faith
It feels like I’ve failed the same weight 50 times and I don’t know why this last miss is the one that tips me over the edge but it does and suddenly it’s just too much and I’m too obviously upset to hide it so I quickly grab my drink bottle with the pretense of filling it just so I can leave the gym and have my meltdown in the privacy of the corridor. I hear someone coming and rather than face the embarrassment of trying to explain my ridiculous behavior I go hide in the changing room where I can ugly-cry in solitude. The negative thoughts keep darting across my brain like angry magpies as I sob like a five year old, wiping my snotty nose with my wrist wraps (this is basically their sole purpose). I inwardly berate myself for everything from the rep I just failed to the back fat squidging out of my sports bra to the fact that I haven’t yet written the programs I’m meant to because I got stuck in a fairly solid TV hole last night, even though I’ve already seen every episode of Breaking Bad like twice and really there’s no excuse for watching three episodes in a row when you have actual legitimate things to be doing with your life that don’t involve Jesse Pinkman, BITCH. (Yes, even though the movie is out now and revision is essential).
ARGH.
I sit heavily on the wooden bench in the changing room as vicious thoughts swoop and land in the soft, vulnerable parts of my brain, pecking the grey tissue relentlessly with a barrage of abuse. You loser. You actual fucking loser. How the hell are you ever going to qualify for Nationals? You can barely get 70kg over your head and you need at least 80. You are so fucking embarrassing you should literally just quit now and go do F45 or something, at least you’d be half decent at it. The downward spiral of self immolation quickly engulfs me in thoughts of unrelated despair. You’re a fucking idiot, they scream. The people you think are your friends don’t REALLY like you, how could they ?! How could anyone ? You’re nothing but a fraud and failure. Also I realize mid mental masochism that I forgot to get my chicken out of the freezer this morning which means it’s going to take longer to make my dinner, if I ever get through this aborted fetus of a training session. Suddenly the ridiculousness of my meltdown being reduced to a potential meal delay becomes glaringly obvious and I mentally add ‘unnecessary and exaggerated hysteria’ to my extensive list of human failings.
Fucking BREATHE, mate.
No one cares if qualify for Nationals or not, if I even do weightlifting at all, or really anything for that matter. I could stop giving a fuck about all this and nothing would happen. The world would keep turning and everyone else would keep lifting (with less snot, probably) and living, and life would go on. Somehow this thought is comforting. I am the only person in the world who has decided I must achieve this thing. I’m the one who writes the qualifying total for my weight class on my bathroom mirror each week in gold, as if writing it over and over again is somehow going to manifest an additional 20 kilos out of thin air. Am I right in thinking that if you don’t care this much about something then you don’t really care ? If you’re not crying at the thought of not reaching a potential you feel you have inside you, is that thing you’re striving for really something you even want? I’ve always been of the opinion that those who claim it’s possible to have balance aren’t really trying hard enough, but maybe they’re the smart ones. I mean, I’m the idiot crying over 3 X 2+1 clean and jerks over here.
When I was a kid, I believed in God. Jesus and God and Heaven and Hell and all of it. Despite obvious evidence to the contrary, and oblivious to common sense, science, and reason, I firmly believed without any shadow of a doubt that God was real and that I would go to Heaven simply for believing this to be the case. The kids who bullied and teased me for my beliefs (and for taking my Bible to school, let’s be honest) would go to Hell, obviously, because that’s where the dickheads went, and everything would be OK in the end because Jesus said it would be. I would argue point-blank with anyone who debated my religion, because I felt in my heart that I was right, irrespective of fact and logic. Or, I did. A lot has changed since then and these days I would consider myself to be fairly permanently in the atheist camp (long story). My point is that my levels of confidence in what I believed were a solid 11/10, purely just because I FELT that I was right. I didn’t need any evidence to back me up because I had faith.
It’s occurred to me recently that I need to apply this stubborn certainty to someone who does definitely exist and who’s path I actually can influence…ME. It literally doesn’t matter how far off my goal I am in this moment, all I need right now is the faith that I am actually closer every fucking day, whether it feels like I am or not. Just like I used to wait for Jesus to come back and send all the mean kids to Hell and me to Heaven, if I was patient and believed I could do it, I’d get to Nationals, and beyond, if I wanted it bad enough. Every morning I stare at those numbers on my bathroom mirror and envision myself walking onto that platform in my navy and white Vic suit, strong and confident in the knowledge that I fucking earned every second up there, and whether this vision becomes a reality in one year, two, or five, I’ve got this. Wanting it bad enough isn’t even a question.
Back in the gym, I strip the bar back down and turn to the next blank page in my journal, writing the date and my body weight again as if I’ve just started my session. These numbers are irrelevant today though, there’s only one that matters.
