healing – thingspeoplelookup.com

To dwell or not to dwell

Today is July 3 which, in the U.S., has nearly the same holiday feel as July 4. And yet, with all the gains I feel like I’ve made in just, what, eight days? It doesn’t feel like a holiday to me. It feels like I felt nine days ago.

There’s every reason for me to feel fine:

My migraines have improved
My mood has improved
My workouts have been better
My employer, recently merged, is still pretty terrible, but a little less terrible

But today, I feel:

Unbearably ugly
Out of shape
Uninteresting
Exhausted

The challenge today, or always

One wonders whether spending time spitting this out is a good idea. I’ve read that suppression, the ability to say screw it, is really what serves a person’s mental health. Obviously I’m not so good at that.

There is a particular condition on which I’ve ruminated my whole, 5-foot life, and that’s not being a six-foot supermodel. Having a regular figure. Starving myself to a ludicrous figure. Eating my way back to a spherical figure. Returning to a regular figure.

I don’t know if this is way of seeing is particular to women worldwide, or handed down to some of us no matter where we are. Or both.

More recently, on a day in which my head felt like Pangaea splitting apart, I couldn’t stop myself; I ate about 2000 kcals worth of cookies. Fatty, sugary, chunky and huge, they were, and I’d already eaten the day’s food – about 1400 high-fat, low-carb kcals.

Problem or solution

And the next day, I felt amazing. Two-and-a-half pounds heavier, thanks glycogen! but great. As in, my head felt great. My heart felt great.

I spent some time with a number of different calorie calculators. How are the results derived? I gave some thought to just how intense my workouts are really. Are 80 handstands considered intense? Which is to say, are 1400 kcals a day enough?

Probably not. But I feel no worth except at my boniest, my tiniest, my most unsustainable.

I don’t know why I care

I’ve long since given up on dating, but there is still in the back of my mind a reminder that I’m still in fact nobody without a mate, riches, unfathomable thinness.

I could let the mate go. The riches, eh, could still happen. The appropriate thinness?

1700 kcals is what I decided to try. Could I achieve a worthy thinness If I’m not cannibalizing my own body for energy? Can I wait more than another two days to find out?

What about my migraines? The extra kcals could be one of the keys to recovery. For years I’ve labored under the idea that X calories were allowed at Y age.

I honestly do not know if I can let myself eat more, heal my head, and risk weight gain. I already can’t stop staring at these extra two pounds. How pathetic – how first world? – is that?

How pathetic am I?

Working it out when working out

Today I finished creating a new exercise space, one where I can spend hours and hours focusing on a different kind of pain: The physical. The burn. The torture you make for yourself on purpose and put in our planners. Why do we do it? Let’s talk in the comments below.

Well, wait: let’s not talk about that just yet. The psychological, even metaphysical, back-and-forth about why some people go balls out and some people flow and ohhhhmmm is a discussion for another day. And it’s the weekend.

When it comes to fitness, sometimes it’s fun just to talk about what we’re up to. Many of those who’ve stopped by are fitness-focused, so I hope you’ll join in. But I think it’s important to hear about whatever movement moves any of you!

My space, your space

Everyone needs a good exercise space. In the comments below, I want to hear about yours. Do tell!

Me, I’d been exercising in my bedroom. I’m an exercise-at-home type, very private, and I have a couple of cats who might get under foot. But even someone as short as me wants to make a leg extension without hitting a bed corner, chair, wall…

Now my new space runs about 6′ x 10′, and is covered with a dark blue ultra plush rug into which my hands can hook snugly for easier V-position work and handstands. My hands are strong but I’ll take the assist. The rug’s also flush with a solid banister that I can either hook onto lengthwise for decline work or use as a barre.

When I need a higher barre, a white fold-up IKEA barstool tucks neatly behind a maple storage cube that sits on high nickel legs. That sounds quite fancy. It’s not. It’s falling apart and needs to be replaced. Badly. But it too is rather tucked away, so…another payday.

I keep all my mats, weights, loops, bands, this nifty kettlebell converter and gliders – Corelle plates, finally handy! – in a homey, sweater-covered storage tub. So until the area starts to smell, which will be soon, trust, it won’t even be entirely obvious what happens over there. It’s like a grown-up lives here or something.

My movement, your movement

Are you a gym rat? Have a favorite trainer? In the comments below, talk about your favorite workouts!

I’d mentioned in a previous post that I can go on and on. And on. Today:

Tonique Tokyo Onsen Express (35 min)
Tonique Sculpt Dynamics Arms (37 min)
Tracy Anderson post-pregnancy floor core work (~20 min)
Tracy Anderson method mat unweighted and weighted arms (~15 min)
countless jackknifes (~80? depends if the music’s good!)

And this is a light day, meant to help work out some serious DOMS from yesterday’s stupid heavy leg day. Man, I just wasn’t thinking. I mean, I’m an old lady who doesn’t eat carbs and somehow I thought this wouldn’t hurt:

Tonique Born to Move (~58 minutes)
Tonique The Box mat/wall workout (37 min)
Linda Wooldridge standing barre thighs (26 min)
Tracy Anderson post-pregnancy floor core work (~20 min)
Tracy Anderson method mat unweighted and weighted arms (~15 min)

IDIOT.

I think tomorrow will have to include some very light dance aerobics just keep myself from turning to stone, maybe 45-60 minutes. You reap what you sow.

Now, I’m not giving you these itineraries to show off. (Well, maybe a little!) I’m doing so to invite conversation about what you do and exchange ideas. Let’s talk!

Final notes

First, stay tuned for a key follow-up post. I have good news. I think!

Posting as pain relief

I have a confession. I have migraines and depression. And I let them win.

I started this blog two years ago under the advisement of a friend, a dear, dear friend, who was convinced that it would help me feel better on all fronts. That the positive feedback – or any feedback – would make a difference in both mood and pain.

But I let them win. I have forever. I have talent and dreams. What a failure I am.

I’ve posted all of five times, I think. I managed one last night, one I thought was pretty fun. It’s not bad. So I wanted to start an editorial calendar today but could not imagine what my worthless self would talk about. Anxiety filled my throat with acid and shortened breath.

4f91aee3ecad04ee3500003d-750-563 — I’m not looking for sympathy. Just feel like this a lot and wondering if posting would help me lift my head…from time to time.

That one post seemed to change a little something, though, because here I am.

I am wondering what you, my two or three dear readers, think about my friend’s theory. Do you think that regularly posting something, anything, can help fill that hole in your heart? You know, the one you can shrink but never quite sew closed. I can always find a way to slip backwards into that hole. It’s like I want to.

Do you think posting about something, anything, might keep me upright?

Do you think that over time my migraines, caused primarily by stress and sadness, might alleviate a little bit? If posting something, anything, would help alleviate that stress and sadness, I would take a bit. Any of you who have chronic migraines or other pain, I know, would take a bit.

Your thoughts and experiences would be invaluable if you’re up for sharing. In the meantime I will do my best to continue posting about the fascinating and useless things I find while cleaning my closet. Maybe some boxing, too.

Thank you all. Thank you so much.

MacGregor, Mayweather, my ex

An ex of mine, whose default position was flat on the couch, was an MMA fan. For someone so lazy he could not have chosen a more physically demanding sport to follow. It requires strength and smarts to solve each puzzle of an opponent, whose skills may complement or conquer the other’s. For this the sport is admirable. There’s an opening for almost everyone.

Now gyms that smell like sweat and toilets are all over the country, in strip malls and old warehouses, and my ex went to one, at least for a while, to learn Brazilian jiu-jitsu – one of MMA’s primary martial arts. I don’t know what color belt he left with, or why he stopped going. But I can’t imagine a man who ran out of breath a minute into missionary making it five minutes on the mat. With anyone.

mac — *Hey, Conor. How ’bout some pants? Photo:* The Sun

It was through him that I was introduced to the sport at all. I’d not seen much of it. just enough to find it so much more brutal than boxing. It was often much more boring than boxing, too, with 10, sometimes 20 minutes of two people rolling around in shorts like underwear preceded by five minutes of pat-a-cake. I didn’t get it. Constant commentary would come from the couch. Ah, that’s where all his breath went. I was nice about it. It wasn’t until watching Conor MacGregor, as much an entertainer as a fighter, that I stopped pretending to listen.

It was Friday Night Fights or something like that. MacGregor was wiry and little. Too short for me to date, to be honest. He’s a ginger. Of course, I thought, and there’s the Irish flag. The Irish usually box, I’d said out loud, but was told that wasn’t true anymore because Conor MacGregor.

“Does he have more of a stand-up game?”

“You mean, is he a striker? He does everything right, you’ll see. He’s really fast.”

MacGregor’s got a neck tattoo, a crown declaring his collarbone king, and I thought this career had better work out for him. He would fight in those tiny shorts, the kind sold in the ladies’ department. I felt awkward watching MacGregor go on about his business in such little leprechaun shorts.

My ex was right, though. MacGregor was fast. He was powerful, maybe fighting a weight class lower than what was natural for him. He was flash and not without flaws – he grated. And yet he was thrilling in a sport that silenced its audience because so often there was nothing to cheer for.

Yeah, and fast. Or rather, his decisions were fast. And in the long five-minute rounds of MMA, fast decisions look like lightning.

It must be said that fast in MMA is slow in boxing. Witness the difference between MacGregor’s speed, future opponent Floyd Mayweather, and some children boxing in the dirt:

This is important because Conor MacGregor is set to box Floyd Mayweather (49-0) on Aug. 26. No kicking, no striking, no grappling, no choking. No fighting. Boxing.

MacGregor, as seen in the video, is working on a different bag and different skill set than Mayweather. He’s not on a speed bag. He’s on a heavy bag. OK.

But look more closely. Look at MacGregor, punching in a way that made me understand, finally, that punching isn’t striking and he’s trying desperately not to strike. He punches with forethought, solving the puzzle of an opponent who’s long gone while his legs plant heavy, stalking the octagon in his head.

Shields — *Note: MacGregor, this is how you punch. Photo: Tom Hogan.*

But look more closely. Look at MacGregor, punching in a way that made me understand, finally, that punching isn’t striking and he’s trying desperately not to. He punches with forethought, solving the puzzle of an opponent who’s long gone while his legs plant heavy, stalking the octagon in his head.

Look at Mayweather Look at MacGregor. Look at the kids.

MacGregor could be publishing dummy footage to stack the odds. The Irish love to gamble and win or lose, he could get paid twice. He would not be the first Irish to gamble on his own fight. But is he in league, then, with his sparring partner to publish the same damning evidence? No. Or maybe. I don’t know. MacGregor’s a great fighter but he’s annoying. It’s the tale of his tape. And anything could happen anyway. If Mayweather’s not ready for Irish gamesmanship after 20 years, then shame on him.

I could say the same. My ex, who like MacGregor wore his Irish ancestry like cape and would also not shut up about anything, was exactly who he was, always. This didn’t happen to me when I was 20. This happened when I was 40. I knew his game somehow but like a paying crowd he gave me what I was looking for until I would always seek it. Like sugar. Like booze. Did he leave some in the couch cushions? He didn’t even shower on Sundays, but I was high enough until the next fight. Anticipating, replaying knockout in a sport I merely tolerated for too long.

Until I didn’t. I drew him in then tiptoed away. A fight’s a fight and I won.

To Ron Livingston, Richie Woodhall, and my hero, Claressa Shields (pictured above). Shields fights for the WBC Super Middleweight World Championship at 10 p.m. Aug. 4 on Showtime.

Missing

I subscribe to a website written by a couple of kids who call themselves soul-workers. There’s stuff about chakras and Solfeggio frequencies and twin flames. At first blush the grownup in you might think you’ve landed at the wrong place; you were looking up “how to stop crying all the time.” But the site has a great deal of good, practical advice and information, crystals notwithstanding.

This includes types of muscle tension, or which emotions get stuck in which parts of the body. I don’t know how true it is that guilt, shame and unworthiness congregate only in the lower back, but I’d believe it because my lower back hurts and I feel all those things.

And I have headaches. I get them all the time.

I wake up with them. If I don’t wake up with them I get them by the middle of the day, end of the day at the latest. I work with them, although I’m not as good at working with a headache as I used to be. I’ve been getting them for nearly 20 years. There’s not much choice in the matter. And it doesn’t matter what kind of headache it is. They all hurt.

I take a cocktail of anticonvulsants and muscle relaxants at night to control – or try to – one source of the daily trauma: TMJ. I have my ex-husband and a car accident to thank for the TMJ. (Thank you!) Some days I don’t know what’s worse: The fear of waking up, painfully, or the struggle to forgive the man and what was a true accident.

I work at mitigating the symptoms. Feverfew, heat, trigger-pointing knots across my back until I’m tearful, sweaty, and nauseous. I’m impatient. I meditate at night. It’s not helping yet. It’s supposed to but it’s not. Is five months enough?

I frequently swallow too many triptans, too many days in a row. These are migraine abortives, in case you didn’t know, and you’re only supposed to take them twice a week, tops. But you try having a migraine every day and see how long you last. They’re expensive and I’ll pay anything to have enough.

The worse part? It’s not the physical pain. It’s missing.

I miss work. Calling in yet again is heartbreaking in its normal abnormality. A frequently deformed workweek, the stress of failure. Talent wasted. No one is as sick as I am.

I miss people. There is an encompassing fear of making a friend then revealing that in fact, there’s something she should know so she can decide if she wants to be friends with someone who, when asked How are you? will probably lie. I’m OK.

I miss love. See above, making friends. Then multiply it times infinity: How could someone ever love a woman who can’t get her head on straight? Who takes a senior citizen-sized handful of pills each night? You can only hide that for so long.

I miss days. Sunshine hurts my eyes. Rain swells my sinuses. My shades are drawn and I wish the days to pass with a singular purpose, like a line of worker ants with their one job. Then like time they’re gone.

This website, with its talk of shamanism and spiritual teachers, would advise me to attack the root and symptoms by being kind to myself in practical ways. It’s in a book I bought from them: Do some yoga, wear bright colors, discuss every day with myself what is good about myself.

But I don’t know what that is anymore.

Many thanks to lonerwolf, a truly lovely site written and run by truly lovely people. It’s full of free and affordable advice anyone can use. Check them out if you’re stuck. Note: I have no affiliation with the site.