I will be the first to admit that
exercise is a bit compulsive to me at times. When I was younger,
Well to be honest,
simply up until a few years ago,
my eating disorder was my compulsion.
It was my way for me to cope
with the relationship my dad and I had, and the way things ended.
It felt safe.
It felt nice.
It felt like home.
I don’t count calories anymore.
I don’t count portions.
I don’t count bites.
I don’t count ratios.
I don’t count.
I simply eat.
However, the past few years,
exercise has been something I now look to instead.
It doesn’t seem that bad to me--
workout for 30-60 minutes
5-6 times a week and be an
incredibly less anxious person.
Be a person who doesn’t have flashbacks. Be a person who doesn’t miss him.
No, my exercise doesn’t cure me,
it doesn’t rid me of my dad,
but it makes me feel..better.
This week, in the midst of a myriad of other things,
I’ve been hit with this gnarly cold.
And I am not going to workout today.
And to be honest, I felt like my world was ending for a moment this morning.
A need to exercise.
A need to escape.
So here I am, sitting.
With these feelings.
And I know I am doing my body more good by resting,
and settling into the unease,
as opposed to forcing
myself to workout and making myself sicker than I already am.
Hopefully by tomorrow I’ll feel better.