After a dog attacked me while I was out for a run, I cashed a check that was supposed to symbolically serve as restitution, but you know...

... money is just such a weird way to compensate for something money can't even buy. 

But I'm getting ahead of myself

A few years ago, I got serious about fitness again. (I hate the term "fitness journey", so we're not calling it that.)

After years of yo-yoing between dress sizes and diets, I focused on eating real food and staying active.

Groundbreaking stuff, I know, but at the time it was damn near revolutionary for me.

Staying active was especially important because, at the time, my life was a lot.

We'd just taken in two kids after their father died from an overdose and Mom was in rehab. There was a shitload of family drama around that and the ensuing custody battle that became one of the most taxing experiences of my life.

It dragged on. And on. And fucking on.

Running became my solitude, my escape from all that.

I'd walk the youngest to school every day (an odyssey in and of itself) before putting in my earbuds and taking off.

For the next few miles, there were no lawyers or doctors or teachers or family arguments or problems I had to solve. Nobody needed me.

It was just me and my tunes.

I became addicted to that 'runner's high ' when the endorphins kicked in, the wind caught my hair just right, and I'd feel like I was flying.

Until that one morning.

Not to sound like a Karen, but my city is riddled with people who seem to forget that owning a dog involves...you know...controlling said dog.

I'd gotten used to giving them a wide berth, crossing the road, swinging wide off into the grass, whatever it took to avoid them.

And nine times out of ten the dog still comes at you and the owner looks at you like you're the asshole.

But I digress.

I was out on a run when someone's dog lunged from behind with a snarl and sank its teeth deep into my thigh.

This was after I'd already swung wide to avoid it.

One morning, I was out running when a dog being walked suddenly lunged from behind with a snarl and sank its teeth deep into my thigh.

I felt this awful, searing hot sensation and ripped my earbuds from my ears, Proud Mary now blasting a tinny tune from my phone while I tried to turn and look behind my own ass.

Very graceful. Very demure.

The owner rushed over, apologizing and insisting something like that had never happened before (which quickly turned out to be bullshit, by the way).

I ended up at the hospital for pictures, wound cleaning, shots, the whole production. It was ugly and deep enough that I couldn’t sit, walking hurt and forget running.

And yeah, I know how that sounds. A damn dog bite. You heal, you bitch about it a little, you move on.

The problem was, for the first time in my life, I'd become afraid of dogs and being outside around them.

And I say this as a dog owner.

The problem with something ‘unthinkable’ happening is that your brain can't go back to believing it's unthinkable anymore.

One time, a total stranger tailgated me for miles before trying to run me off the road. I called 911 while driving, and led him to a public parking lot where police were waiting.

I stayed with them, scared out of my wits, while they searched his car. Turned out to be a case of mistaken idendity on his part, but he was arrested all the same.

I was also told he was naked from the waist down and had some strange paraphernalia. They wouldn't elaborate, either.

Not sure what the endgame there was, and I don't spend a lot of time wondering, either.

But to this day, if someone stays behind me for more than two turns, oh, I definitely notice

But I have to drive, so while I'm attentive, it's not a driving fear for me now (no pun intended.

Nobody has to run outside. But also...yeah, I kinda did, since I was living in some Game of Thrones-type drama.

As soon as I was able to walk without feeling the pain shoot up my ass, I went back outside. But now, every dog was a very real threat in my mind.

I tried changing directions, keeping away as best I could, to the point where I couldn't just fucking run a straight path without being distracted by what might be coming at me.

I tried finding alternatives; I really did.

My treadmill is dusty for the simple fact that I pretty much hate them and use them as a last resort. When you're used to the great outdoors, slogging miles in your basement surrounded by clutter just ain't the same.

(And every time I've tried to throw out said clutter, my husband somehow always materializes in the doorway, informing me why it's not junk before leaving it to sit another year.)

I tried the track at the gym. It was always packed, and the sensory experience sucked there too with its fluorescent lights, crammed lanes, musty smells...blech.

Because I couldn't decompress the way I was used to, I developed insomnia.

I became stressed, tired, and pissed off that one stupid incident had taken away something I depended on.

Desperate and stubborn, I created a new workaround and started running the neighborhood at 4 in the morning.

The streets were empty and quiet, which meant no people and, more importantly, no dog walkers. It was just me and the dark and the cold for miles around the same block, over and over.

I convinced myself this was a new level of badassery; all those other people were sleeping while I was out here in the dark crushing it.

Look at me refusing to let anything stop me.

But on the inside, I knew this wasn't really all that much safer, but I wouldn't admit it.

I was tougher now, more disciplined. I was still running, wasn't I? I was fine.

And if I'm being completely honest, I'm still telling myself that.

The fact is, I'm now up most days by three in the morning, and a lot of times, I'm still out there getting the miles in before sunup.

I just got too used to the quiet to stop. My husband isn't thrilled, but we've devised a system to keep me safe, and it works.

There's just...something about being out there while the town still sleeps. Like maybe today is the day I'll crush that metric, or I'll make that breakthrough on social media, or that publisher will call, or I'll find that pair of ass-fabulous jeans.

I have a lot of weird goals.

Call it avoidance or call it adaptation, it's my way of making a weird thing normal, and it works, even if it isn't perfect. I'm not doing as much strength training or yoga as I'd hoped, and three in the morning is still THREE IN THE FUCKING MORNING, but...it is what it is.

That incident may have changed the way I do things, but it won't change me.

Much to many's chagrin, I'm sure.

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