Strength Training

I have been lifting weights again and strength training for exactly two months. Although this has nothing to do with autism, when I started my blog, I decided not to put constraints on myself regarding what I needed to think about or write about. This blog tends to be a space where I can simply mull over and express some of the many thoughts and experiences that confuse, frustrate, excite, scare, or otherwise impact me. As mentioned, strength training also has been a big bear I wanted to retackle, after going cold turkey post-attack for a couple years. Once a huge part of my identity and an integral source of joy in my life, it became one of many things I could no longer face. Except for running, I became a voyeur of the fitness world, as the mere thought of strength training made my stomach flip.

Not anymore. I’ve been training. I wouldn’t necessarily classify this training by tacking on any adjectives like “hard” or “serious,” because I’ve tried to take a low-key approach (and I have a broken foot!), but I would say my practice has been dedicated, courageous, and empowering. And fun. For as much as I’ve been trying to hold my ground above the depression abyss, any little source of happiness must be coveted like prized possession. Plus, it’s been effective. I’m actually back up to all of my old benchmarks and lifting at least as much—and in some cases even more—weight than in my prime strength training days in NYC as a full-time trainer. I never thought I’d get my body back up to that level of physical strength because it just hasn’t seemed as resilient anymore and I’ve had so many health problems, not to mention I was basically working out all day then through my job. 

It’s interesting because I have also mentioned that I avoid looking in the mirror. While I’ve gotten better and continue my daily practice of positive self-talk, this is just to the reflection of my face. My body is a different story: I don’t look at it. Until very recently, the weather had been cold enough that I was always bundled up anyway, so I never even really “accidentally” saw it. Sometimes I feel like this is actually healthier than it sounds for me personally, because I’ve hated my body unwaveringly for so long that it can be more beneficial to ignore its appearance altogether than risk critiquing it and hating it. I hope this is not the case for most people. I even shower in the dark. 

With all that said, I’ve looked at my arms lately. In fact, I not only looked casually at them, I decided to flex them. Boy there’s a lot of muscle trapped in a little arm! My scrawny atrophied arms of the past couple of years have reverted back to my healthy and muscular arms of my younger twenties. I’m not sure how it makes me feel, maybe surprised, maybe partly (ashamedly) nervous that my attacker’s words will ring true (that having muscles and a strong body made me attractive, and thus a target). Most of the time, my logical brain assures me this is not true, but I still have to fend off the occasional worries. The good news is that I’m not repulsed by my changing appearance, so that’s a start. I hope that confidence finds her way to quietly seep in, gathering a groundswell presence while I’m busy focusing on other things, until one day, she is big and loud enough for me to notice her secure hold in my mind. From there, she can slowly open the gates for the self-hatred, fear, and trauma to begin to recede and my mind, heart, and body will start finding more peace.

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