Chapter 16: Getting Physical
I’d forever feel vulnerable in the world if I continued walking through it disconnected from myself. I needed to reunite my mind with my physical form and learn how to function as a whole, balanced person. I honestly had no idea what that would feel like, though. That also meant I didn’t know the route to get there. The stacks of psychology texts I’d read in school primarily trained me to sleuth abnormalities, which perpetuated dissociation to a degree. I needed a different source of guidance. I turned inward for clues.
My relationship with my body had always been ‘all business.’ I bathed it, fed it, tried to manage indulgences, and took it for walks near the water or on leisurely bike rides when I felt like it. Without realizing it, I’d specialized in activities that could be done on autopilot. Journaling about my inner world while trying to pay more conscious attention to my physicality helped me connect the dots.
Then it was glaringly obvious. The discrete, yet sobering glances at shaded areas for hidden strangers. Reading cars that passed for suspicious activity. Checking behind me for anyone following or watching from afar. Assessing routes so I didn’t box myself in. I’d been subconsciously calculating every possible threat while I walked through life.
The realization that my brain had been masking those behaviors from my conscious mind rolled in next. I was amazed by its diligence. I couldn’t comprehend the amount of effort it had expended just to keep me safe, but I’d gained a greater appreciation for why I’d been living life on autopilot.
Reconnecting with my body would require me to take up activities that encouraged body awareness- no more autopilot. I’d also want to incorporate some that helped me feel safe in both my physical being and the world around me. I decided strength training and self-defense were the way to go.
I started by joining a gym near the house. I was timid at first, but eased my way in at a comfortable enough pace to keep me going back. That evolved into having favorite machines and looking forward to my sessions. And once I felt grounded in my routine, I enjoyed challenging myself in productive ways. I even reached a point where I felt I wasn’t working hard enough unless my clothes were drenched with effort. I’d never been one who enjoyed sweating, so I knew more than my body was changing.
I truly enjoyed having an external goal to focus my energy on, at first. Shifting my attention away from my mental hang-ups and onto my body relieved the pressure to fix all that had been plaguing me, and reminded me how much I’d once enjoyed honing my physical form. But, sadly, it also reopened a forgotten wound.
As early as elementary school, I remember doing my best to shrug off toxic social and familial beliefs regarding physical appearance. I’d once been told in no uncertain terms by a trusted adult that my body was the deciding factor in whether I would be loved by a man. It wasn’t a veiled remark that led me to a warped conclusion; it was said outright and with intention. It was spoken as truth (by a wounded person). My best efforts to deflect that poisonous drivel just weren’t enough, though. By adolescence, my vulnerable brain had succumbed to what it had been fed. I’d worked on healing the consequences of that as an adult, but much remained.
My objectives of building strength and confidence quickly turned into chasing the next smallest dress size. That’s just another way of saying my quest to feel empowered led me to chasing powerlessness. I’d been so focused on getting in touch with my body that I never considered that old, toxic mindset aimed at tearing me down might reappear. Thankfully, though, I was wiser this time around. I was able to spot my patterns before things spiraled too far out of control.
I worked hard to direct my attention towards fun and fitness, and was mindful to limit weigh-ins. All were noteworthy steps towards healing for me. Previously unhealthy habits fed on compulsive workout logs and the numbers on the scale, so being committed to restructuring that relationship between my mind and body gave me a sense of progress before many physical changes could be measured.
I suspected the addition of martial arts or self-defense classes would boost those efforts. A double win. I searched my area for any dojos that called to me, but learned of a mutual requirement I wasn’t ready to encounter- fighting off another person during training. While that made perfect sense, it wasn’t going to work for me. The fact that it would be staged didn’t matter. The mere thought caused my chest to tighten and my breathing to become labored. I’d need to work up to training in such a setting.
I turned to a plethora of online videos as my first teachers. I studied a handful of basic moves and techniques with the hopes of feeling powerful in my own form, but was greeted by more inner demons instead. I highly doubted my skills while overly admiring those of my teachers, as well as their perfectly sculpted bodies. Delaying workout sessions turned into skipping them altogether because of my deep insecurities. I repeatedly tried to steer my attention towards getting to know my strengths, preferences, natural rhythms, etc. All things I could use to build my confidence enough to hold my own in a class setting without having a panic attack. For some reason, though, combating the unhealthy judgements about my skills was more challenging than those about weight and size.
Journaling about such highs and lows was intended to help me foster a newfound sense of gratitude towards my physical vessel and all it had accomplished. It had worked for a while, too. Then I noticed the entries had become shorter and less constructive. Veiled self-criticism suggested my competitive nature had begun to outweigh my compassion for how much I’d already achieved. The unhealthy trajectory was spelled out in black and white. The realization that my approach to wholeness wasn’t entirely helpful pushed me to regroup.
I sat with that for a few days.
No revelations or “Aha moments” turned up. I don’t know whether that’s because I didn’t have a solution, or I didn’t want one. Obsessive tendencies are sneaky that way. Regardless, I didn’t poke at what I’d discovered. I wasn’t going to encourage competitive habits by forcing a workout schedule, but I also wasn’t going to berate myself for falling into old patterns with ancient roots. I suppose that was progress in itself. Something guided me to discuss my concerns with Broderick, though. I think I subconsciously wanted to hold myself accountable. It helped, too; airing the unhealthy mindset with someone I trusted disempowered it to a much more manageable degree.
Unfortunately, my journal revealed something else nestled in the background of my life that quietly waited to be noticed. Like all pivotal experiences, this one would gut me open at some unexpected time if I didn’t face it. Doing so required me to return to the home I’d shared with Nate, though. That would be a double whammy of hurt, no doubt. But it had to be done if I had any hope of moving on.
I reached out to Nate and we set up a time when I could stop by to pick up some things left behind. When that day came, I didn’t feel ready by any means. I just respected the need for it to be done. I’d felt somewhat numb on my drive there, then was met with a wave of emotions when I pulled into the driveway. It initially felt like anxiety but grew drastically more intense as I wiggled the key into the tight lock. Emotions flooded me as I crossed the threshold.
Nate was at work when I arrived, so I had the freedom to go at my own pace. But being overcome by memories of our life together pushed me to move quickly through the house. Passing through each room triggered an onslaught of memories that triggered relentless grief that pressed me to get what I came for and leave.
I hurried to the closet in the spare bedroom as quickly as my shaky legs allowed. Just on the other side of the double doors sat the baby clothes, bibs, and a sweet little pacifier I’d tucked away after the last miscarriage. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I grabbed all of it and tossed it into a large gift bag laying on the top shelf near the wrapping paper.
I made my way down the hall to the master bedroom and headed directly for that closet. I dug to the back for the maternity clothing I’d once worn, then crammed all of it into the overflowing bag I was holding. I was sobbing and began to feel nauseated as I vividly relived the heartbreak. Just touching the clothes I’d worn while pregnant all those times was enough to force me back to a place of complete emotional torture. I struggled to catch my breath.
Once I had everything I came for, I jumped in the car and headed “home.” Safely navigating myself there through the waterfall of tears felt like an impossible feat, especially as my mind reeled with urgency. I absolutely needed to free myself of the torment I’d just collected. My plan was to donate everything to an organization that helped babies or new families, but I’d overestimated myself. I hadn’t had the courage to research my options beforehand and couldn’t wait until later to surrender my past. I desperately searched my route for donation bins of any sort, secondhand stores, consignment shops- ANY place that would accept what I had.
It wasn’t until I was nearly home that I spotted a large donation bin designated for used clothes and shoes. My chest grew tighter as I set my sights on it, but I felt a sense of pending relief at the same time. I pulled over with little awareness of anyone else around me, popped the trunk, then pulled out the now torn bag. It was bulky and heavy, and the chute was at head level, which made it a chore to reach. I summoned my inner beast for help. I tapped into the power of my intense emotions and growing physical strength just long enough to conquer the obstacle.
Panting like I’d just run a marathon, I leaned against the tall metal receptacle with my face burning from the increasingly salty tears. I scanned my thoughts and my heart to see if I’d made any progress with that purge. It all hurt like hell. A new hell. A hell of reliving past pains, yes, but also of looking into the future without the family I’d lost along the way. I immediately felt sick to my stomach. I ran behind the bin that held my dreams, then doubled over and emptied the contents of my stomach. I had no control over it. My body instinctually released the gnawing force that had been living inside it. Staring at my vomit was akin to facing every emotion that had been pent-up inside me.
Letting go of those sentimental, yet torturesome, possessions freed my body of some of the stagnant trauma it had been carrying on a very real and tangible level. It took several days for me to physically and emotionally recover. I never expected my journey to get reacquainted with my physical body would activate so many other avenues for healing in the process.