On Monday night, my husband got home from work and said, “I thought you were going to the gym?”
I blinked at him owlishly, completely forgetting all the brave and sincere “I’m going to start working out again!” lines I’d given him since therapy the week before.
“Shit. Um, nah, not this week,” I said. Then I looked at my computer screen, looked back at him and said, “Wait, yeah—I’m going.”
Then I got dressed. Then I remembered that the baby still needed to nurse. Then I nursed him. And then? I went to the gym, dude. For the first time since late February when I caught like four bad colds in a row and then jumped on the excuse train for the duration of the summer and fall.
I almost left ten minutes into the kickboxing-to-music BodyCombat class because I was pretty sure I was going to be that asshole who passes out on the floor. But I made it. And by the end I felt sore and achy and happy and tired and PROUD. Because I hate the gym. I hate working out.
But I like the way it makes me feel.
That night, I slept really well. I even went to bed early despite having a few shows on the TIVO that I wanted to watch.
My therapist has been an enormously good influence on my life. I know that psychotherapy is not the answer for everyone. But I’m so glad I started seeing her. She does not let me complain and complain and complain. She holds me accountable for my happiness. She gives me good skillz skills to practice.
(I’ve been needing those skills a lot this week. They don’t always work but I’m trying, I’m trying.)
Last Friday she said, “What I’m hearing is that you have a list in your head. You know exactly what you should be doing, and you’re not doing it.”
I nodded.
“That’s what we call self-sabotage.”
She gently teased me that the major thing going on with me is stress, a word—a concept—that I sometimes forget when I’m well, stressing. She’s encouraging me to work out, to meditate, and to care for my body.
It may have been mortifying, and I still can’t touch my toes, but I went to the gym.
And I’m going to keep going. (I hope that by writing that here, by saying it out loud, I’ll feel more compelled to follow through with this. I have to.)
Plus I’m totally gonna get guns. It’ll be awesome.
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