I used to sit on my couch as a kid with a stack of books next to me and read. I’d wake up, eat cereal, watch cartoons (remember when Recess was on and the world was perfect?) and do some chores and then read. I wouldn’t go outside with the “other kids” my parents insisted were somewhere to be found. And I loved that, until the guilt started getting to me more and more (Lord, I’m getting anxious feelings in the pit of my stomach even now) when I looked outside and it was one of those “beautiful days” that my parents would always point out with the nice qualifier “you should enjoy it.” What I should have said then was: I am enjoying it. My way. I’m in love with sitting here, reading, it’s magic. Magic that’s gone now.
I played softball as a kid, that was my sport. I was never interested in soccer, but all of my friends were. They played during recess while I, shockingly enough, read. A part of me wanted to, wanted to be sporty, healthy, strong.
Those thoughts snowballed as I got to high school, as I started reading about what “healthy” was, as my body changed in ways I couldn’t control and in ways I hated, but didn’t realize were normal, and ways that I didn’t realize I hated. I wanted control, and I wanted to be athletic. I wanted to be That Girl; everyone has one, the one they want to be, the combination of traits and habits that are perfection but that are not. And I slowly forced myself into that box and now I’ve lost what I love.
Don’t get me wrong, I love exercise, but there are more times than I can admit, even to myself, where I force myself to do something, force myself to do more, force myself, force myself, force myself. And I don’t listen to myself. I don’t even know where to start.
A Lot Good 