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HUNT THE HARE
In my spin class today my body and mind were at odds; there was a discordant jangling in my too-dry brain after a day of nerve-shredding anxiety and half-conscious refusal to take care of myself. I was dehydrated, under-fed, and my muscles were wound tight from a day spent hunched in front of a screen.
I haven’t been to a spin class in a little over a week. The last year of my life has, in large part, been about building habits. It was difficult to build up to five classes a week, but I had just reached that goal, which lasted for all of two weeks without break. To have such a new routine that cost so much energy and anxiety disturbed so quickly made me feel like a failure.
I like spinning. I like the routine, the structure, the way my joints can handle it. But for a week and half, I couldn’t go. Returning today, I felt my tail between my legs. I was anxious, and my body hurt. I felt very human. But it felt good to get on the bike and go fast. It feels good to have finally found a way to move my body that works for both my brain and my body, both the human and the canine. When I get my speed up, I feel like a sighthound, flying over open ground. When I increase my resistance, I feel like a wolf, hunting up a mountain, walking for days. Today, when I wanted to stop around three-quarters of the way into class and go home, I decided to lean into the feeling.
I was flagging; I felt guilty; I was nauseous and my head was pounding, a headache building in earnest in the top of my spine. I told myself: there is a hare before you, and it worked. I kept my speed fairly consistent; I wasn’t slowing as much or as quickly. It distracted me from the difficulties of having a body; the pain, and the nausea, and the anxiety. My eyes were unfocussed; I was picturing a hare, skirting away from me into the rocks.
I was picturing myself, leaping after it, flying over rough ground. The hare veers away; I give chase. It almost gets away; I must keep my speed and give determined chase. I told myself: if you catch it, there will be blood. You will be able to tear it to pieces. This, too, worked. I was running, my motivation iron smell and soft fur and something held between my teeth. I felt better; I felt faster; I felt stronger. I was able to hold my body in check and control my fear, the part of my brain flashing poison warnings and squealing at me to tap out and run home to safety. My discomfort was tempered by my desire to catch, to feel myself in my body despite the cost.
I held out, and finished the class. I slipped out and started home without ado. I felt my teeth; sharp and itching. My gums ached, and my mouth fell open. A small victory, and one that felt profound to me. It reminds me of a post I saw once about how (paraphrasing), if the thing that gets you to brush your teeth is your belief that Naruto would be proud of you for brushing your teeth, you’re still brushing your teeth. I need to move my body more. I want to move my body more. The imagined hunt helped me stick to something scary and difficult for me as I learn to rebuild my life. It helped me navigate my anxiety, something that has the capacity to be disabling for me. It helped me stay in body, and not try to squirm out of it as I often do.
I snapped my teeth at a gull on my way home.
I haven’t been to a spin class in a little over a week. The last year of my life has, in large part, been about building habits. It was difficult to build up to five classes a week, but I had just reached that goal, which lasted for all of two weeks without break. To have such a new routine that cost so much energy and anxiety disturbed so quickly made me feel like a failure.
I like spinning. I like the routine, the structure, the way my joints can handle it. But for a week and half, I couldn’t go. Returning today, I felt my tail between my legs. I was anxious, and my body hurt. I felt very human. But it felt good to get on the bike and go fast. It feels good to have finally found a way to move my body that works for both my brain and my body, both the human and the canine. When I get my speed up, I feel like a sighthound, flying over open ground. When I increase my resistance, I feel like a wolf, hunting up a mountain, walking for days. Today, when I wanted to stop around three-quarters of the way into class and go home, I decided to lean into the feeling.
I was flagging; I felt guilty; I was nauseous and my head was pounding, a headache building in earnest in the top of my spine. I told myself: there is a hare before you, and it worked. I kept my speed fairly consistent; I wasn’t slowing as much or as quickly. It distracted me from the difficulties of having a body; the pain, and the nausea, and the anxiety. My eyes were unfocussed; I was picturing a hare, skirting away from me into the rocks.
I was picturing myself, leaping after it, flying over rough ground. The hare veers away; I give chase. It almost gets away; I must keep my speed and give determined chase. I told myself: if you catch it, there will be blood. You will be able to tear it to pieces. This, too, worked. I was running, my motivation iron smell and soft fur and something held between my teeth. I felt better; I felt faster; I felt stronger. I was able to hold my body in check and control my fear, the part of my brain flashing poison warnings and squealing at me to tap out and run home to safety. My discomfort was tempered by my desire to catch, to feel myself in my body despite the cost.
I held out, and finished the class. I slipped out and started home without ado. I felt my teeth; sharp and itching. My gums ached, and my mouth fell open. A small victory, and one that felt profound to me. It reminds me of a post I saw once about how (paraphrasing), if the thing that gets you to brush your teeth is your belief that Naruto would be proud of you for brushing your teeth, you’re still brushing your teeth. I need to move my body more. I want to move my body more. The imagined hunt helped me stick to something scary and difficult for me as I learn to rebuild my life. It helped me navigate my anxiety, something that has the capacity to be disabling for me. It helped me stay in body, and not try to squirm out of it as I often do.
I snapped my teeth at a gull on my way home.