RRTs are random emotional musings that I used to share with a small group of people, and I’ve decided to make public, for however long it feels right. I don’t edit these. They’re not scholarly. There’s that.
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I’ve been struggling with my weight.
I know that’s not something a real beloved is supposed to say aloud, but I don’t care about that no more.
Truth is, I’m in my mid-thirties, and I’m still working out like a professional athlete, except, well, I don’t look like a professional athlete. And that bothers me. Because up until now, my entire life, I’ve been able just to train insanely hard and have the body I want. And now I have to square that away with a positive mental outlook, a balanced lifestyle, good nutrition, and not pushing myself beyond reasonable means. And again, I don’t like that.
This isn’t a call for tips and tricks, btw. I’m a fitness enthusiast. I know what to eat and what to avoid. Alcohol is literally poison, and I’ve been limiting my consumption of it. A couple of years ago, I went six months without a sip of alcohol. All that science stuff about you feeling better and having more energy is true. Damn you, science.
But another aspect of the fitness journey that I can’t shake is the truth, for me at least, that the times when I was the most fit-looking and feeling have been times when I’ve been my worst mentally. I was broke and depressed, sure, but I had washboard abs and could run a six-minute mile.
I opine that’s why this current fitness journey is the biggest not-so-inconsequential test of my life thus far. If I don’t get to my body fat goal by May 15, nothing bad actually happens. I’ve just realized that I need to see myself in the body I measure myself against at a time in life when things seem to be going well.
The consequences I think will develop as a result of not seeing that probably aren’t true, but that doesn’t matter to me. They could be true; therefore, I need to look like I play central midfield for Arsenal six months from now, otherwise I’ll have to go the rest of my life thinking I’m a fat slob in times of peace and a men’s health-curated beast in times of war. And I’d much rather randomly feel like either of those at varied times of my life.
Put another way, too much of my life has been defined by trauma or mistakes or failure, and I’m tired of that. When I ran 25 miles a week, it was to run away from the demons. When I could high plank for two minutes with two 45-pound plates on my back, I was carrying the weight of the world and the pain of my little brother inside. I would train incessantly, to the point of literal exhaustion, not only because I felt like I had nothing else, but because I needed to. The gym was an altar as much as a sanctuary, and my body was the literal sacrifice. And just like the God of the Hebrew Bible demands one, so too did my mental health. It was a useful way to navigate the world during such a terrible conundrum, but those habits are hard to keep up with once you’ve found healthy ways to live.
A lot of us use the pain we’ve been through in life to make beautiful things for others. I know some of the most amazing fathers and mothers out there. It’s a joy to have seen them grow from mindless young adults to beautiful parents, and yet, even they admit that much of the motivation they have in parenting is from the still raw and emotional pain inflicted on them by their own parents. When they want to be impatient with their children, they remember how it felt to be dismissed as a child. When they’re ready to throw their child’s humanity temporarily into the sea of leave me alone, they think back to the damage that consistent approach did to them. Even parenting, something as complex, rich, and hands-on as that, is so greatly impacted by the pain that never goes away.
Well, we’ve done a lot of the work. We feel good now. We recognize the world for what it is, and have learned how to successfully navigate it. But I need some moments of celebration that aren’t rooted in an egomaniacal obsession I developed from depression.
Both books were products of pain. The law degree was born out of trauma. The deed of the house drips with the blood of ancestors who built homes for others and had to use the outhouse in the dead of winter.
I need something. I, mentally healthy, optimistic about life, unafraid of the world, need something to point to and say “yeah, I did that,” and not have a difficult time in life have anything to say about it.
So maybe that’s what this is about. Maybe that’s why I’m back to training like a psychopath and have signed up for three competitions next year that I am nowhere near ready or fit enough for. I started feeling myself getting way too comfortable, too lazy, too buoyed by my faux middle-class life to get up in the morning and train hard and stay up late and create. And I know, rest is important, and we must avoid the temptation to become mere productivity machines in this capitalist cog. But then again, there’s so much I want to do in this world, and do you know the times in my life where I’ve created and accomplished the most?
Yeah. So, I have no desire to mimic the challenges of December’s past, but I must find the grit I had in those seasons and apply it to my current healthy standard of living.
If I end up posting Hyrox photos in April and shirtless videos in June, I will have successfully mined the tricky terrain.
Here’s to everyone trying to stay focused in a world where trauma once fueled all motivation.
We can create and be mentally healthy.
That’s the hope, at least.