaves me unmolested today, and at 90 seconds exactly I'm able to flip the eggs from the pan to my plate, appreciating the savory aroma of preformed chicken meat as I do so.
I wolf the shit down as quick as I can. I don't enjoy eating. It's just a means to an end. Scoop, chew, swallow. Be a machine. I idly wonder how many eggs I've consumed in my life to distract myself from the bland taste. I have six a day, every day, so however many that is a year... (six times 364... which is...) eh, who cares how many I've had. I'm almost done with these and
that
is what's important.
I shovel in the last few bites, making my cheeks fat with yellow protein, green nutrients, and brown carbs, then immediately proceed to rinse off the plate. I'll need this plate again for lunch-best to wash it now. I pound my cranberry juice and rinse the cup. When I slam it back down, breakfast is officially complete. Another glorious check mark for the day. I check my watch: 5:58.
Excellent. Right on schedule.
I move to my room, disrobing upon entry. I use a towel to cleanse my body of the salt that sweat left behind, then put on a fresh outfit to lie down in. I'd sleep right now if I could, but once my engine is running it doesn't shut down until beaten into unconsciousness, so instead I simply lay. My next major task is weight lifting. I'd do it now but I read somewhere once... at least, I think I read it... hm... anyway, I once learned that if you work out too soon after eating, your workout suffers because your stomach bogarts blood for digestion and steals it away from your muscles, so I always wait an hour after meals to exercise. Always. And since I have nothing better to do for the next-I check my clock-57 minutes, I just lay.
I don't pay much attention to the thoughts drifting through my mind. These days, no thought is ever new. I'd shut my brain off entirely if I could, but from what I can tell, it is the one running the show, not me, so I just put myself deeper and ignore it best I can. The thoughts that drift by are as wrinkled as Father Time: ideas of things that could have gone better, things
I
should have done better, and better things I could be doing now.
I used to latch onto such ideas, thinking they had purpose-could guide me somewhere-but as time went on, I slowly realized they were simply there. I am who I am. No amount of thought can change that, and why rally against what can't be changed?
Had you have asked me that years ago, I would have told you it's because resistance is the key to change, and all you have to do is resist long enough, and in the right ways, and things would eventually get better. Oh, how naive I once was! I have since learned the robotic nature of myself; how I am operating on some system that was designed by nature, not by me.
Now, I just gape dumbly at my thoughts as they come. The one in my head currently is how I failed my run this morning. 'How will you ever get better with such weak effort?' My brain asks. 'I guess I won't.' My brain replies. I don't take credit for this argument. All day long my brain is running through things, but how much remains at night? Not enough for me to care.
