Sexeteria

"Keep going," she says, insistently, "Come on, Syl." I am sweating profusely, gritting my teeth. My legs are extended in the air, scissoring back and forth. "One more set." I used to be able to do this. "Fifteen (pause)...fourteen..." I can feel it coming. "Twelve...eleven..."

I collapse.

"Sorry," I say, throwing my forearm across my eyes. I shake my head. "Sorry." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her, looking at me blankly, masking some feeling I can't zone in on. Disgust? Pity? Disappointment?

Or is that what I'm feeling?

Weak. I am weak. I hate myself. I am a fucking loser.

"I. Am. So. ANGRY." I say to her.

I see the change, the click back into professional trainer/motivator mode. "You've got to give yourself a break," she says. "You haven't been exercising in a while. This is just a benchmark. You'll get there."

I pay her money to tell me this. I pay her money to tell me this because I can't do it or make myself believe it on my own. I need to pay someone to believe in me, or at least to pretend they do. This is what it's come down to.

I have realized this week, this holiday week, that I'm not as fine as I've been thinking I am. I have realized this week that I while I may have been feeling like things are on the upswing, as soon as my support systems are cut off, it's only a few days before...

I have set up regular appointments to receive support to meet a variety of my needs; to fill a number of areas that are empty. This is, apparently, what I've been holding on to. Like a little kid on one of those suspended iron ladder monkey bar things, I have been swinging from rung to rung, hand over hand, knowing that sure, it sucks being suspended out into nothing, but when I reach out, on Monday, I'm seeing this person, and on Tuesday, attending that group, and on Wednesday, talking to that person, and on Thursday, I might have a chance to connect for an hour or two with that person...

I'm going from rung to rung. I thought this made me strong. I thought I was getting across.

I didn't realize it as it happened, but each of these "rungs" I cling to the thought of grabbing each week decided to shut down and go away for the holiday this week. As they told me they'd be gone, I cheerfully said, "No problem. I'm good. I'll be fine; really." I really thought I would be. I thought I was strong. Not like before. Maybe not at my peak conditioning, but strong enough, at least, to hang it out while they temporarily removed the rungs. I could make it until they got back.

But no, now I find it's not what I thought it would be like. I find it feels like I'm back where I started, twisting in the wind, hanging there and trying to look like I'm cool; like I'm not about to fall. Looking at the one rung all the way down there, way out of arm's reach, and wondering how the hell I'm going to get myself there. Knowing I have to reach longer, use my arm strength to swing farther out. Or at least hang on until someone comes back and helps me grab on. But my weight seems heavier again, like even my physical lightness is leaving me, and it's pulling me down, down, down, every second. And it's starting to hurt. My muscles are starting to strain. And some old, familiar place in the back of my mind is saying, "Let go...let go...you'll have to eventually, anyway...you've never had the upper arm strength for this...never...and you never will. You knew eventually you'd end up here again, didn't you?"

And I'm stunned at how little it takes. How wrong I was in assessing my capabilities. How little endurance I have. And I'm ashamed at how my support system is so heavily based on payment, of one form or another. And I realize now if the money and the interest runs out, there's no one there. Again. And I'm still weak. And then how many weeks before I'm back where I started, with no muscle tone to speak of, no endurance at all? Did I really think I could fix this with a schedule? Did I really think keeping myself busy until I forgot it was there was going to work? Did I really think I could pay it to go away?

I can feel the sweat building, my arm muscles stretching, rack-like, as my body tries to pull itself downward. I squeeze my eyes shut. Substitute for the voice that isn't there with my own. "You've got to give yourself a break," I say. "This is just a benchmark. You'll get there."

I grip the metal. My hands are burning.

"I. Am. So. ANGRY," I say. Into the empty space. Which doesn't accept checks.

(photo credit: Monkey Bars by missjimmyjohn)