La Belated Rouge

I keep thinking about my blog and about writing something. Mostly I think about it when things are going REALLY well(those periods are short-lived and I tend not to want to write during that happy time as I want to enjoy it and not stop to over think it) or when things are not going so well and I find myself not wanting to complain about my life as I imagine an imaginary reader who upon reading my post says something like, "You made your choices or your bed and you have to live with them and lie in it." I don't know who this imaginary reader is but I can tell you that she/he is judgemental and harsh and sounds a lot like my inner critic/superego. Most of my choices I continue to be really happy with. I am loving my job as a therapist at a fitness camp. I LOVE it.  I love the work, the clients, the co-workers and how busy I am. I am really and truly happy there and happily I am starting to get even busier there which is great because I need the money (ThinkThin bars, high heeled shoes, size 8 dresses, and Laura Mercier moisturizer all cost money).  So work is good. My house is good. I am happy about my single status. I am still loving running and am even going to do a 10K. But something is up, something I can't talk about( I ALWAYS HATE that) and this something is making me grow like a son of a bitch. It is making me work my ass off in therapy. I go into therapy with a full face of makeup and I sob and I cry and I say how fucking hard this all is and I cry some more and I hug the box of Kleenex like it is teddy bear and when the session is gone my face is cleaner than if I had taken a Neutrogena makeup removing towelette to it. And my eyes are red and my face is puffy and I have to put on my sunglasses before I walk out the door and I take a handful of Kleenexes to go because I will cry more when I get out of my therapist's office and even more when I get into the car.

Yesterday when I saw my newish therapist, let's call her Pamela, I was telling her how weak I feel and how torn apart I am and how I want her to give me something to break the spell and make me feel differently and take away my ache. I looked at her, my eyes pleading, and hoping that if I looked hard enough at her she would cop to having a secret potion in her desk drawer next to her ink cartridges and under her box of paper clips. Pamela, if she had such a potion, offered me none of it. She instead asked me how I was going to get through this hard time. I wanted to give her some answer that spoke to my psychological sophistication or some kind of Zen like calm that came from the core of my being, instead I told her that I am going to work my ass off. She "uh-huhed" me in her steely cool analytic way.

You see, I am working my ass of at work. I am working a lot. A lot. And before and after work I am working my ass of in a more literal fashion. I have added more exercise to my already challenging exercise routing; I am Spinning and doing Bikram yoga and soon I will be adding The Barre Method to my list of ass busting exercises. This working my ass off is not at all inspired by the need to change my body as, truth be told, I am pretty happy with my body as it is, but rather I am feeling so emotionally run weakened by that which I can't name that I need to feel my physical strength as an antidote or counterbalance. And it's working. Yesterday, when I was spinning my ass off and taking that hill and doing thigh burning intervals and pushing myself as hard as I could, I felt strong and I felt like I could endure things and I REALLY need to feel that. I need to feel it so much that when I get off of work tonight, after 8 hours of seeing patients, I will get myself to the Spin studio and I will feel my strength again and for 60 minutes I will not think about what I can't talk about and that is as close to grace as I have ever felt---or at least as much grace as I can hope for today.