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.
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.
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!
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.
Written previously, recently revised.
We welcomed each other first with high spirited voices talking into our cell phones and waving from across the street like lost little kindergarten classmates. Then we greeted like sisters with tight long bear-hugs in the same way we always have because there are a few things in life that never change. I could hear her wailing happiness beating from her gut than her chest and out into the public and onto my ear. I smile in her hair with immediate joy but reserved the sound of my joyfulness.
Xyza is an undercover mentor, a maternal-like figure, full of flashes of hippie love, extraordinary kindness and massive angelic light that illuminates from her aura. I’m also an undercover mentor, half in age, full of loyal compassion, extraordinary hospitality and thoughtfulness that leave the innocent light on in the darkness of which I grow.
In the center of this embrace I reflect over our countless meet-ups and how it never fails, my constant awkwardness in the hub of sharing love and how despite iself, I’m genuinely able to digest her white magic, even if it leaves me depleted afterward. Xyza looks tenderly beautiful with her strawberry blonde shoulder-length bob. I compliment her on the new length when she declared, “I had a vision of myself twenty years from now, me with long gray hair and a flower in it off to the side.”
I love the visions she shares with me.
We settle in a Thai restaurant not far from her parked car. Upon sitting, the server asks, “Are you tourists?” “No”, we replied. Xyza turns my way inching up her nose until it crinkles with a question, “How come everyone thinks I’m a tourist? I was born in New York, but live just outside the city. I guess.. because I travel a great deal.” I nod in agreement and chimed, “Your aura never has that grounded feel from being in one place too long.”
But, with me it’s totally different; I’m a New Yorker who’s considerably considerate whereas I allow people to hit me with their bags as I stand overt with an introverted atmosphere on the train or bus. Unlike Xyza, my roots are established in New York and it’s on display when I talk about my suspicions concerning the worldview. I may come across as myopic, but I consider myself to be purely grounded.
Thirty minutes of conversation and I’ve been following Xyza’s lead because she’s paying so I never lay a finger on the menu. The server comes over to nudge us politely – then Thai Chive Pancakes, Vegetable Spring Rolls and a glorious Mango Salad along with unsweetened ice tea lands sweetly before our eyes. I continued following Xyza’s lead and didn’t touch a single carrot slinky. I sat glued in passivity to the tales of my friend.
I listen to her speak about her ex-husband and how she’s pretty sure a demon owns him. I listen when she said she knows of two men who have transcended beyond the physical and how they both married wonderful women, but not perfect women. (It made me wonder, what constitutes a perfect woman according to a sixty-year old woman.) I listen on in when she said she doesn’t want to play the romantic game from a male’s physical perspective, nor does she have any desire to play the woman’s perspective which is to trap a man in a relationship. Of course, I agree. I believe life is too short to live conventionally.
When Xyza decides to come up for air, I volunteer my own discourse.
I speak about isolation from the world and if canceling my gym membership is the wrong thing to do because at least this is a place where I can maintain some social skills. I speak about having elevated to a place where physical sex is no longer an obligation of mine, nor is it ever a want. I speak about the tiny things that make me happy like being by the water, the vision of living in a beach house single with two pets: A husky dog and a petite cat. I speak about not understanding the point of being in a relationship with men when being the opposite gender I’ve yet to connect and remain on the same wavelength. I always feel superior.
We understood each other the way women and friends frequently do and we continued to eat, sip, laugh and talk the summery night away.
I sit and prick my finger with the thinnest needle I’ve ever seen. It feels as thin as a loose-leaf page between my fingers. This needle reminds me of the first time I tried to grasp what was taking place on the table after I let the alcohol dry and stomach lbs of anxiety to push a simple white surrender button that has no problem piercing me at its own inorganic intention. That bee-stinger reminds me of my family’s hang ups every time I glance over the medical history list and check off every sick inheritance. It’s one more thing to put on the death record. The son of a bitch needle reminds me of where my life has been and where it’s going.
I think about who I’m becoming? I think about the coincidences that tie into another coincidence like a necklace and how I never believe much in coincidences or in necklaces that are meant to break with the purpose and strange intent to try and shake up my faith. I believe in life’s orchestration and in every gift given by higher sources. I think about my faith, motivation and temperament. How much fight I have in me? How to keep positive mantras by the altar of my heart and how to deal them out as needed, as well as how to go about feeding my spiritual backyard with water when it’s looking dry as a bone due to inner turmoil.
The small round dot of red reminds me of a ladybug. I believe the ladybug is searching for answers life can’t always give while I’m still breathing, punching and kicking alive. The ladybug is on a quest for numbers in low ranges and metabolic disorders to be of order. I’m checking my blood sugar, but I call her ladybug because it verbally and visually sounds prettier than the faults I hold as a human. The New Year brought me diabetes and I’m not sure how to feel about this progressive disease that had a lot to do with taking my mother’s life.
What does the bigger picture hold?
The surgeon says, “Are you aware diabetes further affects the ligaments.tendons in your foot and how your foot heals from surgery?” I don’t take advice from anyone who butchers human bodies for a living because even though what they do for a living can be helpful, there’s something inhumane about cutting into human bodies. Let alone, the discord for why surgeons lack brainpower, logic sense, human emotion and emotional intelligence. I can’t tell you the countless times I’ve been in his cold office and every single time I’ve felt like I was touched and centered by a black-hole; the entire light of my thirty-something being vanish in a space where I was beginning to be invisible to myself.
Then there’s my primary doctor who’s younger than I and mentally more fucked than I am says it’s in the controlled phase, don’t worry so much she blurts carelessly. Is she telling the 29 million Americans with diabetes not to worry too? Yet in the same session casually mentions how her supervisor said you would be a good candidate for bypass surgery as if I resemble a hippopotamus of sort. Anyone who hacks into human bodies for a living with a scalpel is god-awful fucking people. No thank you I know how to lose weight on my own even though these gargoyles of depression won’t get off my shoulders and every painful step and every stretch of my Achilles heel is a partial reminder where the mess of my life went awry.
So I asked for a referral to see the endocrinologist, which took me a year plus to get because I didn’t become a candidate until the diabetes clock decided to tick its way in because a 40lb weight gain in a 2 year span doesn’t constitute as a person having a real problem other than depression or hatred in America. So, do I consider the diabetes to be a blessing in disguise? Well, I certainly believe it came on time!
Now Dr. Endocrinologist doesn’t dish any hope at all, but he talked openly about his country, how poor he was as a kid and how he’d go hungry and learned the power of discipline through starvation unlike the Americans who have every convenience and option rolled out for them like a red carpet. He went on to say I know I’ll get diabetes eventually because it’s hereditary, but I do my best to prevent it by not eating all the wonderful fatty and carby things I would love to eat now. Then he wrapped up with a spiel of willpower and the difficulty most people have when it comes to willpower. And I kept looking at him, like do you know who the fuck I am? Then I realized no this is your first meeting and he talks like his because he doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall, so I don’t hold his appalling lecture personally.
He goes on to say 50% of your pancreas is shot and will never work the way it once did. Then right away I felt like a dying tulip on the side of neglected roadkill sitting on the thought of my pancreas dying a whole ten years prior according to him. The only thing I did agree with is the way his eyes lit up with sinful fire as he said, “What is wrong with your primary doctor? It’s crazy for her to mention bypass surgery for 3 reasons: 1. That’s not a solution. 2. Most people lose 50% of their weight the first year, but gain it ALL back because most people aren’t disciplined. 3. You don’t even know the basics of endocrinology.
To be continued..
The other half of this blog is here entitled Updated Aspect (Life) if interested.
Lately I’ve been having trouble getting into the gym to get in more cardio work. Lifting has never been a problem once I enter the gym with my mind in the zone, scowl and broad shoulders. Still, the emphasis is cardio because I have a lot of weight to lose by my standards. This bad habit started when my ankle broke and when I isolated myself from the world. I tried going back to the gym to be the fitness buff I was, but nothing was the same. It was me against trauma, coming to terms with mental illness and recovering from the worst year of my life.
Nevertheless I needed to feel a rush; I needed to balance out the chemicals in my brain somehow. I wanted to feel alive again. I wanted to feel my body in motion, so I learned pretty quickly how to workout at home. I looked at the upsides of home workouts: not being bothered by anyone or anything. Working out at home was safe and therefore it became my retreat. I never thought I’d make fitness at home my full-time job. I never thought I would pay a subscription to stream videos. I also never thought I’d canceled a gym membership after being a gym-goer for 13 years.
Of course a month and a half later my headspace was in a much better place after I canceled the gym membership, but it still took a year and a half for me to get back into the gym a few times a week. Still, a dilemma hovered big as an elephant – getting to the gym on a regular basis seem to be a problem. This is also something I’ve never had before. I started feeling like one of those average people. I’ve never felt gym ordinary before. I’ve always been the one to rise above the starting point. Again, nothing is the same. I’m in no rush to lose weight, which is very unlike me. I used to drop 8lbs in a month, month after month like I was going to compete somewhere on stage. Not this time.
The bright side is when I do go to the gym my adrenaline takes over and I forget about the time or when’s the last time I ate or what else I have to do after I stroll out the gym at midnight. I don’t stop until I have nothing more in the tank – my usual – and I thank God that’s still the same to this day. My mind-muscle connection is even more in depth, which I find both absurd and incredible. I’m starting to believe for the first time in my life that less can actually be more.
I’ve changed my training style again. I used to move around heavy weight all the time. I toned it down. I used to do a lot of volume. I can’t say I toned that down. Right now I’m focused on basic exercises (not unique ones) and variations of the basics. I like working with my bodyweight. I leave the isolated movements and core training for Ballet Beautiful and other Ballet-inspired workouts. I do tons of unilateral sets since my accident – I still feel an imbalance within my body. I do pump out high reps; mostly because I was always a 5-10 rep woman. But how will my body react long-term when the switch has been/is 20 reps and over? I also do strength-training at home in circuit-training fashion at least 2 times a s week. Also, twerking which is a fun way to do cardio at home.
I notice other things I don’t do anymore in the gym I used to do is scout out who I wanted to compete with for poundages or on cardio machines. At this moment, I don’t have the urge to compete with anyone anymore because I’m in my own groove and free in my own zone. This is both good and bad. Good because fuck everybody else in the gym – I’m here for me yet bad because you can always get extra drive and push yourself further when you and the stranger are knowingly competing with one another.
So, what about this gym ordinary thing? I’ve been giving thought to what I have to do to make sure I get into the gym at least 2-3 times a week every month. I shouldn’t be comparing myself to the 5-6 times a week of cardio I used to do especially because I’m not feeling it. At the moment, I don’t want to live in the gym like I used to. I want to perform more than the minimum, but live out of the gym. But, what can I do differently? What did I used to do before to get in the gym multiple times a week for hours at a time?
Well, for one I didn’t make excuses. Two, I always made sure to established good work ethic every single time I stepped foot in any gym. Three I would think about the professional fitness enthusiasts and how busy their lives are and just how they make time to get their cardio in multiples times a week. If they could do it, so could I. Four, I need to create a set routine, one I can’t easily get out of and also with at least 3-4 back up plans just like I used to do.
However, I think I kept this long enough. Also, I’m open to suggestions. Please don’t say running, jogging or walking because I’ll cut you with my ankle bone. Walking still hurts me and this is one of the main reasons I go to the gym to do cardio because I can sit on a machine (bike) and burn calories away with minimal pain.