Gym Rat

 

Sara is an ocean, eagle, tree, mountain, dog. Her hands swoop like swallows above her head. Inhale. Exhale. A tide of air breaks upon the beach of her lungs with a sound like water washing pebbles. Sweat beads on her forehead and drips like rain off the tip of her nose. She becomes a chair, pigeon, cobra, cat.

            “Mula bandha, good breathing everybody. Inhale, lift and lengthen your spine, exhale and gently fold forward.” Jack’s voice beats out the tempo of the class like a heartbeat. Sara is a warrior, lotus, triangle, ragdoll.

 

Sara has been home from work for most of a month. The bleakness of a bio-processing plant is more deadening than she can bear. Most of her day is spent staring out the window at the convention center, counting the DHL delivery trucks that travel down West First Street, Snug and Sprite curled on either side of her.

Becca continues on with her daily activities worrying silently, while pretending not to notice Sara burrowing into herself like a mole through fresh earth. She regularly places plates full of hot food in Sara’s hands, which Sara sometimes eats and sometimes does not. She carries on one-sided conversations, knowing she will have to repeat herself because Sara is too far buried to hear.

 

Sara is a plow, needle, dancer, child. “Thank you for this body,” she thinks, prostrated on the floor, “That it can feel so fully.” Standing once more the lifts her hands, eyes, and heart to the heavens.

“Remember,” says Jack, “back bends are front openings. Stretch your chest, really fill your lungs with air.” Sara is a plank, crow, gate, fish.

 

 

Having left her yoga class a half hour early, Sara is dreading Friday. Jack had already yelled at her during yesterday’s class. Though being “yelled at” by a yoga teacher basically means that he gives you a very disappointed look and gently tries direct you into displaying compassion for yourself, all the while attempting to make it sound as though he is as much at fault as you are. Sara would prefer to be hit upside the head and told to knock it the hell off. Jack’s disappointment makes her feel as though she had just kicked a puppy.

 Becca finds her slumped on the couch when she returns from a trip to the dog park with Sprite. 

“Oh,” says Becca, startled, “You’re home early. Was class cancelled?”

“No.” Sara replies, fingers tapping her thigh and foot twitching against the couch. “I couldn’t control my breath, I couldn’t control my limbs. I was just getting so frustrated and anxious I gave up.” The thoughts in Sara’s head sound like a tape set on fast forward.

At night, Sara dreams Eileen Wuornos: rape, death, blood, screams. She dreams so true that her flailing arms and gasping breath drive Becca and Sprite onto the living room couch. The inside of Sara’s mouth is raw from biting down and she has unexplained wounds on her hands and arms. Sometimes she thinks the insomnia, when it comes, is a blessing.    

 

Sara is a table, cobbler, boat, bridge.    She feels the ache of holding and the relief of release like falling into the arms of old friends as her body bends and twists like a tree in ceaseless ocean wind. Poses that once hurt have become restorative, those that were too difficult have become as second nature as breathing.   Sara follows Jake’s direction, pliant as a child or a new branch. She obeys without question, strives with a will that is unshakable. 

Sometimes, Sara wonders that Becca is not jealous of Jake. Becca and Jake have come to hold similar positions of trust in Sara’s life. These are the two people she allows to push her, challenge her. These two only, Sara trusts with her body while also holding keys to her heart and mind. Jake knows Sara better than her Shrink does. 

“Lift your toes, Sara. Bend your elbows straight back. Keep your legs strong.” Jake command. Sara obeys. There is no question, only the ebb and flow of voice and motion. Sara is a butterfly, angle, bow, hydrant.

 

Becca and Sara peddle home from the park, Sprite the dog riding in Becca’s saddlebag, her ears flapping in the breeze. With the late April sun, Sara’s depression has lifted. She allows her bicycle to glide on its own steam down a long winding hill enjoying the sensation that is the closest she can get to sailing on dry land. Becca watches Sara’s light hearted, slightly wavering progress down the hill and catches up with her at the red light. 

“You know,” Sara says, “Its amazing how much my life has changed since December.”

“For the better right?”

“Yeah, though March was bad.”

“Not as bad as it has been. I’m glad you are back though. I missed you.”

“I missed me too.”

 

Sara is a staff, hero, dying warrior, corpse.      

Reviews

[Chiquita]

I understand the hold of depression. The gym is my sanctuary. I do not do Yoga. I would like to try it some time.

I have thought of doing a piece about the gym and titling it Gym Rat.

Nice piece.