'Till the roof comes off, 'till the lights go out, 'till my legs give out...

I hurt everywhere today. Training yesterday was brutal. Someone asked me what Jacob (my trainer) had me do. "Nothing," I told her. "He just had me lie on the floor while he kicked the living hell out of me for about an hour."

That's kind of what it felt like, and today it definitely feels like that's what happened. It hurts walking up and down the stairs. It hurts to move my head. It hurts to type. So what am I doing today? Zumba. Who IS this person?

What happened to spending the day resting between meals? When did I trade in my bathrobe for workout clothes? When did I start taking pride in how much of my tee shirt I can soak with sweat in an hour? (by the way, it's a LOT.) The times they are a changin', and it's not easy. Not by a long shot.

Swinging 25 lb. kettle bells around in the air is hard. Pulling my trainer up and down the length of the gym is hard. Balancing on a ball like a seal...balancing on my butt with my knees to my chest while doing bicep curls...swinging a sledgehammer at a tractor tire...all of these things are hard. None even come close to how difficult change is.

I have a mental collage of my past in my head. It's full of snapshots and soundbites of every geeky, dorky, asinine thing I've ever done. It's so full, I can't really see myself. All I see is a mash-up of my past failures and regrets. All I see is a mess, and since that's the only picture I have, it's how I've always defined myself and how I've assumed the world has defined me, as well. But this doesn't jibe with what I'm doing now. I need a new collage, but more than that, I need to get rid of the old one.

I need to let go. I need to leave my concept of who I was behind me and figure out who I want to be.

But change hurts. As unhappy as I've been for such a long time, I've grown accustom to that way of life. No challenges = no let downs. No expectations = no disappointments, and no contact with the outside world guarantees that I'll never get hurt or be embarrassed again.

Jacob tells me there's no crying in weight lifting. I'm not sure why he keeps saying this since he usually says it when I'm crying during training. For the past couple of months, I've been trying to figure out where these tears are coming from. It happens every time I find myself completely fatigued, just before pushing through the exhaustion to keep going. I get to the point where I'm physically spent and right then, the tears come. It's not that I want to stop. In part, it's fear of failure, but that's still not quite accurate. I think it's about change.

I'm scared a lot of the time. What if I do all this - killing myself at the gym - and it doesn't work? Scarier still, what if it does? Everything about me and my life will be different. I'm like a big lump of clay in the process of being sculpted. No wonder it's painful. I'm doing things that aren't easy, both physically and personally. Right now, I don't really have a vision of me. All I'm doing is my best to follow the plan my trainer has for me, and let go of the past. I trust him. I have since the beginning.

Maybe it's okay that I don't know or can't see exactly what I want. As long as I keep moving forward, something's bound to happen and regardless of what it is, it'll be better than what's happened before. So I'll keep going. 'Till the roof comes off...'till the lights go out...'till my legs give out...
                                                .....and even after that. 

Tacos and Burgers and Pizza... Oh, My!

I've been feeling down lately. I can't pinpoint a reason, which makes it worse for me, but suffice to say I've been feeling blue.

Then, two days ago, my trainer tried to kill me. We'd never worked on calfs before, but we did on Wednesday, and he had me do five thousand calf raises off of a step. (That's how many it felt like, anyway.) I was in tears when I finished. What he may not know is that I'll do anything he says, regardless of the pain. As usual, I want to be the alpha fill-in-the-blank. In this case, the alpha client.

When we first met, I told him I'd never use the "c" word in front of him. He said, "Thank you," but I'm not sure he understood which "c" word I was talking about. What I meant was that I'd never say 'can't.' (To be honest, I've got one heck of a potty mouth...a blue streak...I use colorful language freely. In other words, I could make a sailor blush. So it's entirely possible that he was thanking me for promising not to use another "c" word in front of him.) I suppose it's possible he wasn't trying to kill me. Maybe it's my fault for not crying "uncle," but I never have and I don't intend to.

After today's workout, while running errands, I was limping so badly that people were looking at me funny.I couldn't stand up straight. So I was in pain, feeling down, and to top it all off, people were staring at me, which I hate. My mind went to the place it naturally goes on days like today: I wanted comfort food.

I started going through a mental list: tacos, burritos with sour cream and extra cheese, bacon double cheese burgers (even though I don't eat red meat) pizza, macaroni and cheese...but something happened that has never happened to me before. A not so little voice spoke up almost immediately asking how I'd feel if I ate those things and the answer was immediate: I'd feel horrible. There was no internal debate, and no conscious decision to make. The knowledge was just there, and it chased away the thoughts of food. I knew I'd feel sluggish and uncomfortable if I were to eat unhealthy food and that's the reason I didn't. Not because I'm on a diet - which I don't consider myself to be - not because of guilt or embarrassment, and not because I would be a "bad girl" if I gave in. I made the choice based on how the food would make my body feel.

This was a definite first for me. Fat or thin, all my life, food has been about comfort. I've never thought of food as fuel, but rather as a way to pass the time, a punishment, a reward, a friend, a way to numb out...a drug.

Today, I didn't dwell on the semi-cravings or the instant reasoning that took them away. It all happened more as a fleeting thought. It's only now, as I reflect on this afternoon, that I realize the significance of what happened. It feels like real progress.

It feels good.

"Don't compare your insides with other people's outsides."

A counselor once told me that, and I understood exactly what she was telling me, but I've never been able to fully explain it to someone else without an example. Unfortunately, I have a new one to share.

A friend of mine from my using days connected with me on Face Book a couple of years ago. We were close, he and I, and I'd thought about him often since becoming sober. When he contacted me, I had about three years clean time and, while still fragile, I was feeling pretty good about things.

He told me he was doing well, was out of prison and had started his life again. He was going to school, working, and the pictures in his online albums showed a healthy, happy man. He missed me. I missed him. He wanted to get together to catch up. I couldn't do it.

I told him how much I wanted to see him, but that I knew I wasn't ready. "I've been clean for three years. Maybe it was all fun and games for the rest of you guys, but it was HARD for me to kick, and when I think of getting together with you, all I want to do is get high."

He understood and said he'd be there for me whenever I was ready. And I knew he was genuine.

Here's something most people don't know: regardless of what you've seen in movies or on TV, addicts, in my experience, are very supportive of one another when it comes to quitting. We know that what we're doing is killing us. We'll never voice it or even allow ourselves to think it, but deep down we know we're dying. We wouldn't wish our addiction on anyone...especially someone we care about.

So when he said he understood and that he loved me and respected my sobriety and my feelings, I knew he meant it. Every so often he'd call or e-mail me again saying how good he was doing He was sober and had graduated from school. He had a girlfriend and even though some of his friends still "played around," as he put it, he was doing great and meth held no interest for him anymore.

"Why is it so easy for him?" I'd wonder, scrolling through pictures of him fishing with a big group of friends, all smiling and hamming it up for the camera. "Why am I so weak?" I'd ask myself clicking through pictures of him at weddings and celebrations. "He's out there living this great life, and I'm hiding from the world because I'm scared to engage with it."

And I wanted to see him. I really did. I have a lot of love for this man. But when I would speak with him on the phone it was almost like I could taste the glass pipe and hear the click of a lighter. I'd cry after hanging up because I couldn't quit thinking about meth,. All of this made me feel weak and unsure of myself and whether or not I was really in recovery, or if I were just hiding from my addiction.

Why don't I feel the way he looks?

I found out a couple of days ago that he's been arrested again for possession with intent, and conspiracy. This is his third felony drug offense and he's currently on parole.

I have mixed emotions. My heart is breaking for him. He's a wonderful man with a good soul, and trite phrases like, "lost potential" are floating through my head. At the same time I feel like I dodged a bullet. Not that I would have used with him or that it would even have been possible, but it would have opened a door that's best left locked forever.

Sometimes I think it would be nice if we could all see each other for who we really are all the time. It might save a lot of heartache.