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Today we had to run The Mile.

Not just any mile.

The Mile.

Four laps of complete hell for anyone who is the tiniest bit out of shape.
That is me.

So I ran for most of the first lap but then a stabbing pain entered my side. I felt like I was being ripped apart. Like my guts were swordfighting, and none of them were wearing armour.

So I stopped and started to quickly walk.

Then I ran.
Then I stopped.
Then I ran.
Then I stopped.

There was a pattern. See?

By the end I was cussing at myself and telling myself that I hated myself. /Woah, three myself's in a sentence/.

I was so angry because I walked more than I ran. I was disappointed in myself for not putting up with pain and letting it get the better of me.
I could have done better physically, but mentally, something was going wrong.

The thing is, when I told myself that I hated myself, I went faster till the ground was nothing but a blur. I didn't like going so fast. So I stopped myself.

What a coward.
After so long, I believed I couldn't do it.

I think I might have been able to do better.
But I let myself down.