Break Free & Be Broken (2 page)

My brain fights with itself; I try not to listen. I wait patiently for the ding of my watch: the hero who rides in to tell me it's time for distraction.

The ding never comes soon enough.

I'm simultaneously anxious and tired when the ding finally sounds. The argument inside me was especially fierce today, so I guess it’s no surprise I’m not feeling great. I wonder how much this has to do with tomorrow...

Bah, best not to think of that just yet. It's time for one of my favorite parts of the day-work out number one-and I don't want it to be tarnished.

Bad emotion melts away with motion. By the time I move from my bed to the living room, aka: workout room, I'd almost say I'm feeling good. And why not?! It's leg day, after all, one of my favorite days of the week! Why do I love working my legs? Who knows. I could say it's because without strong stems, there is no strength, but I don't buy into specific reasons. I consider it just another aspect of my programming.

Lift the weight, put it down. Don’t forget to breathe. You do these things, you will build muscle. That's how I've done it, anyway, and today will be no different. Six exercises, five sets of each. Let’s go.

I warm up a bit, using only the weight of my body for the first squats, lunges, and bends, but enough of this. It's time to get real. I load up my barbell and start with squats. Big weight, down and then up, as many times as I can. I do it again and again, resting only as long as I have to. This is the formula I am currently following; for each different exercise it's the same.

When I reach the very last set of my last exercise-deadlifts- the ghost of my failed run begins to haunt me. I look down at my workout log. Normally, I only try to add one rep per set-so since I did three reps on the final set last time, the task for today would be to do four. But that isn't going to cut it. I have to make up for this morning’s failure. I will do two more reps. I will do five.

Mind over matter. I know that I can.

I reach down and put my hands on the bar. I lean back slightly, just to get a feel for the weight. Oh boy. It feels like it's rooted firmly in the earth. I draw a deep breath, lower myself into position, and pull.

The weight comes right up. It's mildly difficult, but with a heavy weight, such is to be expected. I drop straight into the next rep. As soon as the weight hits the ground, I pull it up a second time. This rep comes a little slower-certainly not
easy
to raise-but I get it up just fine.

I can't help but remember the struggle it was to get the third rep up last week: not a good thought to have right before a lift. I squash it as the plates hit the floor and pull again. It comes up with about the same resistance as the second-not nearly the battle I thought.

A good sign.

It isn't until I reach the top of the fourth rep that I realize how little I have left. This rep was slow and drawn out, and it was only with the greatest of difficulty that I was able to make it rise. I did get it up, but it's crystal clear there is going to be trouble.

I can barely support the weight on the way down. It basically free falls-my muscles having little energy left to resist with. The plates bang against the ground and go still. I let them rest long enough to take two quick, deep breaths, then pull for what I’m hoping will be the final time. The weight lifts only a couple inches. I let it back down and breathe again. I have to do this. I fucking have to do this.

I harness all my faculties, focus them on the weight and what’s required to lift it, and try again. The plates leave the floor. The journey up is slow-oh so very slow-but the weight is moving none the less. I strain, I strain, and I strain. The weight continues to rise.

Nearly half way up, the air in my lungs catches and my speed is cut in half. All my muscles-even the ones not necessarily required for the lift-become activated. Massive pressure builds behind my eyes. Veins ripple and bulge from my forehead to my feet. Incredibly, the rate of movement slows even more. At this point, I'm not even sure if I'm moving...

Damnit. I'm not.

The weight is pulling against me, coming dangerously close to moving back down. I can't let that happen! If it goes down, it isn't coming back up. Can't lose ground. Can't lose ground! I strain harder, just waiting for my hamstrings to tear and blood to shoot out of every hole in my face. My vision starts to tunnel. The weight stays stuck, suspended in time and space. It isn’t going up. The tunnel begins to close.

It isn't going up.

A long, pained grunt emerges from my very center. What goes up must come down, the old adage goes, and Captain!- I'm going down.

The weight, having decided enough is enough, yanks itself toward the floor. Dulled as I am by effort, the sudden drop catches me off guard and I fail to let go of the barbell. It takes me with it, rolling me head over heels. I'm only vaguely aware of my dome smashing into carpet.

I wait patiently for my vision to return to me, concentrating on the pain in my legs, back, and face to keep from fully passing out. God damnit, Chales. God fucking damnit. Why has success always been so hard for you to secure? Always trying: never hard enough. You could have lifted that. Your body has the strength. It is your mind that is weak.

When I no longer feel I’m going out, I flip over onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Nausea is next to my ear-an annoying little voice begging me to empty my stomach. 'Nay,' I say. 'I shall not spew.' Instead, I get to my feet, stopping momentarily on hands and knees to settle my stomach.

What a day.

My next functions are so automatic I hardly have to lift myself above my daze to accomplish them. Kitchen. Protein shake. Yum yum. Room. New clothes. What fun. I'd shower but I still have another workout today. No point in getting clean just to get dirty. Besides, showers are overrated. A good toweling cleans me just fine; certainly fine enough to watch TV and play video games, which is all I have planned until lunch.

I veg out on the sofa, first watching TV, then playing games; doing everything I can to live in a world that isn't this one. When it comes to entertainment-particular games-the more violence I am fed, the better. There's a sense of power that comes from thrashing a head, even if that head is just lights on a screen. Games also provide a sense of accomplishment and control that just can't be matched in real life. If I want my game character to run, he runs, and he runs for as long as I tell him. Sure, some games are more 'realistic', where the characters can tire and wear out, but you can always make them stronger, and more importantly, you can always make them do the things that make them stronger.

Control is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I get a little over two hours of this before my watch beeps, informing me it is time to eat. I shut down the game and get to my feet, frowning at the fridge in the other room. Lunch, you plain bastard. I know you’re in there, tasteless and cold. I will conquer you
.

You shall be eaten.

2nd meal: 8oz chicken breast. 1 cup brown rice. ½ cup broccoli. ½ cup red pepper. 1 apple. DELICIOUS!

A cloud grows over me as I grub, casting shadows and rain on my otherwise chipper demeanor. God... I’m getting sick of this. When is someone going to invent some new food? I’ve had this too many times. Each bite I take is harder to swallow than the last. I know I gotta eat it all. I know I need the nutrients.

I look down at my plate. There are still a few bites left.

Fuck it.

I'm done.

I don't retreat to my room to wait out the hour before Lift Sesh Number 2. It is light out now. It feels wrong lying in bed when it's light. Instead, I move to the couch. Just as my back sinks into the cushion, I remember that I wanted to finish the video game level I was playing before lunch. Far across the room, forsaken and alone, sits my game controller. I consider my options and decide to just lay: to lay and to wait. My body hurts and I'm tired; best not to move for now.

My timer beeps before I'm ready, bringing my hour of rest to an early halt. My body puts up a mighty resistance before allowing me to stand. I’m not ready to get up, and yet, I must.

This workout, being technically my third of the day, is set up to be relatively mild: just traps, forearms, and abs. I'm feeling oddly compassionate, so I don't slay these muscles nearly as hard as I slayed my legs. (It's a lie. I don't slay them as hard because I've yet to recover from before, but please! Let me play the hero.) Shrug, shrug, shrug the arms; curl, curl, curl the wrists; and crunch, crunch, crunch the abs-you know the fucking drill. Just make sure to make it burn.

Workout complete, it’s back to the kitchen for another dose of concentrated protein. I stir it up proper and it goes down smooth, every time. I be sure to use both my right and left hand when stirring. Balance is important.

My second lifting session of the day is unfortunately my last, meaning the rest of my day is spent somewhat in limbo until it's time for me to go to work. I check my watch: 13:27. Two hours till dinner time. Exercise is my rock, so when I've completed it for the day, it’s hard for me to see purpose. Therefore, I do very little with myself. I watch TV, dick around on the internet, and play video games. I can justify doing these things for hours on end because even though in these times, I am, in fact, a couch potato, over all I am not.

I'm bored by the end of the two hours-bored and oh so very restless-but my heart still greets the beep that informs me I have to get dinner ready with scorn. I hate this part of the day: the countdown till work.

Suddenly, I become interested in the plot I've seen a million times on TV, and even though I already know how it plays out, I wish to see it again. It's a trick of the mind-I only think I'm interested because I'm so uninterested in work-but even so, I consider holding off a bit. I can finish the episode and still be to work on time.

My hand falls onto the remote, my finger finds the power button, and the images on the screen are replaced by black. Procrastination is not my way.

Dinner is my favorite meal: the one where I let myself experience some grease and flavor. I give myself a full hour to cook and eat-ample time to prepare anything I might want. I have it set this way so I get one last glimmer of happiness before going to my damn job. I need it to sustain me.

Today I'm having burgers, with mayo, ketchup, avocado and cheese! Ah, if only I had bacon. I need to remember to buy bacon; write it on the list! I turn on some music so I can dance while I cook. I consider myself a fine dancer-exceptional, really. As I waltz around the kitchen, I can't help but think a young lady might enjoy my antics. It would be fun to have someone here...

I chop my imaginings in the throat. What am I doing? I gave up such thoughts, remember? I've seen enough of the world to know there is no one out there for me. Thoughts like this are a worthless distraction. The world is a stupid place full of stupid people with weak bodies and even weaker minds. I need to remember that.

I shut off the music and finish cooking in silence. I create two double cheeseburgers with all the glitz and glam my fridge could afford. I take a moment to stare at them when they're complete, giving my stomach a chance to prepare itself for the feast to come. They look good enough to photograph. I bet a girl would enjoy my cooking as well... HA!

Time to eat.

The burgers are fine: as delicious as I'd hoped. I eat them quickly so I can get it all down before my stomach realizes how much I'm putting in. I’ve got lunch to atone for, so I make damn sure to eat it all.

Once done, I clean up, strip bare, and head for the shower. Water on, I jump inside, rinse myself thoroughly, then jump back out before the water ever gets to warm. Water, and nothing more, is all I require to make myself clean. I'm no stranger to 'shampoo' or 'soap,' but I consider them novelties, more for presentation then actual use. This way of being conforms with my desire for efficiency. And besides, I haven't had anyone in my life worth impressing in years. Soap died with my faith in humanity-the female portion of which to be exact. I don't need to smell like a flower; I need only to not smell like shit. Cold water is plenty for that.

On my way out of the bathroom, I pass by the mirror with hardly a glance at myself, though my frame is too muscular not to notice at all. When I was younger and this body was new, I used to stare at my achievements for hours, filling myself with pride and joy over a job well done. But even muscles get old when you've had them long enough. Every once in a great while, I notice some new boy that has come to surface-some hidden gem that only appears after years of repetitive action-and in those moments, I am again filled with awe of the thing I made, but the joy is never lasting, and those moments have become exceedingly rare.

For the most part, I always look the same. You reach a certain muscularity where everything is visible and defined, and from there the only thing left to do is get bigger. Well, I reached what I consider my optimum weight a long time ago. Balance, like I've said, is important. I hit an impasse of sorts. If I let myself get any bigger, my running begins to suffer. Oh sure, I've tried being bigger. It isn't easy running with excess bulk. My thighs would slap against each other, and by the end of a long run, my knees would ache. I care about the longevity of my body as much as anything else. I want it to last as long as it can. I would never sacrifice my joints for size-I'm not a fucking fool. I reached a place where I'm a big, solid man, and then I stopped. I don't need to be a giant. I just need to be bigger than most.