That was for me, not you.
Let’s get serious for a second. I belong to Planet Fitness, but I don’t go as often as I should. I like to walk during talk shows, and I am scandalized that The Oprah Winfrey Show is not on from 4-5:00 PM. It hasn’t been for years, but I’m still not over it. Really should look into that; probably just another thing for my therapist to help me process. Because “Oprah” wasn’t the hour I spent walking that mattered. It was a connection to my mother. The first gay person I ever saw was on her show, but I don’t remember their name. I do remember the first trans person I saw on her show, Jennifer Finney Boylan…. a great author in which I have a small rapport on Facebook. She gave me the ultimate advice, but I’m not sure whether it’s for writing or in general- moisturize.
Walking next to my mother was taking her toward liberation. Toward seeing her queer kid for who they were. She never quite made it, but she never stopped trying. She does get credit for that. I don’t mourn her past. I mourn the future we did not get…. and it was exercise that brought us closer together. Intimacy in motion, and I carry that with me. Talking is easier arm-in-arm on the sidewalk, creeping towards compromise. But sometimes, I just want to be alone in a sensory deprivation tank.
If I lived close to a beach or a river, that would be my primary form of exercise. There’s nothing like moving through natural water — the way it wraps around you, cool and steady, like the world finally matching your internal rhythm. When I swim outside, I’m not counting laps or tracking calories. I’m drifting, gliding, exploring. I like to dive under and open my eyes just enough to see the light ripple across the sand. I like to look for seashells with smooth edges, the kind that feel like they’ve been waiting for someone to pick them up. Sometimes I’ll spot a fish darting past, quick and bright, and it feels like being let in on a small secret. Swimming in natural water doesn’t feel like exercise. It feels like belonging — like my body remembers something ancient and peaceful. A pool is good, and I’m grateful for it, but a river or a shoreline is where I feel most like myself.
I remember stunning swims, most notably in Mexico, because that’s the first time I ever got a taste of snorkeling equipment and it has become a drug. I need it like I need the water hugging my body, because I love visibility underwater more than anything, the snorkel the only visible reminder that I’m still here. There’s a quiet to the water, an eerie lack of sound in some places and overwhelming, distorted din in others. I want to see it all, and the countries that have the best dives are generally the cheapest to live for a week or so.
I don’t really want to talk about exercise so much as I want to talk about going back to Cozumel with my family, whether it’s Tiina and her crew or my dad and his. The reason for this is simple. I have enough energy to lay on the beach and swim like it’s going out of style. I do not have enough energy to traipse all over creation. My mobility issues become dramatically worse the longer I exert myself. I don’t have trouble walking, per se. I have trouble remaining upright because I have hypotonia. It’s not the forward motion that’s the problem. It’s the balance. The only thing that slightly fixes it is rest, not “muscling through.” I wouldn’t see 10 sites in a day because I wouldn’t make it through 10 errands, either, even if two of the options were Game Stop and the liquor store. I don’t drink much and I don’t game past Skyrim, but what I mean is that I don’t get suddenly more active because the errands are things I want to do.
That’s the difference between allistic and autistic exercise. We can do it, but it comes in bursts. For me in particular, it is important because my balance depends on the strength of my core. I would probably be better served by having a steady physical therapist rather than a trainer. I should see about that. My PCP could certainly give me a prescription, or refer me to a neurologist for one.
My health is in my hands now, and I have two paths in front of me. I am trying to merge them both. I need to work on my disability case and I need to get my diagnoses in order to do that. I have a ton, but my bipolar disorder has the most current documentation in Maryland. I didn’t have health insurance in Oregon, so I never really had medical records there. I avoided going to the doctor because my stepmom could prescribe for me and all I needed were my maintenance meds. It came at a cost, because by the time I got back to Houston I was really sick and about due for a complete meltdown. I went from being a cook to managing an entire household by myself (financially) and I couldn’t hang. I was shamed and not because anyone helped me along. I did it to myself.
I self-destructed and put myself together, and I was alone in doing so. All of that loneliness seasoned me, in the tradition of Rumi. I am now happier alone than with anyone else, because I finally like me. I am actually pretty good company…. but I don’t have to like me every day. Just birthdays, holidays, and alternate Thursdays. I can like me on other days, but these are contractually obligated. Hey, you do what you can. I am on my way to being completely internally validated, because I have learned that external validation is fleeting and unsatisfying, because you need more of it once it runs out. Self-sufficiency is a well of mythology- what do I do in certain situations?
I have had lots of certain situations that could only be solved by walking.
Far, far away.
Stories That Are All True 