I finally told my counselor that I lift weights.
I don’t know why it took me so long. Or, in reality, I do. I’ve been slightly ashamed of this part of me for a reason I can’t iterate. Is it the fact that I feel like a poseur for saying I’m a weightlifter? I know I’m out of the “casual zone” in regard to lifting. I’ve already invested so much time and money into making my body what it needs to be.
I think some of it is that I think he would think it strange or weird (“this girl goes from having an eating disorder to lifting weights–madness!”) but now that I write it out, that looks silly. I mean, what is a better success story than someone gaining thirty pounds and learning how to properly utilize their body?
It felt refreshing telling him that. I feel much more comfortable after telling him. Especially since I can safely say weight lifting has saved my life.
After my appointment, I decided to give blood in our local drive. I had great iron (46 ct) and I filled up my bag in less than five minutes. Honestly, the needle didn’t even hurt going in.
I’m having to adjust to a lot of body changes after lifting weights. For instance, I’ve grown an inch and a half. I began to notice whenever I had to adjust the car driver’s seat from the notch that I’ve had it on since I got the vehicle to one back. I can also reach the pull chain on the ceiling fan in my house with relative ease.
Also certain, ahem, womanly aspects have grown as well.
I think I may be going under a second puberty. I feel healthy, better than I have in ages. Things are turning around and I’m finally liking what I see and feel.