Don’t call it a comeback…
I’ve started going to the gym before work again. On Monday when my alarm went off I immediately turned it off, rolled over, and went right back to sleep…just as I had done the last two weeks. But after 5 minutes of laying there I knew I had to get up and go. And I actually did. I was so proud of myself for getting up on Monday that I was able to easily rise out of bed today. Fingers are crossed for tomorrow and the rest of the week.
I’d forgotten how much better I felt during the day when I worked out in the morning. I feel calmer (though it’s probably just that I’m tired) and more focused. I’m able to tone my anxiety down quicker and compartmentalize better (This is a school worry. You are home with the kids. Stop thinking about this). And this is just after 2 days.
But 2 days seems to be the most I can do these days. Usually by day 3 I convince myself I need a “break” and the one morning off turns into a week or more.
It’s amazing how much easier it was to work out when I was unhappy. When it was hard to be at home or spend time with Mike I would always find time to take a break at the gym. When my dad died and I spiraled into my summer of self destruction, running was the thing that was able to pull my back to the surface long enough to take a breath.
But now, bed and home are my safety nets. I like being here. It’s cozy and warm and far away from the anxieties of a bad marriage and an overly stressful job. It’s hard to get up and go. It’s hard to leave the place where I feel the safest.
But I’ve done it twice this week. I managed to get myself up and go, even when I did it alone. So I can do it again, I know I can.