Tag: exercise

Worth
Autobiography · Mental Health · Personal Development · Relationships

Worth

Ruby Pipes22 Comments

I’m not sure where it started. A seed planted by someone when I was a kid took root and wrapped itself around everything I learned to believe. This sense of worthlessness. Of being unlovable. Of “if only I were more/less…” thought patterns. If I could just get mentally healthy. If I could just exercise more. If I could just lose weight. If I could just be less jealous, funnier, easier going, better looking, more feminine. The lists went on. Journals full of it, books covering every aspect of how to “improve” myself. My worth tied to a version of myself that never existed. That never would.

This feeling sabotaged relationships from the inside. Sunk its filthy claws into my life and didn’t let go. Colored everything in its image. The impossibility of ever being a capable, lovable, powerful person seemed more fact than opinion. I did not take anything as evidence to the contrary. My entire existence pointed to the truth that I was not worth loving. That I needed to be better before anyone would do that. Before I could do that.

As I packed for my upcoming move I threw away those books. I tossed those journals. I cleared my cabinets of all the little pieces of memorabilia hinting to the fact that I need to be something I am not. All those bullshit motivational magazines. The fabric tape measurers, the food and bathroom scale, the diet plans and lifting regimens. All those letters I wrote to myself about how once I am properly medicated and go through enough therapy someone will want to stay with me. Promises of tomorrows that will find me worthy of existing. Overwhelming and unachievable goals of someday being someone other than who I am. Of someday being the kind of person this or that person would want to love. Would want to keep. I walked them all outside and dropped them in the trash. Take it to the curb on Friday. Never invite them back in.

The shift happened gradually. The acceptance that I am good. Worthy. That I am not broken or in need of fixing. That I don’t need to do anything, change anything in order to be a person other people want. That I want. I am the person I am and I am deserving of every goodness in my life. Nothing and no one can rob me of that.

It does not matter that I’m not a svelte athlete. That I will never grow my hair out. That I wear make up most days because I like the way I look in it. That I’m queer even though I don’t feel like I’m queer “enough”. That I’ve slept with someone who was married when they weren’t married to me. That I used to drink and use drugs and forget about my friends. That I don’t have a petite frame. That I’m the jealous type. That sometimes I like to blow everything off and watch Netflix for hours. That I’ve lied because I thought someone would like me more for it. That I’ve started and stopped running regularly more times in my life than I can recall and will probably do it more. That I used to be able to deadlift 200 pounds, but now haven’t lifted anything in almost a year. That I’m divorced. That I don’t want a “real” job because I love working in customer service. That I dropped out of college. That I talk and laugh way too loud. That I love having my photo taken even though it makes me feel vain. That sometimes I still cry over relationships that didn’t work out. That I said “I love you” obscenely soon to my current partner. That I love to cook, but not for myself. That sometimes I really just want to listen to Top 40 pop songs. That I don’t like to go hiking. That I pour my soul out to strangers on the Internet, but often don’t know how to talk about my feelings to my friends.

All that matters is that I understand that each piece of me is decent and valuable and worthwhile. That I am a good person, an excellent friend, capable and deserving of love regardless of all the reasons I think I am not. And even on the days I have trouble believing it, I have to still know it. To listen only to the part of me that looks at myself like my partner does. Like there is nothing about me that needs changing. That each piece is loved and understood and accepted. A scarred and worn package containing an impenetrable goodness that does not have to be earned or fought for or proven. That exists simply because I do. Because my heart still beats and my breath still pumps in my chest. Just like yours.

Photo courtesy of veeterzy.

Autobiography · Mental Health · Personal Development

Nurture

Ruby Pipes20 Comments
"pink wooly love" © Dorky Mum, 2010. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
“pink wooly love” © Dorky Mum, 2010. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

In November of 2013 I was happy. I like to hold onto that month in my memory as proof that it’s possible. Evidence I can shake this ache from my bones and stand up strong. I carry that idea around with me like a seed, try to supply it with what it needs to grow. But it’s mostly guesses as to how this all works. How to properly nurture it.

I know I was getting up at the same time every day and exercising at least forty minutes. Mason and I were doing a Whole30, so we were eating well and I was cooking most of our meals. I was also participating in NaNoWriMo. But that’s all I can remember about that month. Those things and the fact that I was happy.

Could happiness be so simple? Something that wraps itself into our daily activities like brushing our teeth or checking the mail. Perhaps it slinks in and out of our lives attached to simple habits we didn’t think made much of a difference at the time. Maybe it’s not all just the whim of brain chemicals and hormones. Maybe it’s the day-to-day things.

It both needs to be simple and couldn’t possibly. Could I get that feeling back just by working out, cooking, and writing a book? If I think it’s that easy, why I can’t I get myself to do those things? The strong hand of depression closes around me so tight I can’t seem to make the movements I need to free myself.

All of it sounds so easy in theory. Get up in the morning, go run, go to work, write, cook dinner. But each one feels so monumental when you’re wrapped up in it. When you’re in the midst of depression, nothing seems like it would make a difference. The things you know help don’t matter, because you can’t make yourself believe any of the things you know. But maybe I could start.

Maybe I could get myself to remember it’s the little things that make a difference. Maybe I could get myself to remember it’s simple steps in the right direction that get you to where you’re going. I don’t need an entire garden, just a little bit of soil.

Autobiography · Mental Health

Daylight

Ruby Pipes14 Comments
"last daylight" © Raul Lieberwirth , 2006. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
“last daylight” © Raul Lieberwirth, 2006. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

They talk about vitamin D and circadian rhythms. Talk about seasonal depression. All I know is that this time of year I start to go just a little crazy. I never know if I should be eating lunch or dinner. Can’t tell if I slept in two hours late or woke up right on time.

I get up well before sunrise because I don’t want to miss a moment of day. Want to make sure I’ve worked out, showered, and eaten breakfast long before the light peers in through our windows.

My alarm clock lamp turns on slow, drowning out the dark of night with a soft white glow over the course of thirty minutes. When my cell phone screams at me, I’m already mostly awake.

I stumble to the bathroom and put on my running clothes before I have a chance to think about anything else. Brush my teeth, layer up, and head outside. The cold is shocking at first, but I adjust quickly, giving into the icy crisp of 5 AM.

On my run I pass an empty field. No lamps or houses to strangle out the still night sky. And I stop and stare at the stars I was never able to see when we lived in downtown Seattle. My frozen cheeks fold up into a smile. I lose myself in thousands of brilliance of it, and for a moment I think maybe the endless night isn’t anything to dread after all.

After breakfast, I take handfuls of vitamins and long pulls from a bottle of fish oil. I sit in front of a HappyLight and hope that maybe something will help this year. I drive to a barre class and bask in the presence of strong women. I stretch out. Chest open, chin up. I play graceful. Long and lean and flexible and tripping over my own feet. Just another silly activity to keep me from sitting and slipping into the dark.

At home, I draw all the blinds, windows open wide. Any ounce of sunlight that I can get, I let in. I don’t dare block it out. Instead, I absorb it. Embrace all I can because there’s not much of it.

In the afternoon, when my office fills up with light, I turn my heat up and strip down to my undershirt. Let the sun climb over my arms, my chest, my face. The hair on my arms prickle back to life and I close my eyes, finally relaxing.

When the last bits of light threaten to sink below the horizon, I put on a raincoat and boots, wrap a scarf up around my face, and pull a hat down over my ears. I face all elements to make sure I get the last little bits of natural brightness to shine in my eyes. And all I can think is that in a month it’s going to be even darker than this. But then I remember that in a month, it’s going to be as dark as it will get.