I speak the only way I know how – from the heart.
I’ll never forget how you left me solid cold at one of the hardest times of my life. I’ll never forget how you made everything about you when I was the one suffering from a broken ankle with no income and wondering where I was going to live. I’ll never forget how all those rare moments you sat by my side like when my mother died and you were just a body, never really there – on your phone all day disrespecting us at her wake. You were just a body, and so was I. I was your masturbation device for years, but we did start with love once upon a time – and this is still up for debate.
I’ll never forget the time when life brought to my attention how heartless you were – waiting at the clinic with me to have an abortion. And all you complained about was lack of sleep, yet I was faced with the decision of having a gargantuan life force taken out of me. And when we went back to my house, there was no mention of how I felt from what I had to do for the second time in my life. The truth is: You went right to sleep as if nothing happened because it didn’t happen to you. I’ll never forget about the first abortion either because you weren’t there when you could have taken the day off work to be with me. The truth again: You didn’t want to be there, and this was evident by the second experience. I’ll never forget how you made all my problems into something that was never yours to support or deal with.
Thank you for showing me how love was never meant to feel. Thank you for never being my rock and for never taking on anything you didn’t want to handle – at least this last part you were honest about. Thank you for letting me know that sex was the thing that kept you going and that you didn’t mind taking over and over again. Thank you for never protecting me in the ways I should have been. Thank you for never treating me like royalty. Thank you for your unnecessary amounts of selfishness. Thank you for showing me when it was time to walk out. Without this – I would’ve kept thinking this kind of love was normal, but it wasn’t love, and this behavior wasn’t normal in itself. Thank you. I’m at a better place now and in the care of a profound love.
I stretch long and strong and wide like a rainbow. I have my colors back from my fair complexion – and the ones I deem underneath my skin – muscles. I bask once again in the glory of my religion at the gym; eight months later after being snatch up from a break and fall accident. I’m finally home. And I welcome myself back with the eyes and psyche of a new foundation and fresh perspective that glitters like gold from the inside out with positivity and nourishment that stems from redefining everything in my life.
It’s been a long while – shy of four months to make a full year. But now, I’m in my happy place where endorphins give way to my bipolar lows so I can obtain a high again. The gym is where I center myself, where I create the magic concoction to establish balance and management of my historic chemical imbalances. It’s where I get to feel the rush of heat on my chubby cheeks and where I get to unleash my every day aggression. It’s where I thrive on the blood that swirls in burn and ache in every direction from the temple of my body and mind.
I’m once again grateful for all the higher powers that be for allowing me to feel my muscles with hurt on every movement I push without limits. I enjoy each turn as I wince out of delight from a rotation where my oblique contracts and I involve myself in the flashback of yesterday: Engaging full integrity on a few hours of work. Because for a while I forgot how soreness felt. I forgot about the subtle peaks in muscles. I forgot about the way those peaks slowly raise with fever over the course of the night and the next forty-eight hours heavy with temper – delayed onset muscular soreness.
The truth is: I can live with every part of my body given to the brutal pain of a committed lift. I can dedicate my entire life to infinite repetitions. I can die happy on my last breath being exerted against the resistance of iron, and the cerebral connection vital for my mental, spiritual and emotional therapy. I mean, after all is said and done, the gym is a home dedicated to self-love, despite the general mundane (and sometimes) pieces of a day to day. This is where my importance lies and one of the many things that gives my life character, spirit, purpose and beauty.