Stepping Point

Days passed and with it came more steroids and more side effects. I had resigned myself to chronically feeling unattractive. No longer did I plan my outfits. No longer did I spend time primping and fussing over lip gloss or hair spray as I once had. I did only the very basics. In fact, I had thrown a towel over the mirror in my room. I didn’t want to remember my face that had so rounded. I didn’t want to remember my growing double chin. I could feel them. My hands to my cheeks mocked me with every touch of my face. I could feel my puffy face with each turn of my head. I could feel the deposits of fat with every turn of my neck. So I covered my mirrors in hopes of covering me in the process.

I secretly hoped I would wake up from this very bad dream.

Still, there remained a small part of me that wasn’t completely ready to give in.

 A very small part.

A part of me that wasn’t ready to throw a towel over my life. I found myself still wanting to push.

And so, for the first time in nine months, I brought myself to the gym. It wasn’t the gym where I typically worked out. No, I would have rather died than be seen in that place. The place full of new state of the art equipment, laced with hard tan bodies and straight blonde hair. The place full of guys looking at girls. The place where girls ‘get ready’ to go to the gym. The place where girls wear push up bras to ‘work out’ instead of sports bras. The smoothie bar. The spinning room. The perfume. The cologne. No, I knew I would never feel okay with any of that. Instead, I racked my mind for a place where I could just blend in, or better yet, not be noticed at all. Without all the fuss.

So, I drove myself to the next town over. I would have driven to the next state over if I thought it would have helped. I half heartedly enrolled myself in a membership to the local YMCA. An elderly woman with short hair and a deep voice greeted me sternly at the door. I heard children shouting from the nearby pool. I had always hated the Y. I hated the smell of chlorine and dead air that permeated the entire facility. I hated the old used equipment and sight of old men in short shorts. I hated the dark rooms and poor lighting. I felt a knot in my stomach as the stern woman looked at me. But I wanted to push. And this is where I was going to do it. And so, I made my way down the old stairs and found myself getting on the elliptical, which to my dismay faced a very large floor length mirror. I darted a glare at my reflection in the mirror across the room and a wave of motivation passed through me. I began moving my legs forward on the machine, one at a time, not aware of what my body could handle. That first day, I lasted ten minutes. I was wiped, having only done ten minutes with a few stretches that were once so easy. I came back the next day. And the next. Slowly ten minutes turned into fifteen and fifteen into twenty. I found myself pushing to fourty five minutes and then started adding in the stationary bike and even the treadmill. I began incorporating some weight machines into my regimen, excited to see the progress I was making. My body hadn’t changed at all in appearance. I still avoided all mirrors. But it felt good to do something. Anything to prove that I hadn’t given up.

Anything to prove that my body hadn’t won. I hadn’t died. I was still in there.

And so with my new found drive, I found myself curiously getting back thinking about the future. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I allowed myself to think about the road ahead. I even noticed a little glimmer of hope begin to emerge which surprised me. I remembered the road behind. I remembered the discipline. I remembered the sacrifice. I remembered the countless late night hours of studying. I remembered staying in when others were going out. I remember turning down friends to push through general biology. I remembered roommates going on dates while I went to the library. I remembered the grueling physics. I remembered the organic chem. The calculus. I remembered all of it. And I knew I had come too far and given up too much to give in now. So with my newly rekindled drive, I filed an application for the fall semester at a local state school called Southern Connecticut State University. I was accepted two days later. I knew I would get in. I knew based on others who had attended. I knew based on the admission application itself which was minimal and asked questions such as “have you ever committed a felony?”. This of course provided me no assurance for a good education. But I knew it was a stepping point. I knew this was my chance. If I was ever going to take one.