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.