Things haven't been the same for me this year. Granted, it's only 31 days in--and I've lots of time left for everything to rectify itself--but still. For instance, I used to talk to my dad daily. Now? I just don't call anymore. Because, let's face it, what do I have to say? I'm sick. I feel like crap. My life sucks. Woe is me. Seriously--everyone in my family has to be sick and tired of me whining about me being sick and tired; I know I am. I'm over talking about it openly---nothing has really changed, so I haven't much to say.
So, on to my case-of-the-sads. I was reading a fellow knottie's blog the other day (Brie, I love you). Brie chronicles her trials and tribulations of getting in shape before her wedding--and the particular post I was reading had a description of her lifting from that day--one of the items being 3 sets of squats at 135lbs. I must have initially glance passed it and kept going--but noticed it again when one of her commentors indicated she was jealous of the amount Brie could squat. And here is where I get sad---but, it's an interesting route that I took to get there. My first thought? 135 lbs?! Really? That's nothing.
::mental flashback to my freshman year of college. It's 6am, and I'm at the football stadium for lifting. My spotter? Not paying attention. 255lbs? Fell on me.::
That's right---I was squatting 255lbs. My legs were massive; my body was ripped. I was in the best shape of my life---and I was a collegiate athlete. Now, granted, I never made much of a name for myself in college--but I still ran for a Division 1 school. It was my life---seriously, my life. Running. Jumping. Lifting. It was my daily life for 12 years. When college came to an end--I gave my self time off from the constant working out---I felt I had earned it, and my body diserved the rest.
Flashfoward a year--and D and I joined a fancy gym. I had a hard time getting into it at first. The track there? Less than 200 meters---and I couldn't run. To me, running required a bigger space to be able to get up to full speed, and gymnastic mats at the opposite end to crash into when I couldn't slow down in time. The main weight area was swarming with overly muscular men. I just didn't feel at home. So, to try something new, I started spinning classes--and I loved them. I went four times a week---and would run after, and lift after the run. And then my leg started to hurt. But I still went to spinning classes; a week later I was in the hospital.
As I've mentioned before, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that affects my muscles. The indicator that the disease is flaring up? Well, my muscles hurt. After the hospital, it took a month for me to learn to walk normally again--I didn't even think about the gym. But when I felt like I could have returned to working out? Hmmm....well, I was simply too afraid. If I worked out, and torn my muscles down in the process, would I some how trigger my disease? Would I know the difference between a flare-up and mere build up of lactic acid in my muscles? I was afraid to work out. I still am.
So, back to reading Brie's blog. At first I felt all high and mighty for the amounts I have been known to lift. But, it took all of a second for that superiority to fade, and for reality to set in. My muscles have atrophied. My quads are half the size they used to be. Not only could I not squat the 200plus I used to, I probably couldn't squat the 45lb bar. So I sat there, and cried. I am not myself. Or, at the very least, I am not the person I remember myself to be.
This realization, in and of itself, may have been the most difficult thing I have had to come to terms with so far.
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