Therapy, in various forms

Stolen directly from ihasahotdog.com. Just because I think it's funny. And because I have two very therapeutic dogs snuggled up with me right now...

He he.

So it was a full day today, even if I didn't get a whole lot done. Peng and I went wedding dress shopping, and found some really gorgeous stuff. We have an appointment at the local David's Bridal in the morning, but I expect we've already found her dress. It's exciting. She's going to look fabulous. This is going to be a fun affair. Squee!

Did I mention being excited about this?

Before we went, I had my first session with my assigned trainer this morning. So, Gomer...I'm not so sure about Gomer. A, he keeps throwing all sorts of numbers at me. Dude, I'm a bulimic, we don't do numbers in recovery because, well, we're too into numbers. I nearly smacked him when he suggested a goal weight for me in a month. It's just ten pounds, he says, just two and a half pounds a week. Literally, I growled something at him about wanting to think in terms of "healthy" and "fit" and "just end up wherever I end up." Because if I lose ten pounds this month? Cool. But if I don't, and we set his little goal, then I've failed. And I do. not. like. failing. So suppose in a month I've lost 12 pounds of fat and gained 4 or 6 pounds of muscle. Despite that I've actually accomplished my aims, I'll either go into overdrive trying to meet that goal if I anticipate in the week before that I'm not going to make it, or, I'll go into overdrive with the self-criticism if I wait until the 18th of February and discover that I'm not, in fact, ten pounds lighter. Either way, I'm likely to hurt myself trying. It's not normal. It's not rational. But it's what I do, and I know this about myself. Which is why I signed up for a trainer.

He did write up a good workout for me. Well, no, that's not true. He wrote up a good workout. He didn't watch my form, failed to notice when I was failing midway through my second set of curl-thingies (he would've noticed that the weight was too heavy towards the end of my first set of curl-thingies, if he'd been WATCHING, because my control in my left arm was terrible), and sent me running up and down the stairs, which does NOT mix with my asthma, or my bad ankles, for that matter.

And, you know....I dunno. A training staff full of big black men and they give me the white guy. Which doesn't actually say anything about his abilities as a trainer, and it's a little stereotypical, but let's face it - it's a well known cultural phenomenon that black men have a better appreciation for big bootied white women. Gomer, on the other hand...I'd rather suspect he has a "No Fat Chicks" sticker on the back of his truck. You know, right under the gun rack. If he hadn't told me that he just bought a used BMW. Oh, no, wait, he didn't tell me that, he told the woman on the machine next to me. Because he didn't actually talk to me, or even look at me much (see above, re: not watching my form). And then he's like, "the more cardio you can do, the better." Nah, dude, don't friggin' tell me that, because seriously, I'll end up doing eight hours a week of cardio. And I WILL hurt myself. See above re: reasons for getting a personal trainer. Damn it.

I'm probably being too hard on him. I'll give him a couple more sessions before I request someone who can meet with me on Thursday nights. And interestingly, Steve seems to be keeping a pretty good eye on me. I stopped by to talk to him on the way out (about this incessant shaking that keeps happening by the end of my workouts), and he had all sorts of comments on the stuff I'd been doing independantly, which we hadn't discussed (but he's always there when I'm there). So I think he's kind of got my back. Which, he should, he's the guy in charge...

Training is hard, y'all. And painful. And not in the way you might be thinking. I've left pretty much every session at the gym thusfar and cried. There's a lot tied up in this for me - a lot of negative body stuff, traumatic memories...I've literally been at odds with my body for, what, the past 26 years? For the last 19 we've been outright at war, and for well over 20 I've been living more or less outside my body, for all intents and purposes. I'm just now, through a lot of hard work and therapy, figuring out what it means to live in this body. And I'll be perfectly honest (because that's what I try to do here) - I do not like it right now. My body feels contaminated, defiled, and disgusting, and that's why I've spent the past two decades in various states of dissociation. This is a lot to get over, and it's hard to do, and I'm doing the best that I can, here...and it still never feels like enough. There's so much badness to sift through. There's always something awful and torturous and unresolved batting about in my belfry. Is it any wonder I don't sleep? Larry, who's now my primary care doc, right, I told him I had complex PTSD, and he asked if I had flashbacks on a day to day basis. I said to him, this is a moment to moment issue (at one point I was literally having between 60 and 100 flashbacks a day, and thought that was normal). This is a nonstop battle, and getting healthier and doing the work is a jagged, rough, uphill climb. Combine that with my 70 hour a week job, plus my analytic classes, two hours of my own therapy every week, and now at least four hours a week at the gym (not including the times I plan to go in after work and hit things when I've had a bad day. I always keep my boxing gloves in my bag, but I haven't had the chutzpa to actually pull them out yet...but soon...). Not to mention time I need to read for work/class, the paltry social life I have, and time for things I find restorative, like blogging and keeping up with email and Facebook and whatnot. And then there's silly things like housekeeping (ha!) and grocery shopping and maintaining some facade of normalcy and functionality about my life...it's hard. It's a lot to do with a monkey like that on your back, especially once you're healthy enough to start fighting with the monkey and trying to get him off of you instead of just plodding along with him weighing you down.

But it has to get harder before it can get easier, right? And I actually have been enjoying my time at the gym this past week, even if it's been a little internally overstimulating at times (and even if I could barely walk Friday, s/p Wednesday's training session...). So for now I keep fighting, and I keep plodding. It'll all get better if I just keep moving...