Crossing the Line

Well. I’ve made it an entire month writing about something that I’ve been keeping a secret for years. After the first few entries this month, I really wanted to quit. I mean like I had a silent meltdown about it. Owning my shit and writing about my shit are two different struggles. When this month began, I thought there was no way I would be able to do both.

And look what happened …

I fucking did it.

I feel like I did when I crossed the finish line of my first half marathon. Elated. Proud. And very stunned. Just like training for a long race, in so many ways, I’ve been training myself to write about this … by being open with people about my struggle, by being aware of triggers, and by being honest with myself. Speaking of being honest.

During residency, I tried to make sure that every post I sent off to the interwebs was one that was bright. I needed them to be bright so that I could remain focused. Now, back in the safety of my lab (and almost all the way unpacked) I know I have to own up to something.

I had one really fucking hard day at res. I lost my water bottle, got in trouble in Workshop, one of my heroines yelled at me in front of a group of my peers, and I was feeling like shit. My calories were right on the money, cool, fine, whatever. But I felt like shit, and a learned behavior for me is that when I feel like shit mentally, I should feel the same physically.

Over the course of my struggles with anorexia, I have often reverted to abusing laxatives. Not that I needed to expel anything that was going into my body  … but that’s a realization that’s only come now. Anyway, I brought the last box of this giant stash of those little chocolate flavored squares with me to res. Why? Who fucking knows. No, scratch that. I know why. I brought them as a safety measure, just like I carry a knife and I sleep with a handgun near. Packing the box in my suitcase reassured me that if shit really hit the fan, I always had the bars with me.

So back to this crap-tastic day. It was terrible, and I spent a significant amount of time engaging in self-hate talk, working myself into a tizzy. It was late; the gym was closed, so there was no constructive outlet for me, and my brain was fried so writing was out. I went to my suitcase. Pulled out the box and shoved six of the pieces in my mouth. Started to chew. Stared at the box, the raised word, “Relief” staring back at me. Kept chewing. And then ran to the bathroom and spit them out. Said out loud, “Nope. I’m not starting that shit again.” Flushed the rest of the box. Brushed my teeth and decided to stop being a little bitch about things. So it was a bad day. Big deal. They happen to everyone. One bad day should not and cannot mean failing at this recovery.

The next day, I took some time in the morning to sit and think about what I’d (almost) done. I’m ashamed that I started to eat the laxatives. But know what’s better? Being proud as fuck that I stopped and spit them out.

This has been an epic month. Whew! I’m looking forward to switching the theme for June. What will it be? Check back tomorrow to find out. 

#proteinup

Being held accountable, that is, having to own my shit and keep on moving, is something that I’m able to do well on my own. At least, that’s what I’ve always thought. Before I entered into recovery, I thought I was handing things just fine. I mean, I was living, sustaining, able to maintain, and that seemed like enough for me.

Now, the level of accountability to which I am held is so far from what I have experienced. Knowing that I have to answer to someone and that excuses are going to fall on deaf ears has changed my perspective in so many ways, and not just with regard to eating. The other day, as I was preparing for bed and ready to crash, I checked my food tracking app and realized I was low on my calories. Not super low, but about 300 off my mark. The fitness goals I have in mind don’t allow me time to ‘be low’ on days, nor do they allow me to miss my calorie intake, since the drive of all of this is getting to 2100 a day. I’d already brushed my teeth and was nestled into the hotel bed when I discovered my number. Well fuck.

A huge (and I mean universe sized) part of me wanted to just turn out the light and go to bed. What’s three hundred calories, give or take, in the scheme of all of this? I wrestled with myself, turning over reasons why I shouldn’t eat, and why I should. Excuses like I’d just brushed my teeth, I was already in bed, it was late, I was tired, blah blah blah, ping-ponged in my head. Coupled with those excuses were reasons why I SHOULD get my ass out of bed and at least have a protein shake. Namely, the resounding reason kept coming back to the fact that once a week, I turn my logs over to my Coach. Knowing I was going to be held accountable for the day, and that I would actually have to show someone was enough pressure for me to throw back the covers, scoop out some protein and chug those three hundred calories. Sure, I could have just ignored it, and gone to sleep. But that wouldn’t have served me in any way. It wouldn’t have advanced this journey, and ultimately, would have been a step back. I don’t have time for bullshit. I don’t have time for missed days. I’m in full on #beastmode, which means even in moments like that I have to keep on moving forward.

Boom. 

Feed Me, Seymour

Know what’s a wonderful thing?

Being hungry.

Hear me out.

I was at a lecture the other day, eating my rice porridge with prunes and protein, content to listen to whatever the lecturer was speaking on, and happy to be eating … in public, no less. After lecture ended, I was chatting with a few friends and remarked that I was hungry. One of my writer friends said, “But you just ate that weird hippy food.” I stopped, shook my head and looked at him skeptically. No shit. I had  just eaten, and holy hell, I was hungry again!

Listening to body cues and relearning the idea that it’s okay to eat when my brain signals that I need fuel is now becoming so commonplace that it’s almost difficult for me to remember when it was any other way. I say that confidently, in this moment, mainly because I’ve had a really great run with eating this month. But, I’m a realist and I know that once I return home after this residency, the likliehood to freak out about all of my impending deadlines will be present. History has shown that in freak-out mode, my first inclination is to restrict. It’s been a safe place for me for so long.

However.

I am so fucking optimistic that when this bound-to-happen moment rolls around, I’m going to be able to handle it in a much healthier way. This is as much because I’ve been retraining my body to accept and want food and nourishment, as because I’ve been retraining my mind.

So much of all of this is mental. Trusting myself to honor the process and believe what my brain is signaling was so difficult when I started this process six months ago. Now on the eve of the end of residency, I’m realizing that because it’s mental, and because I believe in myself, I am well equipped to handle that bitch of voice that tells me I shouldn’t eat. Fuck off, voice. I’m so far beyond not wanting to eat … I need to eat and dare I say it – I’m loving eating right now!

Bad Ass Chicks

With this being my final term of graduate school, I’ve started to consider what I will be discussing for my graduation lecture. I know I want it to have something to do with the sexual objectification of women, a subject that is really important to me, and I know I want it to discuss weight lifting in some way. Cursory internet searches pull up women like Rasa and Pudgy Stockton, women who, in their own right and in their time, made great strides for the emergence of a strong woman – both physically and mentally. I’ve long held the idea that lifting and training heavy is a cursory experience to one who is attempting to recover from an eating disorder. That said, I can understand the perspective that one is simply trading an established compulsive behavior for a new one. However, I think the pursuit toward strength – that is, the consistency that it takes to really show up every single day and lift is a far cry from that of the effort it takes to remain living with an eating disorder.

I know, this is a radical idea. But hear me out.

In periods of intense restriction, my body, weakened by the lack of food and proper nutrition, could do little except sustain. I wasn’t advancing in any capacity – as a runner, weight lifter, writer, or human simply because I had no fuel to move my body. It was a struggle to wake every morning at four for the office; even harder to manage a twelve hour day because … I was FUCKING STARVING myself. The definition of ‘to starve’ is to suffer greatly. And that’s exactly what was happening. Every. Single. Day. I was suffering, and sure as hell wasn’t living. After so many years of restriction, it became very commonplace to not eat. My body retrained to live on (basically) nothing, and I found ways to manage. And because it was so run of the mill, it took little effort. I didn’t have to think about not eating; it simply became the normative status quo for each and every one of my days.

Since I’ve been in recovery, I have found that it takes a decided and real effort to not only show up everyday for myself and my goals, but to show up ready to work. I think I’ve accustomed myself to complacency in so many ways that well … some days are just hard as shit. That said, they’re hard because I’m pushing myself, because I’m working TOWARD something, because I’m propelling myself toward the finish line. It’s so much different than just floating in starved limbo. And it’s amazing.

I think about these kinds of women – Rasa and Stockton, and I know that, as purveyors of women weightlifting, and to a large extent, women who demanded the lines of sexism be broken, each of them had to show up. Every. Single. Day. So on days like today, when my workout was less than fabulous, and I want to fill myself with self-loathing and terrible reasons why I ‘suck,’ Rasa and Stockton remind me of every reason why I keep doing what I’m doing.

Movin' on Up

I slept for shit last night. After the Moth story jam, I had to work on my revisions for workshop. Writing, and the creative process that comes with it, set my mind on fire. I typically have a hard and fast rule that I don’t write while I’m at Res … mainly because I just want to soak it all in. Good thing revisions don’t count. Anyway, because I started crafting a fictionalized moment from a real life experience, my brain was on fire. In the course of the five hours I was lying supine in my bed, my dreams took me from Roman times to Romaji camps and then to New York speakeasies. Blame my creative brain.

At any rate, this morning I woke heavy for my first lecture. It was rough, and every single particle inside of me wanted to ditch my planned workout time. I wanted, I needed a nap. But, I make schedules to adhere to them, so off to gym I went.

Kettlebell ladders and pylo/metcon work is always so much fun. I started slowly, knowing I would need more time than normal to warm up. And halfway through my sweat, I was feeling the fire. Much like the fire I felt last night working on my revisions, my body suddenly felt alive. Strong. Ready to push. So that’s what I did.

My kettlebell work went up by ten pounds, so I’m now using a forty for windmills and figure 8s, and a fifty for American swings and racked reverse lunges.

Woo.

But how does this relate to the theme of this month?

Two months ago, had I had such shit sleep, I would have felt it in my sweat. There’s no way the idea of moving up in weight would have ever entered my mind because my body was not properly fueled to do, well … much about anything. And though my intake still isn’t were it should be for the level of training I’m doing, I’m still a fuck of a lot better now than I was then. And it shows. Lifts are progressing. Muscle definition is showing. Both of those things are awesome, but what’s even more important is the way I feel. I’m not full on #beastmode just yet, but I’m a hell of a lot closer than I have been in a good long while. 

Going at it Blind

At my gym in the 'Nati, the squat racks are all set up in front of mirrors. This allows for the standard sort of mirrin’ that happens at every gym, but it’s always a great way to check form and depth. I’ve always relied on the mirrors for both reasons. I want to make sure I’m ass-to-grass on every squat, that my body is directly in the middle of the bar, and that I stick my ass out in the right way to activate the muscles I’m training. But I also use it to, well, watch myself, if I’m being honest. To see the struggle on my face. The intensity of my eyes. The relief when I pop back up from a deep, heavy squat.

Look at this awesome gym I get to use during my time at Res. Boss, right? Yup, until I realized that all of the racks face ... a blank wall.

Much like what Bhajan is saying in his famous line, “When ego is lost, limit is lost,” I found that my ego, suddenly absent without a mirror to move me along, has long been a driving force of much of my sweat sessions. 

Blind squats took the steam out of my kettle. Holy shit, after my first set, I was certain that I had no idea how to even squat in the first place. I felt like Will Ferrell in that movie about the racecar, when he’s being interviewed and he has no idea what to do with his hands, and they keep floating into the frame. Instead of freaking out, I drew on the strength I’ve been developing with my eating, and the healthy habits I’ve been forming over these last few months. There have been days when I haven’t hit my mark, and I’ve written about them … the difference now is that I have the skill set to reset myself, to say, “Okay, that day sucked ass, but I don’t suck.” So that’s what I did. I reset. Changed my music to some Freddie Gibbs beats that always get me right, and saw in my mind what a perfect squat looks like. I know how to do a squat, I reminded myself. Exclamation points followed every self-affirmation statement that floated in my mind. I took the limit (albeit, self-imposed) out of the equation.

And guess what the fuck happened? All of a sudden, I was squatting. And squatting correctly.

Fast forward two hours, all of the soccer players had come and gone, and I was finally finishing my sweat. It was a good one. No, scratch that. It was enlightening, epic, telling, and true. 

Writing from Scars

Six days left in this month. I’ve covered a lot of ground over these posts, and I’ve discovered truths about myself that I likely would not have come to had it not been for this blog.

Yesterday, I attended a lecture given by a Spalding alum who is a purveyor of the Moth Story set up. For those unfamiliar, Moth Stories are those told in the traditional oral format – the writer stands on stage without having memorized the story that s/he is going to tell, and simply … speaks. It offers the audience an almost unprecedented look into the mind of the writer, as well as providing the audience with a raw telling of the story. During the lecture, Graham Shelby said, “Write stories from scars, not wounds.” Well whatinthewhatwhat, as Anya would say.

I had one of those moments of absolute understanding. It was as if Shelby was speaking directly to me, and not the hundred plus writers assembled in the lectorium. I stopped the three things I was doing at the time – taking notes, rereading my workshop material and sending an email – and just took a breath.

As many writers do, I often write from a source of pain or discomfort, from a foundation or experience that has shaped and altered me in some way. I realized, while listening to Shelby, that writing form a wound does nothing to establish the healing process. Much like eating form a source of shame – or, put another way, training just to eat, does nothing to help or advance my end goal. Rather, accepting that the wound is there, and allowing it to heal … well hell. Now it seems like there’s no other way. Yet again, Spalding has found a way to nestle into my brain and my psyche, and has become another source of inspiration. Onward and upward.

Crunching the Numbers

Well.  I’m fully engaged in Res life! It’s day three. Hard to believe that this is my second to last time I’ll be this immersed in this wonderful writer world. How have these terms passed me by so quickly? At this point, my fourth term, I have everything down to a pretty decent system. I know I need my rest, I know I need my alone time and I know I need to force myself to be social, too.

I chatted with my Coach yesterday for the first time since Res started. We reviewed my net and average calories for last week, and where I am this week. I have to take a rest day today because my lecture workshop is just too much to fit in exercise (I can’t believe I’m okay with that, but ehh … this is the new Jess, I guess) so Coach and I reviewed the reasons for which I am doing what I’m doing. Mainly, we discussed where I am now and where I need to be in order to compete in November.

My average intake, while up from a month ago (I was at 805) is hovering around 1400. Woo, right?! Yes, but no. I’m only two thirds of where I need to be, calorically, to have enough fuel for my body to train properly. Coach reminded me not to become overwhelmed by this – rather, to be pleased with the progress I’ve made and to understand that this is … a process.

My first inclination, when looking at these numbers, was to freak out. It’s hard to keep a positive outlook when math reels that ugly head. Numbers don’t lie. Don’t soften themselves for the ego. Numbers don’t do anything save present a true and honest expression of what is. After my conversation with Coach, I took a good long look at my body … I’m eating more, but I’m looking better. Veins showing everywhere, ab definition like I’ve never seen, my shoulders looking good.

So what. So eating is good. Food is fuel. Even if my numbers aren’t where they should be, I’m making progress. And what’s more, I’m seeing progress.

Champion of her Cause

So this chick. Check her out. Bad ass, right?

Rasa von Werder started lifting in the sixties to stay in shape during her pregnancy, a practice that was highly frowned upon during the time, and something that her ob/gym strongly cautioned her against, going so far as to tell her that lifting weights would harm her unborn child and could cause birth defects. (shaking head … those men back then, #whatthefuck) During the nine months of carrying her child, Everts (or von Werder, as she was still known) found that lifting weights was a great way for her to keep the physique to which she’d become accustomed.

Fast forward a few years … von Werder started speaking out for the wonderful benefits that lifting weights can provide for women. The public, and the male dominated voices of the sport, tried their best to quell her message, as the female form was only seen as feminine if it was sans muscle and definition. In the seventies, von Werder began competing in NYC, all the while remaining incredibly vocal about the benefits of weight training. Slowly, some folks started to listen. But not many, and those who did, listened with cotton plugged ears. The world was not, and to some extent, still isn’t ready for strong women who lift with the boys and yet, still remain feminine. The male dominated patriarchy of weight lifting was not prepared to listen to or judge von Werder on her physical successes, and side-barred her efforts to truly compete by making a division within competition for ‘beauty and femininity’ but not overall muscle definition.

Dafuk? Look at this broad! She’s clearly worked her ass of for this muscle definition through a rigorous training program and careful attention to her diet … and this is post child, remember. However, the bodybuilding community of the time continued to ignore von Werder, so she did something unprecedented for the time – she turned to the media for the attention she felt the women of the sport deserve. Appearing in Esquire in the late seventies not only launched her career as a professional bodybuilder, but also poised the rest of the women (me included) who have come after her to enter the bodybuilding arena if not on par with the boys, then at least with enough presence to be noticed.

Not only is Rasa an example of what the human body is capable of doing, but she also provides a stellar example of a woman who just won’t quit. Doc tells her not to lift? Fuck off. Body building judges won’t critique for form? Fuck off. The world won’t listen? Fuck off. She became her loudest advocate, simply because that was what was needed.

In so many ways, we all need to be our own advocates – to speak up and out for what it is that drives and fuels us, that for which we are passionate, for the things that keep us up late and wake us early. For me, it’s lifting and writing. I guess over this month, I’ve been wrestling with whether or not this lifestyle is okay … that is, whether or not it is socially accepted enough for me to put my all in it. The more I read about Rasa, the more I realize I could fucking care less if anyone approves or understands of this lifestyle. As much as it’s a road to recovery for me, it’s also a choice that I make. Every. Single. Damn. Day.

Rasa von Werder is quickly becoming my hero – she championed a causes at a time when the world wasn’t ready or prepared to listen. She serves as inspiration and a reminder of the reasons I lift. And I lift heavy.

Off to lecture. Super pumped for Res today – great faculty lectures lined up and Workshop in the afternoon.  But is it too much to say as stoked as I am for lecture, I’m equally (if not more) pumped for my run and metcon work later?!

Protein Up, Dinner What

First day of residency is in the books. Well, it’s not the first full day … but we’ve had our Welcome Dinner and our first lecture.

As soon as I got to my room, I did what an sensible woman in my position would do. I unpacked my protein and my food and set everything up the way I want it. Nothing says “I’m here” like a dresser-top full of good food, right?

I walked to the location for dinner with my Kiehl’s bag that Efed gifted me before she moved across the pond. In it, my Res binder, my phone (both essentials to survive) and a plastic container full of what I planned to eat. The four blocks felt long; I could hear the food sloshing around inside my bag, and my face flushed. What would the reaction be when I pulled out my own meal at the table?

No matter, I rationalized, because what I need to do is … well, what I need to do. I said my hello’s to everyone and sat down at my place. Took a deep breath and steeled myself. With no shame whatsoever, I pulled out my Tupperware at dinner and made myself a plate of Quorn and a delectable dish I’m calling Protein Up, Dinner What. One of the women at my table, who coincidentally was the driving force in me seeking recovery for my eating disorder paused mid-conversation and looked at me. By trade, she’s a social worker, and has dealt extensively with women who struggle with anorexia. She smiled at me, and nodded her head. I know she was pleased. Hell, I’m pleased – not just to be fearless with regard to eating the way I need to, but knowing that I’m in a safe place where no one is really going to care if I eat out of Tupperware while they eat off a serving line.

That was, by and large, one of my biggest concerns with this Residency. Of course, getting off my schedule was a worry too … but this struggle, and this disorder is so often one that is suffered in silence; I fretted all last week and the days leading up to today that someone would ask me why I wasn’t eating the same food as them.

But, at a table of twelve, four of whom I’ve never met, no one cast so much as a sideways glance. Maybe I underestimated the awesomeness of Spalding. Or maybe I underestimated myself. I’m not sure.

Now that lecture is over, I’m free to do what I’ve been needing all day – sleep. 

#crushingshitdaily

Residency starts tomorrow. I think I’m ready. I’m pretty sure I am. Everything is packed, all of my food is prepared and I’m to the point that if I don’t have something ready, then I’ll just have to wing it.

I guess in a way, prep for this residency has been so intense because of the pressures I’m putting on myself to keep on track. I’ve come a long fucking way since last November and I want to keep at it. Having clearly defined goals and having everything mapped out will be helpful. I’m sure there are going to be moments during these next ten days where I want to throw in the towel – the pressures of lectures, fitting in my sweats and being out of my element will be a challenge. But. If I know and believe anything about myself, it’s that I can do this.

Ghost stopped by tonight to grab a key to my spot. He’s going to care for my plants while I’m away. We had one of those brother sister conversations that we used to have so often when we lived together, but that rarely happen these days because we’re both so busy. Though none of the conversation surrounded anything food related, much of what we discussed revolved around the past, our ghetto upbringing, the impact that made on us, and the ways in which we are actively working to repair the damage and lead healthy lives. In many ways, even though we weren’t talking about food, we were talking about healing. And today, that means just about the same thing.

Right. So time for reading and rest … I’ll need it if I’m going to crush it tomorrow.

Liftin' with the Big Boys

Last night, I had the wonderful opportunity to lift with Ghost and Koolaid. I know, right!? How awesome to find time to carve out with my brother and one of my oldest boys. I've always looked up to Ghost and Koolaid for their physical prowress. They're strong. They've always been strong, so I was sure that the session was going to be amazing. Well. It was. But for a very different reason. 

I haven’t worked out with anyone (aside from a training sesh with Sig in January) since Voyin left for Japan six months ago. Over this half year, I’ve fallen into my own rhythm and routine. I focus, I listen to music, I lift, I write my weights and reps.

And apparently, I lift heavy.

The three of us were working on standing overhead shoulder press – my workout called for a 4x15 set, so I was only using twenty five pound dumb bells. If the reps had been lower, I would have been at 35 at least, if not forty pounds. Struggling just a touch with a forty, Koolaid looked at Ghost and said, “You realize your sister is only using fifteen pounds less than us, right?” Whoa. Hold up. When did I start to be so strong?

Like this eating disorder recovery process, building strength is a process too. I read on a fitness blog recently that a well built body is a status symbol – it is nothing that can be purchased, borrowed, leased. It’s something that is worked for, every single day, with diet, nutrition, rest and exercise. Damn fucking skippy.

Koolaid’s comment made me proud. Not just because it’s validation that the hours I log in the gym are paying off, but because it’s recognition that I am strong. I am capable. Able. A beast in her own right.

Today, I’ve carried this decided pride with me throughout my day. Last minute res prep is in full swing, and while I’m sure there’s something I’m sure I’ve forgotten … I haven’t forgotten to nourish my body, to feed it properly … because now it’s a challenge to keep up with the boys. 

Excellence and Habits

Well!  Today marks 150 days of me tracking every single workout and every single meal. I know, right? Crazy to consider. But I'm so pleased and excited! That's almost half a year, and while my recovery hasn't been always been as awesome as it seems right now, this benchmark reminds me of a few things. My boy Ari said it best about habits and excellence ...

Namely, it reminds me that everything isn't a number. Yes, one hundred and fifty days of tracking is a great feat; it shows commitment to this process and to what I'm trying to achieve. I'll be honest though ... 150 isn't 200 or 365 ... and that annoys me. But! It annoys me only because I'm an impatient kind of person, and I want everything yesterday. Knowing that I've remained this focused for this long reinforces every reason why I keep at this. Especially on tough days when I don’t want to do it.

Coincidentally, today marks the 150^th post of this blog. Isn’t it wonderful when things just sync? There have been many days when I've been so busy, or tired, or distracted and the thought has crossed my mind to skip my blog. And then, I remember the committment I made to myself - this is the year of daily posts, of opening myself enough to write something every day. Albeit, some of these posts are less than amazing, but the determination to keep at it remains the same. It's just like tracking in a way. 

Funny thing, tracking. It is now as much as habit as brushing my teeth or going for a sweat or well, doing anything. It’s second nature for me now to log what I’ve had and how much I’ve exercised. In a way, it keeps me on target, but I also understand that it’s a measure of control. I hope that the day comes when I don’t log everything – it will mean that I’ve reached a level of comfort, not just with my body but also with my mind. Until then, this app and these ever filling steno pads are going to do just fine. 

Hippie Skittles and the Flux

Reality is no longer elusive. So says my dear friend, Premo.

Like me, Premo is in a flux. He’s making and has made some big life changes. And like me, he’s finding some days that the changes are manageable and others, so hard to keep. I guess that’s part of what change is … and why it’s a process and not just a moment. Hell, if change were easy, goals would be cakewalk. But change isn’t like a luxurious run on the beach at sunset. It’s hard and it takes a fuckton of work. It’s easy for me to revert to my old ways – to restrict, to overexercise, to say mean and vile things to myself simply because it’s the most comfortable for me.

Yesterday, my mind was tricking me again, flashlighting everything shitty and nothing amazing. I wrote about my squats and that moment with the Ace Hood song. What I didn’t write about is what happened after … not after I read in the backyard, letting the almost-summer sun soak into my skin, or enjoying the way the breeze tickled my toes after a long session at the gym. I didn’t write about how divine my afternoon nap was, or the restfulness I felt for just a short, fleeting moment when I woke. I chose to focus on the negative because that’s what I know best.

Well fuck that.

What’s the point in moving forward if all I’m going to do is look back?

One of my most revered Bhakti yoga teachers, Christen Bakken, generally says the same thing when she’s led a practice into Warrior 2. She tells us to lean back, and reminds us (in her words) “That ain’t right,” and then has us lean forward … and says the same thing, “That ain’t right.” The lesson she’s imparting, at least for me, is that looking back or looking forward serve us no purpose. It does not advance the present, nor does it offer any truth. It simply puts us in a situation that might be comfortable at the onset (leaning back in Warrior 2 is a great hip opener, and forward always opens my back something delicious) but in the end … isn’t where we need to be.

So like Premo and like Christen, I’m reminding myself that reality is no longer elusive. I am here. In this moment. Present as present gets.

With that, I’m off to eat some protein popcorn (yes, I’ve managed to find a way to make popcorn fit my macros) and hippie skittles (damn, frozen dried cherries are tits) with a very J meal of quorn and quinoa. Food is fuel. 

The Countdown

Bhagavad Gita once said that, “Yoga is the practice of tolerating the consequences of being yourself.” While this is true for the practice of yoga, a practice I hold dear to my heart, I think these words also have a bit of resonance with the rest of life. Take out the word yoga and insert any other word … working, breathing, living … all of these actions are a practice. Learning to tolerate, that is to accept the consequences of being yourself is a difficult process. It’s one that takes patience, foresight, and ultimately, understanding that some days are going to be on fleek and others are going to well, be whack.

Residency is upon me. I’ll be back at Spalding in a few short days and for the first time since I began my graduate program, I am so filled with dread and worry. Like, I’m totally and completely freaking out to the point that a song by Ace Hood almost brought me to tears at the gym. (For the record, the song Trials & Tribulations is really moving and impacting. But in the middle of a 3-2-1 high bar sequence is not the time to get all weepy – especially as the only woman on the weight floor, rocking compression shorts and squatting ass to grass as heavy as the beasty dude next to me.)

Right, so. I’ve planned this residency as well as I can. Meals are all thought out, I know my macros, and I have done most of my cooking. I requested a room with a refrigerator, so I’ll be able to store everything. I’ve drafted all of my workouts through the end of the month, and looking ahead at my lecture schedule, I know when I’ll be able to squeeze in my sweats. But still.

I’m freaking out. I’ve made such amazing progress over the last two months with my eating. Taking a step away from my routine and the schedule that I have makes me so scared. Of course, I’ll muscle through it and be fine. I know I’ll be able to make it work, and once I’m back on campus, I’ll feel less trepidation. I expect this week to be one full of ups and downs. All I can do is return to the list that I’ve been writing – remember that thing? And keep doing what I’ve been doing.

Deep fucking breath.

Zen as Fuck

I moved through today with only one intent – to be kind to myself.

It should come as no surprise that I wake to an alarm, even on the weekends. Packing as much as I can into every single day is the norm for me – it ensures that I get shit done, I keep advancing myself, and I use my time efficiently and wisely. This morning, my alarm sounded at 6 as it does every Saturday. And guess what I did? Nope, I didn’t hit snooze. I turned it off. Ha! I lounged in bed, somewhere in between awake and asleep for another ninety minutes. Listened to the birds outside my window. Watched the morning slowly change from dark to light and resolved to do the same.

As I’ve mentioned, I live in a 1890’s-something house that’s been converted into two flats. Mine, on the first floor, has the advantage of having access to both the front porch and back stoop. As I wafted between dream/sleep and the nagging need to get moving, I kept smelling the scent of roses. By and large, I fucking hate roses. They’re such a trite and expected flower. Fucked up with your girl? Send her roses. Special anniversary? Send roses. Someone died? Send roses. It’s as if the world forgets there are a million other blooms that are just as precious as the thorny rose!

So I kept smelling roses and couldn’t figure why. Efed gifted me lilies last week (but they’ve already died) and there’s no suitor in my world who might’ve left roses at my door (and if there were, said suitor better fucking know well enough NOT to gift me roses). Curiosity got the best of me, and after I’d performed my morning prayers, I went to find the source.

Overnight, or more likely, sometime yesterday, the rose bush that juts against my front porch blossomed. Little buds and fully opened flowers sprouted almost miraculously from the rose bush. I stood on the porch in my jammie jams, surveying the progression of growth and marveled at the kindness and beauty of a blossom.

Flowers don’t seek to be beautiful or pleasing. There is no drive for a bloom to have the perfect petals, the best scent, the straightest stem. They simply open as they should, and close when it’s time. The breath and the moment I had this morning on my porch was as close to completion as I’ve come in recent years. It was a gift from the Universe.

I ran inside for my shears, and returned to clip some of this gift to bring inside. Sure, I can’t fucking stand roses, but I know a truth when it’s presented to me. I’ve been looking at this arrangement all day. And every time I pass it, I remind myself to be kind, to mindfully take in the moment.

Wu-sah. Zen as fuck. 

Missing and Making Marks

Well. Metcon work totally kicked my ass ...
and it was glorious. I loved every second of it (not totally true - by the third round of my 1st set I was a little annoyed with burpees) and it was exactly what I needed. I warmed up with a 500m row and tried to finish in 2 minutes. I tried FIVE times and every single time, my time changed - 2:05, 2:20 ... I never got to the two minute goal that I set.
Pissed, I went to the stepper to finish out my sweat and tried to unravel why I wanted a two minute split. I'm not a rower, and it really doesn't matter at the end of the day as I'm not planning on entering any rowing contests (is that a thing? I have no idea what the hell to call them). Seventy five flights in, I realized it wasn't so much that I wanted the time of two minutes, but that I wanted to hit my mark, make my goal, accomplish what I set to do.
Well ain't that a bitch. I didn't hit the mark, or make my goal. But I did accomplish what I set to do. I channelled the bullshit of a nonsense day, the stress of prepping for res, along with some lofty upcoming life decisions in a healthy and positive way. Instead of rowing my boat to sea to wallow alone, I put myself smack in the middle of the gym floor, making myself and my goals accountable. So what I didn't get two minutes? Today is another chance to try again.
I grubbed something serious when I got home - protein sludge (don't knock it, google that shit and eat it; it's amazing), five prunes (don't knock that shit either, they're like the granola version of candy) and some Quorn. Sat down with Goldfinch (ehh ... such a long ass book for what seems like a simple story) and enjoyed every bite of my meal. Didn't even think about logging until I was finished and it was time to clean up.
I plugged everything into my tracker app and guess what. I went over by TEN calories of my 1400 mark. Ha! How utterly fantastic.
So. I missed my row time - semi annoying but not the end of the world. I missed my calorie mark - super fantastic, but NOT the end of the world either.

Is this what progress feels like?

Activate MetCon

I cannot wait for today’s sweat. I mentioned yesterday that I’m planning to do a bunch of met-con work while I’m at Res since it’ll be the most efficient use of my time. Today, I’m trying out a met-con that I think is going to just totally kick my ass.

Before Voyin left for Japan, he and I would have amazing sweat sessions on Saturdays. We would do OTM squats, bench, and deads, followed by hanging leg raises, burpees and whatever else we thought sounded like fun. Since his departure, I haven’t done much met-con work, mainly because it sort of just slipped my mind. No longer! Today, I want to channel that wonderful sort of energy we used to create in the Dungeon and really go hard.

I met my calorie goal for Wednesday, so I know I’m well nourished for today’s sweat. If the workout I’ve designed is effective, it will be an easy plug for my time at Spalding. If it’s not great, then at least I have some time to correct it. Either way, I know I have the skill set to make the right changes to achieve the goal I’m seeking.

It’s amazing the way priorities shift and change. This time last year, all I could think about was getting settled – new Nati life, trying to understand my role as a single person again amid a social circle of partnerships. This year, I’m finding myself so much more comfortable in my own skin. I know it has to do, in part, to the physical prowess I’ve been developing. But it also has so much more to do with trusting myself to know what’s best for me. 

Planning my Plan

Away from the dental world today has offered me some much needed relief. I spent some time figuring out my meal plan for residency and my workouts, and that’s eased a bit of my stress. I know I won’t have my standard two hours a day to devote to a sweat, so I’m going to have to break up my sessions into two (which is fine, since most of my friends graduated last term) and I’ll probably do more met-con work than anything. It’ll be the best use of my time. Having planned out what I’ll eat for the ten days of residency is a relief as well. I’ve looked at the macros and calorie count, and I’ll be right at my goal. One less thing to fret over while I’m there. It will give me time to concentrate on why I’m there, to relish in the wonderful world of writing, and to hopefully begin to feel creatively alive again.

Since this food journey has taken presence in my life, my creative well has well … dried. Coupled with the manic fashion in which I wrote my last novel (six weeks, what?!) I know I need a break from words. I also know that focusing so intently on my health and getting myself back to where I need to be is the right thing to do. But my fingers – o, how they’re itching to tap away. I have written a bit here and there, 5k words last Saturday … but it hasn’t been with the beauty and grace to which I’ve become accustomed since I started my MFA. My gut feeling is that Res will be the reset for me, inasmuch as these last six weeks have been my food reset. I have a vision that come June 1, when I return from res and back into this other world, my eating will be on lock and my Muse will have returned. At least, for now, I have this. 

Wax and Bullshit

This whole eating thing … is hard. Today, it’s harder than it has been since the beginning of April. I dropped my lunch at the office today after only having about a fourth of it. All of those lost macros! That yummy nutrition spilled all over the concrete. I had extra protein powder with me, thankfully, but couldn’t bring myself to mix it up.

In times of struggle, my default is to restrict. Today has been a buttons kind of day – Grandma’s funeral was this evening. I’ve been thinking all day about life, loss, those who have been dear to me who are no longer around. Mainly, I’ve been thinking about my mother, the struggles she experienced, the trials she faced and ultimately what it was exactly that caused her death. Because we were estranged for so many years, I will never rightly know just what … happened to cause her shift, but I can guess.

I think, like me, her default was to run. Unlike me, instead of seeking a hiding space in the limbo float that comes with not eating, she chased her demons with a bottle. I understand that chase because I have run the same course. I’m grateful that I snapped out of it before I became what was her ultimate demise. I know that not eating isn’t healthy; just as sure as I’m sure she knew that drinking so much wasn’t doing her any favors. But I’m sure she saw it as the only way she could cope with the stresses and pressures of living a life that she didn’t set out to experience.

I’m 32; at her age, my mother had three children and a husband who was too busy being selfish to ever stop to notice her. She probably felt like she was wafting adrift, shapeless and alone. The bottle, and the buzz that she found in it was likely her only friend. Much the same, the way that I feel when I’m empty of food offers me a comfort that I haven’t found anywhere else.

Looking at Grandma’s waxy body this evening, I considered what struggle really means, and how healthy individuals overcome their own issues. I’m sure no one is perfect; there’s just no fucking way. But there are better ways to deal with things than not eating, or drinking too much. I went for my sweat this evening with a heavy heart. I lifted, I focused, I projected into the world the image of the person I want to be. Now, back home after another almost eighteen hour day, my stomach is rumbling, my food tracker says I need at least another 500 calories to break even for the day, and my mind says there’s no fucking way. This. This is the struggle. 

Macro What?

Today I’ve been thinking a lot about nutrition. That I’m moving up with my calories is a wonderful thing, to be sure. My skin and hair and nails are looking better than they have in years (seriously, fucking years) and I have energy like I haven’t known in a long while.

But eating a bunch of calories isn’t going to do me a lick of good if what I’m eating isn’t the right thing. Yesterday afternoon, I skyped with Efed for a bit. It was Mother’s Day, a hard day for us both (and Ghost too) so it was great that we were both able to carve out some time in our schedules to ‘see’ one another. While we were chatting, I realized how insanely hungry I was. I’d already had three meals (I know right?!) but was ready for more food.

So off me and my machine went to the kitchen, chatting all the while with Efed. I showed her what I was preparing – Quorn pieces with spinach and some grains – and that led the conversation to the fact that eating alone isn’t enough.

I’m forcing myself to NOT become obsessed with hitting macro nutrient counts just yet. It will come in time, and I know I’ll be able to work it out the right way. For now, eating my calories is what’s important. But, I’m happy to say that I’ve been almost eating at all of my macro count goals! One step at a time. 

The Difference a Day Makes

Yesterday, I wrote about my issues with finding a dress for Grandma’s funeral and the ways in which it left me feeling less than stellar. Numbers are mind fucks, to be sure.

Calories. Clothing. The scale.

I stepped on the scale for the first time in almost a month recently. I was worried. Like seriously concerned that the number I saw was going to be so far off from where I’ve been hovering for so long. Upping my calories, even when combined with more exercise, surely has added weight. This was my thought as I tapped the tiny piece of glass to bring it to life. I stepped on and closed my eyes. Didn’t want to open them.

When I did, I couldn’t fucking believe it.

For the entire month of April, I ate more every day than I have in months. Guess what? I weigh exactly the same.

At first, I thought the scale was wrong. So I stepped off and stepped back on. Same number. 125.8 – the same as what I’ve been weighing. The difference now is that I have more muscle mass than I did in January, and I’m certainly more cut than I ever have been.

So fuck numbers. Fuck those stupid dresses yesterday at the store. And fuck the scale. None of it really means anything – they are just digits to which I have placed unnecessary value.

To that, I’m pleased to report that Coach agrees that I’m well enough to up my calories this upcoming week. 1400 here we come!

Numbers, Bah

So I’ve just finished logging all of my food and exercise for the day with the app I use and I’m so pleased! My net calorie intake for this week is up almost 50 calories from last week. That means I’m making progress.

I’m trying to counteract the intense body dysmorphia issues with the fact that I’m making progress. It’s hard when I see one thing in the mirror, see another thing with the numbers and then feel something entirely different. I suppose that’s part of this process.

There’s that saying that it takes twelve weeks for the world at large to notice body changes. If only that were the case for people who struggle with this disorder. This week, since I’ve been eating more calories, I’ve felt like a stuffed pig. Absolutely disgusting. Bloated and gross. Thing is, I know I don’t really look like that … but it’s mind over matter in so many ways.

I bought a new dress for Grandma’s funeral, mainly because the standard funeral dress I have doesn’t fit anymore. It’s much too big, and hangs on me in weird ways. At the store, I pulled some black size two dresses, and was so pissed when they didn’t fit. They fit in the waist, but not in the ass (thanks squats) or in the bust (no thanks to anything) and left me feeling really shitty. I’ve never been the kind of broad who cares about the number on a garment – sizes are different based on designer, and who fucking cares anyway. But what the fuck, man? If a two doesn’t fit in the right way, I know a four will be too big and a zero too small. I’m in that strange in between where my body, because of the recomp I’m trying for, is shaped strangely. I finally found a dress; it’s a size two, and it fits … okay.

The whole process left me feeling like shit. At the gym, I went extra hard, trying to combat what I was feeling with pushing my body. It was a great session, but I slipped on a kettlebell snatch and bruised the shit out of my forearm. The bruise is going to stay with me for a while – it’s only pink now, and I know it’s going to blossom into a deep orchid before too long. Maybe I’ll use the mark as a reminder that my body is not a size, or a number, or anything except for what I see it to be. 

Rest Well

Grandma died last night.

She wasn’t my Grandma, but she was the grandma to my neighborhood – you know the type. The old lady with kind eyes, a smile for every stranger. The one who’s lived in the neighborhood for so long that she knows the kids of the kids who used to play ball in the street, who could tell stories about before such-and-such opened, or when something closed. She was a gem of a human. In summers, she would sit in her back yard topless, sipping a beer, smoking a cigarette and soaking in the sun.

A lifelong smoker, it was discovered two weeks ago that her cancer had spread to her lymph nodes. The doctors gave her three months. Last Sunday, the prognosis changed to just a few days.

Over the course of the week, every single time I’ve returned home, there have been cars in her driveway. Her children, their spouses, her grandchildren. Folks to keep her company, to soak in her light, to sit with her in her final days. I’ve never seen such a solidarity in a family as what I’ve witnessed since Sunday.

Today, when I returned home from my two hour sweat, it unnerved me that she was no longer living. Not that she was dead, but that she wasn’t alive. Does that even make sense? Her illness ravaged her body and took from her the light that once shone brightly. It decimated her, reducing her to a shell, a shred of who and what she was, the roles she played and the life she led crumbling into nothing.

As I tried to unravel the ways in which her death will affect her family, I couldn’t help but see the comparison between her being extinguished and the ways in which anorexia diminishes the light in those who suffer from it.

Sure, we live. We go about the day, moving from task to chore, all the while with an incessant voice that encourages self-doubt, self-hatred and objectification. I realize, in Grandma’s death just how much I want to live, to be alive. I want to find that sort of light that she carried, the one that was able to touch so many lives in so many ways. I know that the only way this can happen is to continue with this process, to trust the system as my Coach tells me, and to tell the raging voice of bullshit to shut the fuck up.

So I’m taking a stand. I ate today and I ate well. Went over my 1200 because I want to move up, I want to lift heavy and train hard. And the only way I’m going to fuel my path, encourage my growth and actually be ALIVE is by nourishing my body.

I hope Grandma is off somewhere with sun and beer, enjoying the rays and being out of pain. 

A Mantra for the Ages

Compassion is defined as the sympathetic concern for the suffering of another. All too often, it seems so simple to be compassionate toward another, a cause, a movement, or an idea.  It’s far more difficult to be compassionate with oneself. I don’t know why that is, but I know it to be true in my own life.

Last summer, I fell in love. Yep, like head over heels in love with this fine lady.

This is Quan Yin. In Eastern belief, she is the Goddess of compassion, the one to whom folks can appeal when they are in need of a bit of sympathy. She can be likened to the Virgin Mary in Western thought, or to a litany of Pagan Goddesses.

When I discovered Quan, it was purely by accident. I was researching mudras and mantras, hoping to expand on my Kundalini practice. Out of nowhere, there she appeared – with her grace, her stoic nature, and her mantra Om Mani Padme Hum. While it’s difficult to exactly translate, the Om represents generosity, the Ma ethics and morals, Ni reminds one to be patient, Pad encourages diligence, Me is the reunification of the self and spirit, and Hum a request for wisdom.

How totally complete.

Collectively, this mantra represents, for me, at least, the ultimate request. I seek all of these things in my life, and hope that through the repetition of the mantra, along with careful meditation on Quan and her wisdom, I might gain some insight.

I’ve been thinking about Quan since May began, namely because I recognize the fact that in order to finally kick this, I need to be compassionate … toward myself. I need to call to mind the reasons for which I am embarking on this journey again, seeking the wisdom of the folks who know best, and to be patient in the process. This is a journey, to be sure, but with the right attitude, it doesn’t seem insurmountable. I know that Quan’s guidance and my diligence will bring about the changes I seek. 

Determined

Well, I did it. I managed to get to 1200 yesterday. Doesn’t take into account the exercise, but I can’t focus on that. This is a one day at a time kind of venture, and I am even considering approaching it one hour at a time.

Today has been better. I allowed myself rest – slept in, even though my alarm sounded at 630. My body needs to recover, needs to lie supine in order to build muscle and repair. At 730, I thought enough was enough, rose and made my coffee. Instead of rushing to the gym, as I typically do on my Wednesday’s off, I dallied in the lab. Worked on grad school stuff, looked at the timeline for deadlines for my PhD, made up some new recipes, and even splurged and made some Vietnamese coffee Ghost brought for me from his recent trip. 

And guess what happened? I got to the gym two hours later than typical … and the world didn’t end.

Holy shit, right?

I know.

I took control in releasing control. I allowed myself to step outside of the rigorous time table that I set for myself and enjoy my morning off.

My session took two hours, as I expected it would. Instead of finishing at eleven, I finished at one. I had a slight moment of panic when I realized the time, until I realized it’s my damn day off, and I can spend it, every single precious and beautiful moment however I see fit.

After my sweat, I read a bit for school and took a nap. Another step out from my norm. It felt wonderful to drift off to the sounds of little kids playing, delivery trucks, dogs barking. Somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower. Church bells woke me at four.

Part of this process, the recovery that I’m seeking is allowing myself the freedom to deviate. Not having to control every single moment is the first step in knowing that I don’t have to control every single calorie, gym session, moment in this life. It’s called living, not schedule planning. #duh 

Trust the Process

Trust the process. That’s the mantra this month.

Truth is, I had a major meltdown the other day about all things food. This shit is hard. Like really fucking hard. The fact that I’m writing about my eating disorder this month, coupled with residency approaching and the litany of other shit going on in my life is … a lot.

I’m overwhelmed, underfed, overly tired. And the thing is – I can control all of these things. I can chose to eat more, eat the right foods to fit my macros, fuel my body the way it needs so that I don’t feel overwhelmed, and so that I rest well. But. That’s where and how this disorder nestles into the brain. My mind tricks me into thinking that one more rep, one less bite, one more hour awake completing tasks will somehow sustain me further or fulfill some need.

That’s not really the case.

Coach nixed me moving up to 1400 calories a day. I’m not ready. He knew it before I did, but he let me come to that conclusion on my own. Sure, I ate at almost 1200 every day last week, but I exercised like a fiend, doing three double sessions on top of my already ninety minute workouts. Beast, right? Yea, until I did the math and saw how few net calories I actually retained.

Shit’s whack. I had a moment last night where I just gave in. It was akin to that dark Thursday I wrote about at the start of this blog – the one where I rolled around on the floor howling like a child. Yea, something like that … except this time, I chose the light instead of the dark. I set an intention under the full belly of the Scorpio moon and decided enough is fucking enough. I’m sick of this shit running my life. Tired of being tired. I realize, and I accept the fact that I cannot keep doing this to my body.

So today, I started anew. Began again the process I’ve started so many times before. It’s after ten in the evening here, and my calories stand at 892. I lifted for almost two hours, so I earned around 200 calories (that’s estimating low, but I’d rather under estimate than go over) … I want to go to bed, but I’m going to force myself to get to 1200. Protein shake, here I come.

Tomorrow, I’m going to begin discussing nutrition and the role that it plays in the life I lead.  #macrolife

A New Kind of List

Residency is going to be here soon and with the excitement that comes from being back in my writer bubble, there is also a significant amount of worry that it causes me. In residencies past, I’ve brought all of my food, along with a hotplate and tried my best to eat something every day. More often than not though, the food went to waste and I just kept restricting.

For this upcoming res, my coach has asked me to write out a list of the reasons that I’m eating more. He thinks that it will help me to remind myself why I want to be healthy, and not get so caught up in the moments. When I explained to him I’m worried about my training schedule on top of the lecture schedule, he told me I go to residency to learn, not exercise. Boom, sure, but that doesn’t change the tricks my mind wants to play.

This week, I’m beginning to think about the food I’ll take to res, the ways I can ensure that my macros and my training stays in check, and the list that I’m to write. As I’ve been chewing this idea (haha, no pun intended) the fundamental reason to which I keep returning is that I want to be healthy. I want to beast my lifts, to run my miles, to live my life in a way that I haven’t been living in so long. I’m going to include one or two items from my list at the end of each of these posts, inasmuch to remind myself as to keep this thought in the forefront of my mind. It’s easier to focus on something when it’s right in front of me instead of tucked away in the cobwebby part of my brain that’s full of other things I don’t want to consider.

I won’t include the prompt for this list in future posts, but it’s here for the start.

I am eating more calories to …

1.      Be healthy

2.      Be able to function at my optimal performance. 

One Thousand In

Today is one of these weird days in the process of my recovery where I know I need to eat but I can’t. I spent a considerable amount of time over this weekend creating delicious foods that fit the macro requirements I’m after. And I know that the food is good – I’ve been eating on it since Friday. But I’m having a mental block.

So often, these blocks have very little to do with what my body needs – fuel – and what’s going on inside my head. Pressure from the upcoming week, the prospect of Residency on the horizon, and a whole host of other issues makes me feel like I haven’t earned my food. This thought comes after an intense session of squats and deads this morning, followed by 150 flights on the stepper, a five mile run and a grueling ab workout. Just writing out all of that exercise makes me shake my head. What the fuck is wrong with me? I probably burned damn near a thousand calories … ok, probably, my ass. I know I burned that many because I track my workouts. And know what? My calorie total for the day is just shy of six hundred. It’s so fucking whack.

Thing is, I know better. I am well aware of the fact that I need to eat so I can train, and that without proper nutrition, especially as a part time vegan athlete, I won’t be able to progress on any of my training. Last week, I set personal bests for my compound lifts, and I know it’s because I’ve been eating at 1200 calories a day. But knowing that my coach is upping my daily requirement to 1400, coupled with tomorrow being a rest day has my mind all sorts of jacked.

The rational thing to do would be to just eat. So easy, right? Except I can’t. I mean, I will. I’ll force myself to have a protein shake or something. But it’s going to be super rough.