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.
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