Episode 17: New Gym, Old Business
Dumbbell Lateral Raises and the Mortifying Nature of Material Existence
Content Note: Mention of the existence of sexual assault and rape culture.
I’m facing the back wall of the new gym, and I’m seething through my first set of straight-arm lat pulldowns. I only know I’m seething because I just heard my own voice say, “I DON’T WANT TO BE TOUCHED BY ANYONE TODAY.” Oh dear. What happened? The words shot out of my mouth a heartbeat after the gym-owner reached towards the right side of my back. He was trying to explain something about technique, but he heard my words, retracted his hand, and took a small step away from me. Now at a safer distance, he keeps cueing the movement verbally. I am not listening. Inside my head he registers as nondescript sounds – like the adults in a Peanuts cartoon. I’m too busy realizing that I’m fully triggered. My nervous system is rocked. I know this feeling. This is what happens. I am annoyed. I want men to shut up and get away from me. I want to be left alone. I want to lift weights in peace. I want to do an intense physical thing. I want men to shut up and get away from me. I want to feel strong and capable and exhausted. I want to use this workout as a way to be in the meat and electricity of my body. I am angry. Furious. I want to scream, “SHUT UP AND GET AWAY FROM ME!”
I don’t experience this information as discrete feelings, coherent thoughts, or instructions for action. The information clumps together into one big intolerable sensation. It’s chased by a second sensation. A wave of embarrassment? Shame? I finish my set of straight-arm lat pulldowns. I watch Lisa do her set. I watch my friend, Kate, do her set. I start to notice that my emotional weather doesn’t match anyone else’s. Everyone else is having a chill time. Some part of me can tell that the gym-owner is a nice guy who is doing his job. He’s facilitating the lifting class that I signed up to take. Acknowledging this reality does nothing to make me feel better. I’m still full of rage. I still don’t want to be perceived or addressed. I also don’t want to stop lifting.
So I keep cycling through my reps and sets. I avoid eye contact with the trainers. I make stilted small talk with Lisa and Kate in between sets. I suspect that I’m making people uncomfortable. It’s too loud inside my brain and body to figure out what to do about any of it. But I’m almost done. I just have to get through three sets of dumbbell lateral raises. One of the other coaches watches me, Kate, and Lisa as we start the first set. He wants us to slow down. I can tell he’s talking to me, but I’m lost inside my body. I am feeling my feet push into the soles of my chucks. I am feeling my knees bend so I can resist the pull of anterior pelvic tilt. I am feeling my core brace a bit to stabilize my torso and make sure the movement is initiated by my delts. With each rep, I feel my feet, knees, pelvis, core, shoulders. Feet-knees-pelvis-core-shoulders. Feet-knees-pelvis-core-shoulders. It feels good. I feel steady.
And then I realize that the coach is telling me to sit down. He wants us to do the lateral raises seated on a bench. I think he has already suggested sitting down a couple of times. He says it again, “Let’s do this one sitting down.” I snap, “I DON’T WANT TO SIT DOWN.” Oh, god. Not again. I did it again. He says okay and mumbles something to the group about how he likes to sit because it helps prevent swaying. I want to say back to him, “I know that! But I’m having trouble feeling connected to my core right now!! And I have an easier time connecting to my core when I’m standing up and pressing my feet into the ground!!! I’m taking care of my body!!!! I know what I’m doing!!!!! Don’t you DARE tell me to stop taking care of my body!!!!!!” If I was in my right mind, I might say something like, “For today, I feel like standing because it’s helping me engage my core and protect my back.” But I can’t put those words together, and I’m worried that if I open my mouth again I’ll start crying. So I press my feet into the floor, keep my knees slightly bent, brace my core, and try not to look at Lisa and Kate, who seem to be grimacing.
The meltdown starts in the car outside the gym and it doesn’t end until I fall asleep. It’s bad. I don’t remember the last time it was this bad. I can’t stop crying. And the big feelings won’t dissipate. I cry it out and then refill with fear-rage-shame. I try all of the things that usually help. I talk to Lisa. We piece together the chain of events that probably brought this on. (Yesterday at work I helped a colleague prepare to talk about the sexual assault content in a documentary she’s about to release. Then I had a nightmare in which I was sexually assaulted. I’ve been triggered all day and didn’t realize it until I got to the gym.) I also text a friend who has P.T.S.D. and understands this stuff. I take a long hot shower. I spray the eucalyptus mist into the steamy water so the whole room smells nice. I eat the hot dinner Lisa makes for me. I watch a gentle TV show to distract my brain. I count the things I can see, hear, smell, feel, taste. I’m doing the connection things and sensory things and Jesus Fucking Christ nothing helps.
Thoughts loop in my brain. I embarrassed myself. I was rude to the trainers. They’re going to think I’m an asshole who can’t take instruction because I used to be a coach. Kate thinks I’m a jerk or weirdo. I embarrassed Lisa. She doesn’t want a partner who can’t keep it together during a simple exercise class. I finally found a gym I like, but now it’s not safe. I’m going to have to stop going there. I’m never going to find a place where I can do the things I like to do.
Somehow, I sleep.
A helpful memory greets me upon waking.
It was early on in the pandemic, in the middle of a long stretch of working from home. I was part of a team of producers making a documentary about a serial rapist. We were a few weeks into the edit, still finding our footing. Near the end of a work day, an editor shared a short segment of his episode for us to review in advance of a meeting scheduled for the following morning. In the segment, one of the rapist’s survivors relayed her experience of being assaulted. I planned to review the segment, prepare notes, and share the notes in the morning meeting. As I watched the clip, I felt anger and panic fill my body. I hated the way this segment was cut. It felt sensationalistic and gross. It triggered the hell out of me. I closed my laptop and took a walk. I cooked dinner. And then I accepted the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to calm down enough to give professional, constructive notes in the morning.
I messaged the director, telling him that I watched the cut, found it really triggering, and probably shouldn’t participate in the morning meeting. I was embarrassed that my feelings rendered me unable to do my job, but he was kind and understanding. Not only was it okay for me to miss the meeting, it was good to know that this particular cut was triggering to a survivor. That’s useful information. He hoped I’d do whatever I needed to take care of myself.
I call this memory helpful because it shows me that I’m having a problem with acceptance. I feel too ashamed to accept that the effects of being sexually assaulted still show up in my life from time to time, and the gym is one of the places where that might happen. I am accustomed to bracing for fatphobic stuff at the gym. I know that I might see a stupid scale in the locker room. I might see a flier advertising a weight-loss challenge. A trainer might make a throwaway comment about burning calories or earning food. I have practiced introducing myself to new trainers and sharing my brief, rehearsed statement about how I’m recovering from anorexia and I’m not here to manipulate the size and shape of my body. I have decided that I’m at a place in my recovery that I can handle being in a gym, staying in my body, and tuning out the shitty weight loss stuff (or occasionally offering a different perspective if it feels worth it). Clearly, I’m not in the same place when it comes to sexual assault.
When I was working on that documentary, I was able to share how I felt and ask for what I needed because our team openly and regularly acknowledged that this stuff was going to happen. We said, out loud, that we’re working on a documentary that includes A LOT of sexual violence. Many of us are survivors of sexual violence. It’s going to push our buttons sometimes. When it happens, it’s okay to let people know and to make adjustments to our regular work schedule. We’ll take care of each other and keep it moving. That process worked for us. What happens if I openly acknowledge and accept that I’ve experienced sexual violence (a terribly common experience for people) and sometimes I’ll get triggered at the gym? What becomes possible?
As I practice accepting this reality, possible actions appear in front of me. There are things I can do to take care of myself on the occasion that I get triggered at the gym. I can adjust exercises, walk away and do my own thing, or skip an exercise. I can let the coaches know that when this happens, I’m not ignoring them or being rude. I’m taking care of myself. I can give these guys a chance to understand what’s going on for me while also reinforcing the fact that I do want to be there and participate with the group. I can ask that no one touch me while I’m working out.
I can communicate these things to the gym owner. I could talk to him before our next class, but I might cry or we might not have enough time to talk it all the way through. Maybe I could say it in writing. Yeah, that’s better.
I talk through my plan with Lisa. I text my friend Kate, the one who witnessed my weird workout. I tell her about what was going on and what I’m planning to do. She shares some helpful stories of her own. I feel bolstered by my sense of agency, by my commitment to being in community with people instead of hiding. Now that I feel less reactive, I also remember that I have power and want to communicate carefully. As a white woman who is new to a space run by men of color, I have to work against the fact that I’m trained to be a Karen. I want to remember that all of us white women are taught to cast men of color as potential sexual predators. We’re taught to use a perceived threat of sexual violence as a way to wield power. Plus, I know that when I’m triggered, I am tempted to make other people wrong, to blame them for all of my bad feelings. I REALLY don’t want to do that here.
So before I start writing this message, I clear some things up with myself. The coaches didn't do anything wrong. They aren't the men who assaulted me. They didn't even do anything insensitive or douchey during class. They're not responsible for my feelings. I'm responsible for taking care of my feelings and needs in this situation. Let’s also get clear on the requests. The primary request is understanding. I might occasionally make adjustments to the workout to keep myself safe, not because I don't respect their expertise. I'm hoping they feel more comfortable coaching me if they know that. I’m hoping it keeps things from feeling awkward for the whole class. I'm also asking for them to refrain from touching me during lifting sessions. I can acknowledge how much they seem to care about their community. I can acknowledge how much I want to be a member of that community.
With all of this in mind, I write the message. I send it to the gym-owner. He responds immediately with so much grace and kindness that it knocks the wind out of me. He even thanks me for giving him “the opportunity to serve.” I memorize this line. What a generous thing to say to someone. Within minutes, I feel like myself again. I feel like an adult. I feel like I am living in the present moment. I feel like I can tolerate the fact that I am not chill, that the world is not always safe, that my safety is not the most important thing. I feel excited to return to the gym.
Back in the summer, when I was contemplating purchasing a new golf bag, I found myself detailing an abridged chronological account of my various athletic pursuits as a way of sorting out my feelings about commitment and sports. (See Episode 4: Commitment, Part I and Episode 5: Commitment, Part II if you missed them.) By the end of that account, I felt, “embarrassed by the ways sports have been tied up in my struggles to stay on this side of crazy.” In the embarrassment or in spite of it, there was a thread of hope or a devotion to something bigger:
In the midst of the heaviness, I still feel a pull to play. I want to keep using sports to practice being present with other people without leaving my body. I can accept that that kind of presence has been a challenge in the past, while also holding out hope that I can do better this time. I don’t want to quit on that.
I’m grateful I felt that same pull to play this week. It kept me from quitting and gave me yet another opportunity to practice the things that matter most to me.