I’m not interested in teaching ways to love or even how to think it up.
I can’t teach you about sacrifice or about how many times we die in this life while we’re alive raging in this deteriorating flesh.
I want the unreasonable and clever aspects of existence to clinch among the goodness and omitted parts of one another. I want for them to discover the undiscovered.
I want to be taught and be on the receiving end of the million and one things I don’t know like why roses guard themselves by using thorns or why immortality comes on slow but heavy with disdain.
I won’t allow others to share my prayer rug with me if I love in greater ways than them for I would be unfulfilled at an uneven heel feeling the disgust of unjust.
I don’t want to feel less is more when it’s impossible for me to give in smaller amounts as I evolve.
Yesterday I made a decision to rejoin the gym again.
I had many reservations about it. Okay, it only lasted for thirty minutes, but those small reservations felt like an anchor that was going to last longer than twenty-four hours, which is unlike me. I think I’m going to blame it on the miasma of depression and the uncertainty it causes. Now I know to most people joining a gym doesn’t sound even remotely significant, but when you’ve made the gym half your fucking life – it’s a big fucking deal!
Joining Blink was a happy accident if I believed in accidents. I didn’t know they built a spanking new gym walking distance from me. So could you imagine how big my heart swelled as I sat tipsy nursing my white plum wine across from the gym Pre-Valentine’s Day eating like a silly pig at my favorite Thai restaurant? The thought of the gym alone gave me enough excitement to give my entire body a staggering erection.
Old memories flashed before me in all my assertive and madwoman training and the way I felt empowered simply by owning truck loads of ego and exhibiting strength and personal space in the weight room alongside the brutes of men. It all rewound itself to foggy windows, smelling the dampness of other people’s sweaty gloves, headbands and fabric while zoning out to chalky protein, diverse tunes, and colossal sounds of iron clanks as well as cardio machines that squeaked for mercy and oil.
But since I broke my ankle I’ve become somewhat of a recluse and kept myself as inaccessible as a teenage girl in her Gothic room. Over the course of two years I joined a gym twice and canceled the same. At first I liked the idea of going back to who I was – the full time badass who wanted to spank everyone in the gym while priding and lifting for power, mass and size. Until I realized I wasn’t the same woman. I transitioned into something else (I don’t fully understand yet) and my goals did too. The thing I do know is over the course of time I wanted to default to a natural size, lose a substantial amount of weight (still do) and still keep a lot of the strength I’ve earned from a decade.
Plus, I got used to working out in my own personal space at home. I was made aware of my troubled hermit existence only after I started to go back to the gym and notice whenever someone would come near me I would practically hiss, sneer and snap at them if they even asked, “Are you using this mat?” I think I lost some social/interactive skills by being a recluse. Well, I live and I learn and I also change. I’m at a different place now mentally, emotionally, spiritually and especially physically.
So once again I’m here joining a gym. I know some of the good involves: Being able to strengthen more of my ankle by using certain machines like the Treadmill and I’ll also lose weight quicker by devoting longer and steadier sessions instead of doing HIIT and circuit (strength) training multiple times a week. I burn myself out all the time. The bad is being around people and their bullshit, whether they say no when I ask to jump in with them on any given machine [or insert any other annoying gym attitude/behavior here]. Is this something I want to deal with?
More importantly joining this gym is about reflecting harder on the possible notion that I’ve outgrew the gym. I may no longer find the gym a daily requirement in my life. If there is a chance I don’t feel like I need the gym anymore, then I have to learn how to come to grips with that instead of wasting precious money trying to figure it all out. However, if I wind up falling in love with the gym all over again, then that’s just true love that feels like sticking and I’m with it either way.
At this moment I’m setting up to go on my date with Blink Fitness. I haven’t decided on the time yet. It’s not only about Blink impressing me; I’m not above impressing Blink. Don’t ask why. It’s a gym. I believe in making all kinds of impressions.
The gym from what I assessed is on the smaller end with just two floors. The people there seem somewhat motivated, but they lack passion, which I’m surprised about because I guess I expect more out of people. But I can see their blank faces droning whether they’re weightlifting, cardioing or stretching. I’m telling myself it’s just the weekend and perhaps the energy is different during the weekday.
I’m going to shower, put cold cream on my face, smooth it over with some serum, and shave my underarms and legs. I’ll slick the ends of my hair with protein polish and a flat-iron only to hide it’s slickness in a bun. And although I have lots of variety (DVD’s, YouTube and paid Fitness Streaming Subscriptions) working out at home, everything is much different in the gym – energy, friendly competition and even meeting people or bumping into a gymrat I used to know takes place there.
I’m hoping being at closer distance would keep me motivated at first and I’ll have fun second. I want to remain a gym member in my heart of hearts. Also I don’t want a third cancellation on my gym life resume. I would say wish me luck, but I don’t believe in luck.
My body’s thumping.
My heart’s pumping.
My rump is shaking.
My skin is baking.
The verge of a coughing fit is near, but good women like me enjoy revolving around naughty actions. I rise above my upper respiratory tragedy and decide to sweat the illness away by twerking out to rhythmic music. This evening I wear a form-fitting black blouse with light gray harem pants. The loose fabric puts me in the mind state of free flow. Also, strangely, I know this now, but never focused on it then, if I want to form a better connection with my glutes they mustn’t be shielded with an undergarment.
So the warm up begins, body temperature is busy with total body dynamic stretches and a various amount of hip circles in every direction. I thrive in the sensation of my muscles and blood heating up and swirling with flaming passion. Already I can sense the beloved charming playfulness and my fierce sexual energy intertwine as one. I throw my hands high in the sky, shuffle my feet to the beat and lose myself to the experience of my heart being musically inclined to the coolness of a down tempo.
My hair is loose, happy-go-lucky and fun just like my attitude. And I can feel the music about to change and lead on it’s up tempo journey and this is where open joy takes place and I forget about the meddling of my chest congestion and need of an asthma pump push. I grin in beautiful amusement and shake my tush like a hypnotic waterbed. I shake it in the vein of wanting an imaginary world to stand at my peppery interest. I shake it with the intent to make the fabric of my blouse stick with sweat to the small of my back and my harem pants dance against its own resolve. Proudly I wiggle my rump like a basic bellydance shimmy. I continue vibrating my bum to turbo achievement without letting any other body part assist.
Except, my body has a habit of working as a unit, so my core tightens on it’s own accord like a watchful warrior as well as my conscious thighs flex because they’re always ready to slay with action. And I continue in a light trance bending over forward similar to a hamstring stretch as I come back up and bend over again and come back up continuously wobbling my bum with a blissful smile on my face. I keep this stance happily for minutes on end before stepping out with a leg and creating a mini circle with my ass still quivering in its womanly flamboyance.
The hips continue side to side during the wobbling effect as I squat down and squat wobbling back up easy like a summer breeze. And it remains intriguing back then while I practiced as now how my butt jiggles with a mind of its own. I start to zone out a bit more and hurl my ass back into the groins of an imaginary person circling deliberately at first, but then building it forceful. In my head, I envision myself a ballerina on a dazzling jewelry box merrily going around and round yet evidently not as graceful, but putting in work as one for I never stop my glute throwback circles until I begin to feel a deep side stitch.
Then I move on and sit in a low squat position, fingers rotated inward so they face and grip the top of my inner thighs. It is here I feel the twerk within the static creases of my traps, triceps, back, core, erector spinae, tush, quads and hamstrings. I arch my hypersensitive back like a cat and lift my glutes upwards slow and drop it back down vigorously so they bounce relaxed and free from care. Gradually I bounce back up and down until the bum makes a synchronized ripple wave effect in all types of speed.
I feel my cough starting to climb and I settle down for a moment with calculated rhythm even as I carry the synchronized effect of the bounce in a smooth slow left and smooth slow right motion. Then I continue in the low squat to jerk my butt up and down while performing a big circle horizontally known by the terminology as around the world. And by this point my heart and lungs are beating in powerful fashion because they’re trying to catch up to the constant jumping of my harem pants and derrière. My legs fatigue under constant tension, but I feel wonderful living for these moments of fitness and body awareness.
I keep at different movements to different rhythmic songs for twenty minutes before I start to head on the floor, arms stretched out, palms on the ground where I brace and arch my lower back and soften my knees in a very high doggie position. My triceps contract hard, core is engaged, but the arch stays high and I once again allow my ass to go to places where it’s unrestricted. I let it tremble by popping it up in the air and dropping it low. I let it quake like someone is behind me letting their engine rev into my behind as I rev mine back at them. I allow my ass to thunder with additional help when I use momentum from my bent legs and shoot the back and bum upwards in a quick succession. I create fascinating hops, beautiful bounces, alluring circles and waves whether delicate or dynamic.
I persist popping the booty until I finally feel like I’m losing the limits of fluidity thirty to sixty minutes later. In between I take a breather, but then I start to wind down when my form starts to break and my lower back is inflamed like I maxed out on a thousand and one deadlifts. I slow it down when my thighs are trembling uncontrollably and I can no longer reach a balance of going back and forth between standing, squatting or bending down. This is where I get on my knees, jiggle extremely and even isolate each cheek separately with muscle control and than together because rather than feel sick and depressed in bed. I rather undergo contentment in unvarying states of movement while getting my fitness in. Plus I mustn’t disappoint my imaginary audience in the process.
This would be a twerk level I would love to get to. Watch Lexy Panterra’s Twerk Out.
The blood stops short trapped before a hair tie, until I release the bun of tension: post exercise of body-induced drama. This is the captivating magic of night.
The mind works itself into heavy persuasion. The body labors with intense urging. The heart never questions what the goals are or what state of peak condition or overwhelmed fatness I stand in. A sober thought I do entertain is how someone can not understand the significance of body awareness and its dynamism.
I have a passionate addiction to adrenaline and to the exclusive kick of the way my muscles drum within its act of compulsion. The heart skips, skips and skips uninhibited. It beats obsessively and storms out my mouth like an aggressive bird. It ignites the fight and frenzy over the psyche and tissue land of freedom.
I’ve failed many times and am more successful because of every stoppage. And now every weakness is formed into substantial strength and what strength has already been established has now constructed itself into marble and stone.
The focus is better determined than years previous. The focus is better established than the last set and the mind-muscle connection tastes stronger than the last seething rep. I’ve been sucked into a craving that’s unaware of its bounds. I throw my fists into the air to battle and enter new coordination and balance ground.
My chest hovers over the floor, shoulders and triceps contract, hum and weep pushing up 200lbs plus over and over again. The brace of my abdominals is my body’s endless support and savior. Now there’s a surge spreading like a wild forest fire burning each of my hamstring fibers and into every angle and groove of my glutes with a various amount of hip thrust and single-leg pelvic bridges I can muster under time and tension. The inner thigh screams by its own distress signals and fleshly vulnerability. The burn degrees increase and I pull my center deeply to the spine to further the accuracy of the focal point along with the present.
I grimace in pain and drill my teeth into my own mouth. I start to elevate and disappear like smoke. I’m high now and there’s an exit. I’m high and there are no thoughts struggling its way to birth other thoughts. I’m high and suddenly there are no problems in the world. There is no suffering. There is only bliss and light. There is only presence and heaven. There is only the state of pure being.
Before the love of writing started I began with reading lots and lots of books – all kinds really. Then for a few years came book reports. I enjoyed breaking down a story as well as making drawings for the report cover, particularly as a way to stand out from the rest of the classmates. After book reports I started to write around the age of 9.
I wrote short stories back then, mostly horror because my family was big on watching horror films and I needed an outlet for my reoccurring nightmares. So I wrote and wrote and each time I felt my heart become more and more alive. I remember I enjoyed writing not just because I felt full of life, but because all my teachers said I was good at it. And whenever someone gave me constructive criticism I was determined to get better. Eventually I won a writing medal at elementary school because of that attitude.
In Junior High I would go on to write graded screenplays for the entire class to act out on. By seventh grade I turned my attention to deeper writing like journaling and confessional poetry and during this time short stories were put on hold (and for the most part still is) as my writing began to take on a form of therapy. With being a loner and feeling like an outcast from family and school, I learned to create friendships with my writing. Then in later years, I learned about blogging.
So, even though I wouldn’t change a thing, it wasn’t until very recent that I realized I tend to write predominantly when I’m feeling glum (manic), bitter, displeased, enraged or dispirited. Then of course there are the feelings of when I’m hyped, full of mania (highs) and excitability with huge shots of adrenaline when I train before, during or after. Once in a blue I write when I’m happy, obsessive or in love too, but my heart lies with writing sorrow first. So what’s the dilemma?
One dilemma is I believe I’ve limited myself to writing with and/or about certain emotions, so when I’m actually happy I find it difficult to write or get inspired to write.
During the time I was on a mood-stabilizing pill I stopped writing for 3 months completely (which is absurd), not just because it changed my persona to a degree, but because I had less bipolar episodes, less sadness, less excitability, less highs and lows. I was somewhere in the middle, but not quite. I wasn’t necessarily happy, but wasn’t necessarily sad. Maybe neutral? But it made it difficult to find any drive to write. Now, I’m trying to come up with solutions and creative ways to write about anything and everything to push myself over the boundaries I’ve created.
The second dilemma aside from finding inspiration through negative tone emotions is I started working on a book (a novel). But, the problem for me is I stopped writing short stories decades ago, so I doubt my abilities since I’ve been out of practice. Writing in narrative, I find to be more difficult than say, writing a poem, prose or a blog. This is another challenge I’ve been trying to work on AND I’m open to suggestions from anyone who is kind enough to share.
Thanks for reading.
Written previously, but freshly revised.
So maybe I don’t need fixing? Maybe I’m perfectly normal except for a few bipolar episodes a month. Maybe I’m perfectly normal except that relationships are hard to manage under the waves of my high and low bipolar episodes. Unfortunately these episodes can last throughout the days, weeks, months and years. These episodes are rapid, can appear without sudden warning and sometimes when I’m outside looking in, I wonder about the duality of everything, the possibility of borderline personality disorder and about the strife everywhere in life.
As a result six months later after ongoing therapy I told the psychiatrist I would finally be ready to give medication a try and to my surprise she wasn’t super elated about it. I wonder if that meant anything aside from her not caring about making a difference in her position. The first medication she prescribed was called Lamictal. The interesting or unnerving thing about this medication is it’s actually considered an anti-epileptic (anticonvulsant) drug, if you can believe it.
This nutty psychiatrist prescribed Lamictal to me based on my bipolar disorder (to delay the episodes) and because she believed I could use additional assistance for weight loss. In any case, I was determined to give this a shot, so I took it with dedication for 3 months. Naturally, during the course, I went through many side effects and even if they lasted a mere day I wrote them all down. It was 2 decades almost exactly since I’ve taken any medication. Here’s how my brain and body reacted:
General sensation of always being sick
Flu like symptoms
Unbalanced (Clumsiness, loss of balance control)
Forgetfulness (like experiencing memory loss)
Loss of appetite
Stomach pain (Cramps)
Extra menstrual pain
Taste alteration (Either food taste better or disgusting)
Ringing of ears
Body sacs (like Folliculitis)
Can’t remember dreams
At first all the side effects above were consistent for the first 2 weeks. Then after the 2 weeks were up many of the side effects began to taper off as my body started to adjust without flu-like symptoms. However, these are the side effects that remained on a regular basis: An overwhelming desire to eat more Carbs than usual, extra Perspiration (even if I sat/stood still) and Headaches, Headaches, Headaches. But WAIT! There’s more.
In the beginning the one side effect that bothered me the most was the drowsiness; the feeling of perpetual sleepiness and overall weakness. Every day I was completely exhausted. During this sensible time, I was fighting with myself and wondering once again where my workout motivation disappeared to? Lamictal exhausted my entire system where for an entire month I couldn’t even get a single workout in.
The most prominent side effect (for me) that I can’t even explain, (but I’m sure somewhere there’s a terminology for it) tampered with who I am as a person. I’m not stupid enough to NOT believe changing or altering your brain/body’s chemistry wouldn’t affect your personality because it most certainly does. To me, this is one of the scariest things about taking a psychiatric pill, aside from consciously knowing you’re putting something extremely foreign in your body.
Lamictal affected one of the most personal parts of who I am – I could no longer write. I had zero desire for it. I felt like an entirely different person because of this. All my life I’ve written for school, tried my hand at screenplays, poetry, short stories and as you know blogging. So I’m like how could this be? No desire to write.
This was changing me in ways I wasn’t even ready for and I was doing my best to be objective about it. I would try sitting down at the table, hand caressing pen to paper, so I can come up with a single sentence and nothing would come out. It’s like the thought process couldn’t process a single thought. It’s like words meant nothing to me anymore and neither did the desire to express myself.
I felt severely inept and like I didn’t have any emotional response when it came to writing which blew my fucking mind! What kind of sorcery was this? This was when I decided I didn’t want to be on Lamictal anymore. It was a shock to my system that my brain and body reacted rather extreme.
So when I expressed to the nutty psychiatrist that Lamictal has changed me to the point where I don’t feel like myself anymore and I can’t even write anymore which is something I love doing, she says nonchalantly, “I never heard of this. This doesn’t seem possible. Let’s try something else.”
To be continued.
These are some of the latest entries I’ve written on the other half of my blog. One is pretty new and two are older work. I keep thinking I can’t move forward until I feel in some way I can move in a chronological fashion because this is the way I’ve always worked when it comes to blogging and writing in general. But now I’m up in the air, trying to remain open.
I apologize to everyone who comes over to check up on things around here. I’m sorry for disappearing. I’d be lying if I say I don’t write every day because I do and that I haven’t created new blogs because I have (they’re not fitness related). All in all I’m going to do my best to come over here and create newer entries even if it means I have to go backwards and post the past first.
I believe, over the course of time, I’ve gotten used to hiding. Hiding from everyone and everything in the world. Isolation has made me a private person. This is something I’ve been struggling with lately. How much should I share on my newer blogs? I don’t know. I always write from the heart because really that’s all I know how to do. So, here are a few pieces of me for you to click on. Hope you enjoy.
2. The Reminder
Thanks for reading!
Dr. Endocrinologist referred me to a nurse educator who I believe holds dykeish (is this a word and did I spell this correctly?) qualities because she made jokes (that I didn’t think were that funny) yet blushed with tears flooding her eyes like she was on a date with me that lasted two hours according to her notes. She even googled her address in front of me. Then showed me the trail and mileage of when her and her daughter walked from home to school on their journey to lose additional weight. Odd, no?
Anyhow, she explained in more detail about diabetes, showed me videos and we went through the correct ways to use a One Touch Verio. Lastly, she informs me that I can get rid of the diabetes since it’s in the early stage. Then goes on to assume I eat white rice and beans because I’m Hispanic. I said, “No I’m Italian, and that’s where diabetes came from; you know the pasta.” She chuckled. I think we left off great after that date because she said if you ever want more education, just make another appointment to come see me.
Then there’s this psychiatrist who’s in the wrong field for the discussion subject of choice were forever about weight loss, even though at our last session she says,”Stand up. Oh, you have lost weight” as she orders me to step on a hippopotamus scale. She thought it her duty to give unsolicited nutritional advice in her horrible fucking Dolph Lundgren accent: No peas. No carrots. Zero carbs. Don’t eat carbs at all. This includes sweet potatoes! Maybe one day when you lose all the weight you can eat carbs again. Don’t weightlift anymore. Weightlifting makes you bulky. You’ll never lose weight that way. Only cardio! Jump. Walk. You know what I’m saying.
Every session felt like I watched a bad sitcom with my presence in the hot seat as this insensitive cunt tried to tell me who I was based on 3 fifteen minute conversations we engaged in. Then she tried to question my purpose in life, inquire if I ever soul search and spoke about people who sleep past midnight aren’t normal. She took the cake by getting angrier than I was because doctors diagnosed me diabetic and it didn’t matter if it was the beginning stages.
There were many things that amused me about her terrible character, but what got me is the fact that she works in a mental health industry yet treats (many) patients (according to many who work in the building with her) like shit and never bothers to read anyone’s chart because she believes she’s too good to do so. The thing with putting people in boxes is it isn’t accurate even though on the surface it seems the people you deal with are all the time, which I expressed to her. Then I never saw the cunt again.
Thank god I’m not some shrimpy insecure person. Thank god I don’t allow other people’s opinions to affect me or my life decisions. Thank god I’m not a newcomer and have been weightlifting for over 13 years and swear by it. So, I’m a professional yo-yo dieter, but I’ve also had my share of steady weight loss, conditioned fitness and extra curves that come with it. I’ve always been proud, but I believe some people want to come in your life and not necessarily lecture or cast dirty spells on you, but they want to destroy whatever good you hold for their own reasons. I swear that’s what it is.
An angelic bird, close partner and an acquaintance each whispered to see a podiatrist. Once again I had to verbally fight for a referral to see a podiatrist and prayed for the doctor to be a woman for I could use thoroughness and words of light from maternal grace. Well, I got a woman and one of the first things she mentioned was, “If you didn’t have diabetes, your insurance wouldn’t cover the orthopedic shoe cost.” (Life, working in mysterious ways again.) Goes on further to say: With the shoes, both your ankles should feel stable; you’ll be even and wobble less since you’ll have built in arches. You’ll experience less pain as you walk. It’ll be good for you.
What this all boils down to is I’m still under construction. This is probably why I haven’t written much on any of these blogs lately because I’m not in the best mindset and part of me doesn’t want to display the pessimism in every single one of my entries.
It’s disappointing, this long journey I’ve been riding on, how I continuously see this trend of people (doctors, therapists, psychiatrists, endocrinologists, etc) who are in these fields to assist and inspire people to live better healthier lives physically, emotionally, mentally, etc, but fail to do so. How is it and when does it begin for some people that a job just becomes a job and not what it was intended for? I guess I believe in practicality and being above and beyond with sensibilities like empathetic (empath) abilities along with a higher vision for existence depending on the occupation.
Still, I don’t want to take nothing away from the two people who did give me hope of course – the dyke nurse educator and podiatrist. The first gave me positive pep talk, smiles, and probably touched me a few times too many since she thought we were on a date, but she came off focused, direct with the right balance of sincerity, care and concern throughout. Or maybe she was just being extra nice to me because she enjoyed my presence? Who really knows? It doesn’t matter because she was one of the nice ones who did her job and assisted in the best way she knew how.
As for the podiatrist, she mentioned that the good thing about my foot/ankle dilemma is it’ll get better over time, not worse. The little that she did say carried weight. I needed to once again get the surge back, the kind where I can remain on the optimistic wave, so I can keep fighting and more importantly never give up.
I’ve been trying to get out.
I’ve been trying to unearth the right time.
I’ve been talking to dead fish by the river.
I’ve been talking to the celestial body, reigning orb of night.
I’ve been trading places with shadows.
I’ve been in hiding.
I’ve been throwing things out.
I’ve been investigating my patience.
I’ve been talking to ducks by the Brooklyn bridge.
I’ve been talking to the brightest star, singeing god of land.
I’ve been trading in shades of light.
I’ve been in hiding.