Depression Lies

The chemistry’s off in my brain again.

I could insert the back story boiler plate of my depression woes, but it’s the same as any other white woman whining about this particular first world problem. It hit in my teens, I got it under control in my twenties, yadda, yadda, found myself knocked up and BOOM! Postpartum depression and a Zoloft script.

(I also have back story boiler plates on body hate, disordered eating, and the futility of existence as an office drone. I’ll try not to unleash any of them on you, either.)

Depression is a cunning summbitch. Insidious, you might say, like a Sith Lord pretending to be the kindly old senator, or that Beetlejuice joke in Community, but not nearly as clever. It sneaks up on me, slipping in through the cracks, wraps its gossamer tendrils of sadness and woe around me and it takes me far too long to realize I’m trapped again.

My shrink is a pill pusher. I pop in quarterly, he asks me if I’m still breastfeeding, I tell him yes, he makes a disapproving noise and runs another prescription for the Zoloft through his printer.

My therapist is taking an extended maternity leave to cope with her own PPD. If you want guilt, realize that you came to her with your woes of a baby-broken brain riiiiiiiight about the time her IVF was successful.

Whoops.

My depression, my pet, is at it again. It has me believing that there’s no point in getting up, that I’m a horrible, unloving mother, that lifting weights is too hard and that cookies and jewelry and ugly shoes will fill the gaping hole in my soul. My depression is the reason why I have six socks in various stages of completion and why I haven’t had a finished project in ages. My depression is why I haven’t opened up the weight box in a week.

I loathe my depression. It blows the proverbial goat. The only way I will fucking vanquish it with exercise, sunshine, real food, activities with friends and loved ones and my brain’s continued chemical marinade.

It’s another piece of this puzzle. Like trying to break the 200 pound deadlift, it’s just going to take time. There are no easy fixes, just hard work.

I can do that.

January 30 Workout

• Standing Military Press:
  • 30 lb x 10 reps (+74 pts)
  • 30 lb x 10 reps (+74 pts)
  • 30 lb x 10 reps (+74 pts)
• Barbell Floor Press:
  • 30 lb x 10 reps (+37 pts)
  • 30 lb x 10 reps (+37 pts)
  • 30 lb x 10 reps (+37 pts)
• Barbell Deadlift:
  • 90 lb x 5 reps (+63 pts)
  • 90 lb x 5 reps (+63 pts)
  • 90 lb x 5 reps (+63 pts)
  • 120 lb x 5 reps (+77 pts)
  • 120 lb x 5 reps (+77 pts)
  • 120 lb x 5 reps (+77 pts)

Balance

It’s almost impossible to silence that inner overachieving A-student, the one who desperately needs approval, a gold star, and recognition for being the Greatest, Most Special Snowflake in Homeroom. If I could figure out a way to duct tape her mouth shut and run her through some reprogramming, I would. Instead, she maintains residence in my brainmeats, and is just a bitch to live with.

Yesterday, I tried and failed to pick up 180 pounds. I got it up to one deadlift, but it was horrible, spine wrenching form. While 160 pounds came off the ground, it was still on the edge of too heavy.

The inner goodie-goodie totally lost her shit. From a tweet I sent a friend:

Like, “I’VE BEEN DOING THIS FOUR MONTHS, WHY HAVEN’T I BROKEN 200 POUNDS YET?”

Exactly, Inner Goodie Goodie. If I’m not breaking personal records with every workout, how will I ever be recognized as being good?

What a fucking head space to be in. It’s juvenile, unsustainable and dangerous. Building strength requires dedication and discipline, not temper tantrums. Tantrums are the short cut to injury and losing interest.

This is where a supportive community comes in handy. My group of iron maidens rallied. They reminded me that it ain’t a competition. They made me laugh. They told me they’d been there, too. I might workout in the isolation of my own home, but I cannot underscore how important it is to have a community of like-minded folks to stay the course of sanity.

Thanks, guys.

Hubris

I’ve been pretty candid that I am a heavyset woman. If I was honest on the “what body shape are you?” quiz, I’d select “Paleolithic Fertility Idol.” Floppy boobs, big ol’ belly, tree trunk thighs, and hips made to populate the world — that’s me, the Share-a-Size Sarah. And boy howdy, I’m awesome.

I should back up a little bit.

In the months that I’ve been getting into lifting, I’ve run into one really off-putting attitude. It goes, “I don’t want to look like you.” It’s usually said with a sneer by someone who would have to decamp to the couch and mainline straight HFCS for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a year to even scrape the edge of my size. It’s an attitude that walks hand-in-hand with “I don’t lift weights, because muscles are masculine.” When pressed, the person who doesn’t want to look like me explains that women who lift weights are either super fat and ugly because they’ve bulked up, or are scary orange and veiny, because they’re participating in body building competitions. Either way, lifting weight will result in a totally gross body.

It’s so cloyingly sweet the way ignorance cavorts with body shaming, isn’t it? Also, I love how some folks have no shame telling me to my face that looking like me would be the absolute lowest point of their lives.

Well, fuck you, I’m awesome.

Hey, I get it. I do. It’s an image-conscious, image-driven society. Every January, millions flock to health clubs and gyms with the goal of going from Before to After. Everyone knows that After is what it’s all about — because After gets tagged with “Happily Ever.” Who doesn’t want to be happy? So get with the program. Get on the elliptical. Eat fake food and do penance for not being pretty. Pay out the nose to have program after program fail because genetics plays a big damn roll in a gym perfect body. Suffer and never enjoy life and living until that goal weight has been achieved.

But here’s the thing: this is the happiest I’ve been in my life. I was telling the Captain the other day that it’s a pretty simple equation: Deadlifts + Adequate Sleep + Baby Snuggles = Joy. Who’s going to turn down joy?

There are so many benefits to the lifting besides the satisfaction of moving heavy weight up and down. I’m building a strong body so I can lug a toddler around town. I’m beating my family history of osteoporosis into submission. I’m impressing Target cashiers with my ability to tote the big box of cat litter with one hand. I’m giving DudeBros the side eye.

Yeah, I’m the Paleolithic Pin-up Girl living in the twenty-first century and loving it. Fuck the haters. I’m awesome.

January 13 Workout

• Clean and Press:
  • 60 lb x 10 reps (+122 pts)
• Barbell Deadlift:
  • 80 lb x 10 reps (+69 pts)
  • 135 lb x 10 reps (+101 pts)
  • 155 lb x 3 reps (+78 pts)
  • 155 lb x 10 reps (+115 pts)
• Clean:
  • 80 lb x 10 reps (+66 pts)
• Leg Press:
  • 120 lb x 10 reps (+27 pts)
• Cable Seated Lateral Raise:
  • 80 lb x 10 reps (+17 pts)
  • 80 lb x 10 reps (+17 pts)
• Plank:
  • 45 sec (+20 pts)
  • 35 sec (+15 pts)
  • 30 sec (+13 pts)
  • 30 sec (+13 pts)
  • 30 sec (+13 pts)
• Barbell Squat:
  • 60 lb x 10 reps (+61 pts)

January 9

Wednesday’s child is full of woe.

I am so tired today, I can’t brain in paragraphs. But it is a woe day. A day where dessert is a woe cake soaked in woe sauce and then served en flamb-woe.

WOE TO THE TODDLER, for she is catching up on the teething front and getting in all of her bottom teeth, including molars, at the same time. Girlfriend is drooly, miserable mess. She’s also trying to drop a nap.

WOE TO THE MOTHER OF THE TODDLER, who woke up to find said toddler standing over her, still asleep but screaming.

WOE TO THE GUY TRYING TO HUSTLE BUSINESS FOR HIS PERSONAL TRAINING SERVICE. While saying goodbye to friends after lunch, I was accosted by a bulky, tattooed guy trying to drum up business for his personal training services.

OK, points to the guy for doing a cold sales patter on a couple of moms. That required some backbone and strength of character.

And then, he handed me a card and launched into his spiel about post-holiday, post-baby bodies and how he offers lifestyle coaching to turn everyday people into athletes.

Oh, Guy. No. Points deducted. Using the neg — that  classic pick-up artist move — on me is not going to work.  See, I have a secret: no matter how low the blow, I’ve heard worse from myself.

Out of simple curiosity, I asked him what he’d do for someone like me. His answer was to drop a half-dozen t-bombs. “Well I think that we’d focus on toning, because you’re a woman, we’d work on melting your fat and toning your body. Because you’re a woman, you’re not going to want to bulk up, so we do focus on that. We tone. Lots of machines. No group classes. Just hard work. I promise, if you follow the plan, you’ll be sexy and toned.”

Oh, Guy. Another points deduction, what with the “will be sexy.” I was in my ugly shoes and had my best nursing tank on, and did I mention I can bench 105 pounds already? I’m dead sexy, yo. Everyone wants a piece of this SAHM.*

The toddler started angry crying, which is the toddler equivalent of an East German Judge Diss, and my friend was gracious enough to roll her eyes and send him on his way.

Poor guy.

Week 2 Goals:

• Continue cutting down on carbohydrates
• Get in four workouts
• Drink more water
• Separate sleeves on sweater
• Try to wean the toddler from nap cuddles

January 9 – Rest Day.

* And by everybody, I mean nobody.

January 8/Week 1 Wrap-up

Hey, it’s Tuesday. WEEK IN REVIEW! What did I set out to do last week?

• Lift four times
• Eat a lower carb diet
• Work on a sweater
• Continue to keep small child alive

How’d I do? I did OK. Fitocracy tells me that I logged six workouts for a total of 3,781 arbitrary internet points. I have a big, big love of arbitrary internet points, so YAY! Validation! I have the top bit of my sweater started. The toddler continues to toddle!

But the lower carb eating, how’d I do there? The food log doesn’t lie, y’all. I have a chocolate shake listed. A bun on my burger. TATER TOTS. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the holiday cookie binge, but it could have been much, much cleaner.

Time circle the drain of failure in an endless spiral of self-loathing? FUCK. NO. I don’t spiral. I will borrow from the scientific method/Mythbusters mindset that failure is always an option. Data is to be learned from and improved upon. Also, chocolate shakes are the most delicious when split with a toddler — with bonus delicious points had because the toddler is teething and sometimes the only way to get calories into her is via straw. I’ve been there, kid.

WEEK 1 GRADE: B+

January 8 Workout

• Barbell Deadlift:
  • 90 lb x 5 reps (+63 pts)
  • 90 lb x 5 reps (+63 pts)
  • 90 lb x 5 reps (+63 pts)
• Standing Military Press:
  • 30 lb x 10 reps (+74 pts)
  • 30 lb x 10 reps (+74 pts)
  • 30 lb x 10 reps (+74 pts)

January 6 and 7

If my friend Dave had a motto, it’d be “go big.” In two syllables, he bestows approval, support, enthusiasm, and motivation. He applies it liberally to his life and to his friends. Workouts, creative projects, cookies, or sweaters? “Go big.” It’s almost like Ronald D. Moore’s co-opted “good hunting,” but head and shoulders higher on the Super Awesome Scale.*

Sunday is our day to go big. That’s the day we pile into the car as a family and trek over to the Captain’s office to use his workout room. We take turns wrangling the toddler while the other adult goes big. Bench press? Go big. Squats? Go big. Deadlifts? Biggest!

Yesterday was our first day back into the Sunday routine since Thanksgiving. We were both amped. I hit 75 pounds on clean and press, and had a personal record bench press of 105 pounds. The Captain had a personal record benching 135 pounds. I turned around and deadlifted that much. It was a big, big day.

This morning I have a sore chest and spaghetti arms. I skimped on a workout, settling for 50 pound widowmakers and lunges while toddler finished her breakfast. Afterwards, I ordered the coolest, ugliest pair of Dansko mary janes ever. Burgundy patent leather comfort stompers. If a pair of Doc Martins had a drunken hookup with a pair of Crocs, these shoes would be the resultant offspring. They make my inner 1990s teenager swoon.

Like the man said, go big.

Sunday, January 6

• Running (treadmill):
  • 0:02:00 || 0.1 mi (+5 pts)
  • Warm up
• Clean and Press:
  • 75 lb x 5 reps (+114 pts)
  • 60 lb x 5 reps (+103 pts)
• Standing Military Press:
  • 50 lb x 5 reps (+72 pts)
  • 50 lb x 5 reps (+72 pts)
• Barbell Bench Press:
  • 65 lb x 10 reps (+63 pts)
  • 85 lb x 10 reps (+72 pts)
  • 105 lb x 1 reps (+38 pts)
  • 95 lb x 5 reps (+65 pts)
• Barbell Deadlift:
  • 95 lb x 10 reps (+77 pts)
  • 115 lb x 10 reps (+88 pts)
  • 115 lb x 10 reps (+88 pts)
  • 135 lb x 5 reps (+85 pts)

Monday, January 7

• Barbell Squat:
  • 50 lb x 20 reps (+63 pts)
  • 50 lb x 20 reps (+63 pts)
  • 50 lb x 20 reps (+63 pts)
• Barbell Lunges:
  • 50 lb x 20 reps (+111 pts)
  • 50 lb x 20 reps (+111 pts)
  • 50 lb x 20 reps (+111 pts)

*I am not a BSG fan. It was too damn bleak. Also, he is such a parody of himself that anytime a character in DS9 fell out of Starfleet speak and into Twentieth Century Navy speak, I knew it was one of his episodes without looking. Seriously, Sisko only uses the terms “XO” and the aforementioned “good hunting” when RDM was putting words in his mouth. What I’m saying is shut up, RDM.

January 3

I had this great idea right after Thanksgiving: spend January knitting a selfish sweater. Sweater for myself. Sweater, sweater, sweater. My enthusiasm was so infectious, I went into my online knitting/parenting group and was like, “OH MAI GAWD YOU GUYS! LET’S ALL MAKE SWEATERS FOR OURSELVEZ! WE ARE AWESOMES!”

My bitches were down. Let me tell you, by the end of December, your average knitter is suffering from major gift fatigue and all she wants is a goddamned project made for herself using some fucking nice yarn, yo.

However, once I got that ball rolling, I was hit with choice fatigue, anxiety and guilt. There are so many beautiful sweaters on Ravelry. I have three sweater quantities of yarn in my stash. I AM SO FAT OH MY GOD I DON’T DESERVE A NICE SWEATER.

I had fallen into what fake physicists term the sweater singularity, an infinite loop of pattern browsing and self-loathing. It was brutal.

The sweater was my only non-baby topic of discussion for the last week of 2012. My friends heard about it. My family heard about it. Bingo, the toddler’s stuffed bunny, heard about it. “Just knit something,” they said, though the Dude edited his advice to “just knit SOCKS.” (He’s not a fan of sweaters.)

Finally, after some rational thinking, adjusted expectations and some back-of-the-envelope math, I decided upon Irish Coffee a little after midnight on January 1. This sweater is a great pullover from Baby Cocktails. Short-sleeves, worked in the round on big needles in a worsted weight yarn. I can do this. Hell, I’ve got some lucious MadTosh Vintage in Forestry just begging to be used.

During the whirlwind of organizing this sweater-off, my game plan was to FINISH IT IN JANUARY! Yeah, I’m three days into this thing and I had to frog and restart last night. Blah, blah, blah, process knitting blather. It’s not going to happen. Let’s look at the data:

• Toddler
• Attached toddler
• Attached, grabby toddler
• Inability to cable quickly

SO NEW TIME FRAME! I’m going for an early March finish, so I can make this Irish Coffee my St. Patrick’s Day sweater. I’m only a leeeetle bit Irish on my dad’s side and I’ve never had a green beer, but I am big on the arbitrary goals, so St. Patrick’s Day it is.

Fucking sweater anxiety.

January 3 Workout — Toddler Lifts

• Lunges – 1 24-pound toddler strapped to my back – 3 sets of 20 reps
• Squats – 1 24-pound toddler strapped to my back – 3 sets of 20 reps

January 2

I don’t have a gym membership. I know! Internet law dictates that as a suburban stay at home mom, I must spend my mornings schlepping over to the fitness club and dropping the girl off at the on-site daycare before parking my lululemon-clad ass on the elliptical and texting all of my girlfriends. Going to the gym is on the SAHM agenda between “swill latte” and “scour Pintrest for daily dose of twee.” Everybody knows that. Not having a gym membership violates the natural order.

Here’s what I do have: a box of free weights, a barbell and a toddler with severe babysitter allergies. I take my workout when I can get it, slotting it in between breakfast and the first nap of the day.

The toddler is an excellent workout buddy. She loves digging in the weight box for barbell caps and lighter weights. She takes her job of being in charge of my water bottle very seriously. She will pat my head when I do floor presses and clap during dumbbell rows, but her enthusiasm turns into a hindrance when it comes time to go big. Ever try to do a 60 pound clean and press with a 23 pound toddler clinging to one end of the bar?

Yeah.

Until this morning, my options for the big lifts were limited to exiling her upstairs with Daddy or turning on the TV and hoping she’d be distracted by it long enough for me to sneak in a lift. Neither option was the fantastic panacea you’d think, and both usually ended in tears. But today I did a little toddler math: high chair + crayons + snacks = twenty minutes of contentment. It was long enough for me to hoist some goddamned weight over my head. I’m calling it a win.

January 2 Workout

• Clean and Press – 60 pounds – 3 sets of 5 reps
• Deadlifts – 90 pounds – 3 sets of 10 reps
• Standing Military Press – 30 pounds – 3 sets of 10 reps
• Floor Press – 30 pounds – 3 sets of 10 reps

Holiday Hangover

I woke up on Boxing Day sore and sad and full of the sanctimonious virtue that usually shows up a week later. “Things are going to change!” I told the baby. “There was too much holiday cheer. I can’t live like this any more. I feel so gross.”

It turns out the gross feeling was actually a bitching case of mastitis, and those sad and sore feelings were ironed out with antibiotics. Yay, modern science!

However, when I was mindlessly pontificating to the baby, I had a point. A little change is what I need.

There’s the irony of starting a lifting and knitting blog on January 1. The expectation is such a chronicle will be, at first, chalk full of Big Plans and Sweeping Generalizations, which will peter out over the next 10 days, before going dark sometime before February, which is where the blogosphere will pour a 40 to the newest victim of another season of failed resolutions.

Sweeping resolutions aren’t my thing. I could say, “In 2013, I’m going to drop 70 pounds, deadlift my body weight and knit the most flattering sweater ever!” And yeah, those are fine long term goals. I could even argue that they’re feasible, if I was really dedicated and disciplined.

And if I was really dedicated and disciplined, I could conjure a pony with the power of my brain.

Instead of making some grand plans for 2013, I’m going to make some grand plans for the next week. They are:

• Lift four times
• Eat a lower carb diet
• Work on a sweater
• Continue to keep small child alive

These are all doable goals.

Happy 2013, everyone.