Sisyphus Love/Hates Rock
The soundtrack to my triumph
My hands gripped the bar tight enough to make the tendons in my wrist pop up from under my skin. My arms shook as I pulled myself up. My ankles crossed as I flexed my knees. The bar was level with my eyes and my back screamed in pain. One thought started to whisper in my ear, “I can’t do it.” I pushed that away. Because I had to. My muscles might shake, but I would overcome my own limitations.
My heart pounded in my ears drowning out the pounding, pulsing music. Most people would be listening to hip hop, rap, or rock.
My secret weapon is buried on YouTube. The channel, WoundedDuck, has long since been abandoned. The video is called 1 Hour Long Motivational Speech/ Epic Music Mix. It has a still image of Arnold Schwarzenegger from his body building hay day.
Every time I listen to that mix, I’m transported to when I found it. Fresh from a diagnosis that my pain disorder was degenerative. I would only get worse. The doctor gave me a pitying look, explaining that I would be in a wheelchair by 35.
I refused to believe her.
At that moment, I changed. Nothing was going to stop me. I would walk. I would run. My pain was real and felt insurmountable. Until that point, I’d tried to work around it. I’d always been told that I was supposed to be a lady. Ladies go with the flow, they don’t make waves. Ladies dance, they don’t fight.
I’ve always been more androgynous, even though I wanted to be able to dainty. I stopped fighting my nature. I was a goddamned fighter. I was going to make waves. I was going to advocate for myself since no one was coming to save me.
I took the metaphor literally and started boxing. Dancing with the bag made me feel more alive than I’d ever thought possible. I didn’t know that punching would make my muscles so tired so quickly. If I wasn’t out running my diagnosis, I probably would have quit. But there was no quit. I needed to keep myself strong. It would be easier to maintain my strength than to get to the point that I couldn’t stand and work from there.
When I started, I sucked. I could barely jog half a mile. I could work the bag for about 10 minutes. The music on the speakers in the gym was fine, but when my motivation started to falter, I searched YouTube and found my magic bullet.
The music surged under power quotes from Ali, Stallone, and the man himself, Schwarzenegger. It was like a turbo shot into my routine. I jogged farther, repeating to myself like a benediction that I would not end up in a chair. I was able to start strength training on the machines before running routines on the heavy bag. Suddenly, it was like there was something inside of me fighting to get out.
When I started, I was a round 260. I ignored the people watching me waddle on the treadmill. I ignored the side eye from the guys in the heavy bag room. I wasn’t there for them. I was at that damn gym at 5 am for me. Everyday I got a little stronger. I listened to my magic mix, listened to the heavy hitters telling me not to give up. It felt like they were in the room with me. Cheering me on and I pushed myself to be better.
My body slimmed down as my stamina grew. While the pain was still there, it was manageable. My asthma was even better.
4:30am, the morning of my 36th birthday, I walked into the ladies room to change for my workout. When I emerged, I spotted the pull up bar. It was time for a new challenge.
About the Creator
Leigh Garred
Leigh is a writer, vlogger, and activist. She runs thephoenixheart.org.
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