Think Like CJ

Writing Without Lines

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About My Blog

I’m CJ. I write about discipline, endurance, grief, and becoming who you are through repetition, not perfection.

  • Forged Through the Miles

    I woke up mid-hurl.

    “Ghhk—hurrrk—bleeehh.”

    My head dangled off the edge of the bed as acid and remnants of dinner splattered the floor. I didn’t even wake up at first. My body purged while I was still unconscious, limp, drunk, helpless. At some point, I found myself slouched in a kitchen chair, hunched over the sink, naked from the waist down, a blanket wrapped around me because I’d pissed myself.

    Cold water splashed over my fingers. This was the only way to stay hydrated during these situations. My body dehydrated fast. I waited for the next round of uncontrollable vomiting, unable to stop the way my body convulsed. Part of me was numbing out, low potassium, no food, no rest. The sickness ran the show, and I was the main character.

    Have you ever paced your house with a dog bowl in hand, gagging involuntarily while your body expels poison on its own schedule? I have. More times than I’d like to admit. My hangovers started in college. That morning was just another chapter in a long, messy novel. My body knew the pattern by heart.

    Post-hangover days were worse. I woke up feeling like a grenade had taken aim at my insides. My sternum was sore to the touch. A cough, or even a chuckle, threw me into a fit of aching. My esophagus stung. Even water burned. My throat felt like a raw tunnel, every dreaded sip a painful reminder. Soda burned like a tattoo, etching in the memories, or lack of, from the night before.

    Mind and spirit hit an all-time low. Regret. Self-hate. Sabotage. Flooding my senses. Unable to see the bigger picture, fogged by a longing for reality to disappear and euphoria to set in.

    For years, the urge to drink again showed up within hours, not days. I’d be hunched over the toilet one minute, cracking a can the next. My body reached for booze like it was a friend helping me off the floor. Alcohol understood where I wanted to go. It knew my intentions. It didn’t care. It was full of assurance.

    Hangovers went from lasting a few hours to consuming entire days, haunting the next three. I drank to oblivion, then tried to piece together the night from splinters and fog. Ambushing those who worried about me with slurred stories, glassy eyes, and stitched-together apologies. Alcohol was a good friend for so many years. Until it wasn’t. Until it started taking more than it gave.

    The internal fight to end this toxic relationship began to swarm my vision, fogged with inequity and illusion. I wanted to quit drinking. I did. But my heart wasn’t ready to let it go. The bridge between wanting to quit and quitting was wide enough to stretch back to London.

    Every time I pictured life without the Devil’s juice, it made me sick to my stomach. Quitting drinking floated in my brain for years before I took myself seriously. Hundreds of hangovers and thousands of dry heaves went by before I finally woke up and realized the consequences had been treading behind me all along. Alcohol followed me through college, into adulthood, and tried to sneak into my thirties before I put the fire out. I hit rock bottom. My whole life as I knew it rearranged, turned upside down in a world of despair, heartbreak, and self-hate.

    Depression stepped in where alcohol left off. It would take multiple attempts at sobriety before I could finally claim the title one-year sober. First, eighty-seven days. Then, several failed tries at just fourteen. Finally, thirty-seven. Now, I’m pressing into two years.

    And somewhere in all of that, my heart broke too.

    “You have this weekend, that’s it.”

    The words would echo in and out of consciousness long after September 2, 2023—the day my world shifted. I was in love. So in love that self-sabotage became my defense mechanism. I lost control of myself, my life, my home. I was drowning in self-deception, desperate for reassurance from everything but me. I didn’t realize how much of myself I had already lost.

    It took months after our demise to even begin to embrace the idea of a growth mindset. The cheating had sent me into a spiral of darkness. I obsessed over blame, criticism, and what-ifs. Everything had to be my fault, right? I convinced myself that the love I had for her outweighed the love I had for myself—body, mind, and spirit. I became a victim of my own self-deprecation. Eventually, I learned that it wasn’t love that hurt me. It was how much I loved to hate myself that did.

    Six months of intense Ironman training followed. I spent hours in the gym, pulling dumbbells to my chest as tears fell from my eyes and splattered on the bench that held the weight of my world. The gym became my safe haven. Training for an Ironman tested every part of me. It pushed me past the negative talk, the self-belittling, the lapses in motivation, and every excuse that gnawed at my mind. I wanted to quit so many times. It hurt so bad. But I didn’t stop.

    I woke up at four in the morning on July 12, 2024. It was the beginning of a romantic date with endurance—the ultimate test of mental fortitude.

    Why do an Ironman?

    It’s simple. The pain your body endures is nothing compared to the healing your mind experiences through the process. The hours of training teach you to love yourself, perhaps for the first time. The reward will always outweigh the suffering.

    I’ve seen it in others too: the woman recently diagnosed with breast cancer, the man training real-life Ironmen while battling terminal brain cancer, the woman racing in memory of her late husband, the middle-aged dreamers searching for meaning, the ones quietly fighting invisible battles—and the one whose mother was just diagnosed with stage four cancer.

    The Ironman is more than a race. It’s a conversation between who you were and who you’re becoming. It’s a way to survive heartbreak, addiction, and despair—and to show up for yourself when no one else can.

    “I feel so broken. I don’t even want to be awake all day. It scares me to see what today brings because I don’t want the reality to be that I’m losing her. “

    “I hate these fucking emotions! It’s driving me crazy. I’m feeling all this shit. I don’t like being alone in this house. I just sit here in silence, heartbroken. This has crushed me. I have no power in me, dude. I’m so lost. I’m so sad.”

    The Ironman didn’t erase heartbreak. It didn’t undo depression or past addiction. But it taught me endurance, not just in body but in mind. The race became a mirror: if I could survive heartbreak, hangovers, and months of self-loathing, I could endure anything. And in that endurance, I began to love myself.

  • The Driveway

    During a long training ride, I passed a girl crying.

    She sat alone at a picnic table alongside the Minnetrista pedestrian path, surrounded by a mountain of books and a sweating cup of something cold. As I rode by, she wiped her cheek, her face blotched red with the kind of pain that instantly pulled me back to devastation.

    I wondered what had broken her open: a boy? a loss? Whatever it was, I felt her.

    Her image stayed with me for the rest of the ride. Excuses ran rampant on an endless day of training — heading home to finish the 80 miles on a spin bike at the Rec, splitting the distance over two days, or stopping at sixty and calling it a strong brick-run day — anything to make the miles move faster.

    Later in the day, I found myself back on the street where I grew up. The driveway to 1525 — now a blue house — once felt much wider. So did the street. I turned right from Macedonia onto the dead-end street that still held the first thirteen years of my life.

    The road felt longer. Before I knew it, I was gliding down the “big” hill my friends and I raced as kids. I remembered the time I jumped off the back pegs of my black-and-red Mongoose, my cousin steering straight toward a parked car, and flew down the hill on my stomach until I skidded to a stop outside my house, skin burning with road rash.

    Later, I’d reminisce with my mom about that era — the Pogo stick years. The screeching springs of that bumblebee-striped stick must still echo through the neighborhood nearly twenty years later.

    I kept riding, tracing the old road toward the open valley at the end — where the wild, overgrown yards had once stood. The trees that once erupted wildly from the ground were gone. The air used to hum with mosquitoes and the smell of damp wood. Now it’s open, bright, breathing again.

    Back then, the trip from 1525 to the end of the road felt like twenty minutes. Today, I was there before I could blink.

    Even as you grow bigger, the world doesn’t seem to shrink.

    It’s only when you return to the beginning that you realize how small it’s always been.

  • Running

    I dread running.

    On the days leading up, I feel intimidated. As the day nears, excuses creep in, and by the morning, I’m ready to execute them, almost not go at all.

    But when I do run, the dread melts into the never-ending distance. Negative thoughts shred beneath my feet as I trample through the town.

    Excuses turn laughable as I digest the first few miles, watching the distance slip into the background. Roads stretch further than I can see. Distance consumes.

    I start my watch, ready to embark on an hourless journey that somehow feels like minutes when it ends. The only true time with yourself—undistracted, opportunistic, yours.

    Running is an art created by your mind but driven by your feet.

    Distance running is no small feat. Pain torments your feet, triggering fight or flight as each step presses deep into the pavement, springing you toward the next mile marker.

    The world looks different from a runner’s POV. Everything moves in slow motion while the figure in your mind zips by every building, pedestrian, car.

    Reality takes a back seat when running knocks.

    Every 45 minutes, like clockwork: 20 grams of carbs. Gu’s are a classic. Slurp it down like dessert, chase it with water. Energy inserted. Miles to be taken down.

    A Runner’s High is real. A euphoric pulse when the world stops, your heart falls silent, in tune with your moving body, keeping melody like a jazz band.

    Time loops and stretches, dismantled, surgically placed into my skull.

    Running is irreplaceable, unexplainable, evocative—a fogless route to clarity.

  • I Don’t Relax

    How do you relax?

    I don’t.

    Even when the world is still,
    my mind races—
    a million nanoseconds a minute.

    No time to separate reality
    from daydream,
    anxiety from the real picture.

    I run from what’s hard,
    tough it out
    like a boxer’s last seconds
    before the bell—
    body tired, fists up.

    Dodging mental bullets from the left,
    emotional grenades from the right.

    At 5’6”, I stand tall,
    hiding the weight
    my insides refuse to regurgitate.

    I train for an Ironman,
    almost pressing Did Not Finish,
    but the tether chord yanks me back,
    drags me to air,
    to movement,
    to life.

    And still—
    my mind paints the most genuine love,
    falsifying the present,
    creating a false negative,
    yearning for forever
    with that one.

    People come,
    people go—
    seasons shift,
    pulling, plucking,
    without reason, without return.

    And still,
    I don’t relax.

  • A Letter to My Father

    Dear Dad,

    Congratulations, you’d say, as I walked through Emen’s door toward both you and Mom, co-parenting with your new partners. You’d hug me, and we’d take pictures together. You’d be proud of me—I’d graduated high school!

    I’d go on to be accepted into Indiana University’s Group Scholars Program, paving the way into the BA program that fall. What a beautiful thing to share with you.

    You’d drive to my graduation on May 6, 2017.

    “That’s my babygirl!” you’d shout when they said my name over the PA with a Bachelor of Arts in English. I could hear your voice from a mile away.

    I would move to Charlotte to begin a new life, seeking opportunity. You’d cheer me on, urging me to be my best, to chase life’s endeavors. You’d tell me to feel nothing, to let life’s worries go.

    I’d fall a few times along the way, and you’d be there—a phone call away—ready if I needed you. You loved your babygirl.

    The passing of my Papaw on Mom’s side crushed Mom and me. You’d understand the impact he had on me, never questioning the bond he had with Mom, especially after losing Mamaw Melanie. You were so genuine in your care. I’d be so thankful for such a good father.

    I’d find my way back to Muncie, IN—exploring teaching, nurturing, building for four years before moving into my own office at Ball State University Teachers College as Assistant to the Associate Dean.

    You’d have told me not to stop at my Bachelor’s, that it’s never too late. I’d go on to begin my MA soon after. I’d go even further, completing not one but two Ironman 70.3 races, and now counting down the days to my first full Ironman 140.6.

    None of this would have been possible without you—without your guidance, empathy, and the kind of unconditional, undivided love I never actually received.

    I’d be 31 when I wrote a letter to you for the world to read, fabricating encouragement that never existed, illustrating a father-daughter companionship that was never had, never even imagined. It was fraud.

    What a waste—to have never known the accomplishment of your own strand of DNA.

    With all my love,

    Your Only Daughter

  • A Letter to Silence

    I’m realizing on my ten-day journey that sometimes life really does fly and time doesn’t slow down… I missed yesterday BUT making up for it with two letters today! 😇

    Dear Silence,

    Sometimes I can’t stand you. Other times, you’re my saving grace, the forefront of my safety, the stopping ground in a war zone.

    Even the tightness of a closed room, where you reside away from the noises of the world, lifts me from life’s outward abyss.

    Sometimes your very presence takes my breath away and unleashes storms inside my body, a release of the week’s upsets.

    You have a way of expressing the void in a beautiful way. Your ability to unwind me, twist me, and intertwine me through your fingers is unearthing.

    I’ve learned to summon you in any space I occupy. When I need you, you are there. Your most gorgeous and pure form is peace. The solitude of your presence is effortlessly my favorite breath.

    Thank you for peace and tranquility,

    CJ

  • A Letter to the Nights I Don’t Remember

    Dear Blackout,

    You had me running up to cars past midnight, my mom in my right ear — sitting eight hours away — while I begged strangers to get me an Uber because I couldn’t control my own mind. I’d abandoned my car somewhere I wouldn’t find until morning, when I’d retrace my steps with another Uber driver using my phone’s location from the night before.

    “Me and you both don’t know what we’re about to pull up on,” I told my driver that morning, a sickness boiling in the pit of my stomach, adrenaline still high.

    We pulled up to find my 1996 Buick Century parked diagonal in the corner of an apartment complex lot, half on the curb, half in the lines.

    You showed up more often than I’d like to admit — the drunk drives, the long belligerent nights, the many yards I’d almost sleep in.
    The strangers who’d carry me back into safety.
    My mom, who sat in my ear, whose time froze each time I lost mine.
    The soiled sheets, the broken distances, the false revivals.

    You arrived like a dare.
    You left like a shame.

    It’s almost grotesque that you exist at all. How did I ever let you strip me of awareness? You twisted faces, bent stories, pushed words out of my mouth I would never have spoken sober.
    You manipulated me with every second you consumed.
    Who was I when I was with you?

    The first time I blacked out, I thought it was strange, almost fascinating. But fascination gave way to fear. How do you explain something you know happened but can never remember? You were a thief, taking pieces of me I’ll never get back.

    You ripped me of my dignity and invented an alter-person inside me — someone less kind, unfair, unaccountable, with esteem buried six feet deep, unable to tell right from toxic.
    Shame on you for trying to destroy my canvas.

    How could you do that to me? You were supposed to keep me occupied, happy.
    You weren’t supposed to make me miss so many hours of my life.

    And yet, I remember enough now. Enough to know I will never let you write another night for me.

    Forever and always,

    CJ

  • A Letter to My Body

    Dear Body,

    It feels strange to begin writing a letter to the very thing typing alongside me now — the artifact I stand within, the foundation of my being.

    You were sensing and moving long before my mind came into play. To say you’ve been with me since day one is an understatement — more like day one minus 31 weeks.

    I often wonder what my everyday choices are doing to you in the long run. Hard to tell — even decline moves in slow motion, almost invisible until it isn’t.

    Over the years, we’ve drawn closer. We’ve begun to meet in the middle, finding common ground. Horizons have started to paint the sky again.

    Each day I wake with the intent to nurture, to cleanse, to care for you. Yet somehow, caring for the very vessel that carries me is one of the hardest things to do — so easily forgotten in the noise of distraction.

    I only hope that one day, I can give back to you everything you’ve done for me.

    You are my temple.

    Love,


    Your Mental Skin

  • A Letter to Alcohol

    Dear Booze,

    Ridding you from my life may not have changed the entire trajectory of my being, but one thing is certain: it freed me of the shackles that held me down silently.

    The world is more magnificent without you. The workings of my brain, most days, run rampant without slowing—but placing my mental health first has become a steady routine. This is all thanks to you no longer orbiting my life.

    During our time together, I carried this angst like a second skin. Each cycling day drew me deeper into its realm, until it enveloped so much of me that the world seemed at fault for my unhappiness, my failures, my mistakes. It wasn’t until I broke things off with you that I learned to accept my actions, and regulation finally returned.

    For a decade, I envisioned a life free of you—thriving in excitement without the adrenaline you sparked, indulging in life’s beauty without your interference.

    My mom would always remind me of her greatest year, her thirtieth. What a beautiful year it was—the one in which she left my father in the shadows that had traced her every step for so long.

    On my thirtieth, I decided I would never pick you up and spin you round and round again. I reclaimed a confidence that continues to rejuvenate itself with every sober moment I live.

    It’s been 506 days since I last felt the effects of your poison, allowed you to direct my choices, or blur my most cherished senses. Life isn’t always easy, but I would rather endure every hard day than ever live another with you in my head.

    With everything in me,

    CJ

  • A Letter to My Younger Self

    I promised myself I’d post the first of ten letters last night, but it didn’t happen. So today, I’m keeping that promise by posting not one, but the first two. This is where it begins.

    Dear Carly girl,

    Honestly, I didn’t want this to be the first letter I wrote to you. I thought it would come last, once all the others had taken shape. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized it belongs here at the beginning—as the framework, the foundation, the place where everything else grows from.

    I wonder sometimes about the things you used to daydream about—what worried you, what made you nervous, what made the rest of the world disappear for a while. What was it, little one, that made your chest clench or your heart race? What was it that made you feel alive?

    For a long time, I blamed our earliest years for the weight we carried into adolescence. That’s part of the truth, but not the whole. Life never paused, no matter how unready you felt. Some days dragged on forever, but time still moved, and you still had to live it.

    The world you stepped into was frightening, but it wasn’t only that. It was beautiful too—I just wish you could have seen more of it, instead of being swallowed by shadows. At thirteen, the door was cracked open for you to decide. You closed it. You walked away. From then on, love began to feel like loss.

    And with that missing half of love came the quiet pull of alcohol. You drifted through high school, already counting down the days until twenty-one, certain it would be your real arrival into adulthood. But what looked like freedom was a trap. A prize wrapped in chains, disguised as belonging. The world celebrated it. You mistook it for survival.

    When people ask what I’d change about my life, a dozen answers rise up. But really, there’s only one. I would protect your innocence. It must have been unbearable to hold your feelings so tightly with nowhere to put them. The world would have looked brighter if your mind had been cared for first—before the desperate search for love, before the escape routes, before the silence.

    If I could sit with you now, I’d tell you this: your feelings were never too much, and your voice was never too heavy. You deserved tenderness long before you found it. And you still do.

    With love,

    Me