(no subject)
When I'm working at my body and forcing it to run.
When I'm making my heart beat as fast as I can make it while I create mental hoops to help distract my brain from summoning that voice within it begging and pleading to quit.
When I'm lifting iron in a half dozen ways, or pushing my body weight around in just as many.
I'm giving myself a dose of a natural anti-depressant. It's a good thing, relatively. Without doing these mundane physical acts, I have repeatedly fell into depression. Maybe I'm always depressed, I just found concrete ways of stalling or methods of efficient diversion. For some crazy reason, when I'm working out and running I feel good, like a temporary rush.
But when it settles and I allow a break in action, lasting a handful of days or so, my mental methods revert to a state of emotional masochism once more. Like it wants it. Like it knows the taste, and hungers when it gets the whiff of chance.
Would I lift weights and run if I didn't have a predisposition towards depression?
I know where I'll end up, as things are now, should I drink a little more often and challenge my body less and less. So, I keep the charade up until I understand what to do next.
I imagine it's common for some people to presume their limits are very high. That, should the situation call for it, they would exhibit great strength or virtuous intention. I've ran my body passed pain and circulatory intensity into a state of numbness and freedom. I've lifted till my muscles failed me many times. I've even been challenged by other people and forced into a moment of truth that defined me. I know my limits, pretty damn clearly. You'd think that would be comforting or reassuring. There's nothing magnificent about realizing that sometimes you're too scared to act or too weak to lift your troubles off of you.
Sobering.
When I'm making my heart beat as fast as I can make it while I create mental hoops to help distract my brain from summoning that voice within it begging and pleading to quit.
When I'm lifting iron in a half dozen ways, or pushing my body weight around in just as many.
I'm giving myself a dose of a natural anti-depressant. It's a good thing, relatively. Without doing these mundane physical acts, I have repeatedly fell into depression. Maybe I'm always depressed, I just found concrete ways of stalling or methods of efficient diversion. For some crazy reason, when I'm working out and running I feel good, like a temporary rush.
But when it settles and I allow a break in action, lasting a handful of days or so, my mental methods revert to a state of emotional masochism once more. Like it wants it. Like it knows the taste, and hungers when it gets the whiff of chance.
Would I lift weights and run if I didn't have a predisposition towards depression?
I know where I'll end up, as things are now, should I drink a little more often and challenge my body less and less. So, I keep the charade up until I understand what to do next.
I imagine it's common for some people to presume their limits are very high. That, should the situation call for it, they would exhibit great strength or virtuous intention. I've ran my body passed pain and circulatory intensity into a state of numbness and freedom. I've lifted till my muscles failed me many times. I've even been challenged by other people and forced into a moment of truth that defined me. I know my limits, pretty damn clearly. You'd think that would be comforting or reassuring. There's nothing magnificent about realizing that sometimes you're too scared to act or too weak to lift your troubles off of you.
Sobering.