I push the "Up" button on the speed control of the treadmill. My breathing becomes more rapid but it's not enough. I now increase the incline. My legs start to feel like lead weights but it's still not enough. I increase both the speed and the incline. My chest heaves up and down with each breath burning inside. Sweat now begins to stream down my body. But it's still not enough. I get off the treadmill and begin to punish my body hoping to trade emotional pain for physical pain. Pull ups then squat jumps and then I drop to the ground for push ups. I continue to push msyelf harder and harder, hoping to trade the saltiness of sweat for the saltiness of tears. I now have a better understanding of people who cut themselves. It's somehow easier to feel the physical pain than it is the emotional soul wrenching angst. I strip from my phenol imbued shirt and stare into the mirror. Sweat is now streaming down in rivulets from my body. Hoping to get a glimpse into the window of my soul, I stare into my own eyes . All that I see is a fire burning with anger.
Anger at having to see my brother white as the blanket covering him while he recovered from his biopsy. Anger at the injustice of it all. Anger at everything. He just finished six rounds of chemo. The tumors actually responded. Doesn't he deserve some reprieve? No. He's getting a biopsy of his tonsils and now the pain in his joints have returned. What did he do to deserve this? He did not smoke. He was active and in shape. He was healthy. He was so young. But then fairness is immaterial in this battle. I limp out to my car now exhausted physically as much as emotionally. There is no purgative effect. There is no feeling better afterwards. There is only anger, anger as impotent as screaming into a hurricane.