turf burn.

It's no secret that I am a firm believer in finding the right drugs to treat mental illness.

The flu isn't treated with a dose of Suck It Up, Buttercup, and pneumonia doesn't go away just because someone tells you to Snap Out Of It. Treating mental illness is. the. same. way. Depression and bipolar disorder are real illnesses that require real medicine to treat.

(Disclaimer: I think I've said this before, but I don't discuss my specific drugs or doses. What works for me very likely won't work for someone else, and more than that I am not an expert or qualified in any way to do anything even remotely related to being involved in those conversations as they pertain to anyone else.)

I've been on one of my meds since before I was in the hospital without needing to change anything other than the dosage. (I have no problem telling you that it's been increased - more than once. And it will probably continue to be increased at some point in the future. That doesn't bother me in the least.) My other meds have changed a couple of times since then. We started with increasing my dose but recently switched to a different drug when nothing we did was working. I'm going into my third month on the new one, and it's so far so good. I also pop a biotin tablet every night in hopes of not going bald and a multivitamin just for good measure. 

I have one other prescription that I keep on hand specifically for the times that anxiety and panic start swallowing me. I don't take that one every day or every time something unpleasant happens, but I'm not afraid to take it when I feel myself losing control. Anxiety attacks put me on the fast track to a living hell, and I know I have to avoid that at all costs. So if you're keeping count, add another pill.

I hate taking all the pills, but it is what it is. Bottom line -  I need them, so I take them.

Meds aren't everything, though.

I guess in theory you could keep throwing pills down your throat until you became so numb that nothing - good or bad -  would faze you, but I can tell you from experience that is no way to live.

Coping mechanisms and stress relievers and their related benefits are always hot topics during my counseling and therapy sessions, and I don't disagree. I've tried all kinds:

I learned to crochet, but then I stopped because you can only give handmade (read: homely) infinity scarves as gifts so many times before it gets a little weird.

I colored in those adult coloring books, but then I stopped because you can only give your husband a picture you colored and ask him to hang it up at work so many times before it gets a little weird.

I read more books, but then I stopped because you can only gush to your therapist about how much you identify with the psychotic protagonist in your favorite dark and twisted storyline so many times before it gets a little weird.

I looked for projects on Pinterest, but then I stopped because you can only leave half-finished projects and glitter and yarn and sticks from the woods all over the dining room of your new house so many times before it gets a little weird.

I tried cooking more, but then I stopped because you can only destroy an entire crock pot and everything in it so many times before it gets a little weird.

I even tried going to the gym, but I stopped that too. Listening to the same songs on the same playlist while I was on the same treadmill every day did absolutely zero for me. And doing all of that at 5 a.m. during the week was actually making me crazier than I was at first. So no. Just no. ALL of the no. I wasn't even a little bit all about that gym life.

And then I met my #fitfam.

I lucked into a gym owned by a good friend of my sister and brother-in-law by going with them to a class on a Sunday afternoon. There were medicine balls and burpees and box step-ups and hurdles to jump and Russian twists and push-ups and all kinds of other things that I didn't understand. I ended up with turf burns on my knees that took two weeks to heal (There are still scars!), and more importantly, I ended up hooked.

I've been training there since the end of February, and I feel better than I have in a long time. The workouts are intense, but I actually love them. I'm sure I make a complete fool out of myself most days, but I'm the only one who seems to notice. The friends I've made are ridiculously amazing. I have no idea how I've done life so far without them.

Whether it's your first day or whether you've been there for years, everyone is full of encouragement and positivity and will literally cheer you on from the sidelines when you feel like you can't finish. And if that isn't enough to make you feel like part of the family? Then they'll just jump right in and finish it with you.

My trainer refuses to let me quit and finds something positive about each workout even when I think I bombed it. The rest of my #fitfam always makes me feel like one of the cool kids even when I know I'm not. Being part of this group does just as much for my mental health as it does for my physical health, and THAT is why this place is so incredible.

I've gotten acquainted with things like kettle bells and resistance bands and goblet squats and crazy lunges and deadlifts and planks and flutter kicks and bear crawls, and I'm always looking forward to making progress even if it's small.

I have to tell myself out loud every day that even small progress is still progress. Every. Single. Day.

I get excited about being sore when I get out of bed in the mornings. It makes me feel like I accomplished something the day before. The same goes for turf burn and random bruises and callouses on my hands and little scars on my knuckles - I'm actually really proud of those. They represent things I never thought I could ever do.

I'm even learning to run. Without being chased by a venomous animal. And I think I'm going to like it. (The jury is still out on this one, but I have high hopes.)

{Please note: I was not unconscious or dead. I was just too sweaty to sit on the furniture. Then the dogs decided to use me as a salt lick. I was too exhausted to care.}

One of my toughest struggles is dealing with all of the self-loathing and negative self-talk I'm so prone to doing. I've gone home in tears some mornings because I was so sure I cost my team the win in that day's competition or because I was so sure I had totally sucked at everything we did that day. I've gone home telling myself how stupid or worthless I am because I felt like I didn't push hard enough that day even though I had given it all I had during the workout. I would get in my car still sweating and out of breath from training and already be ripping myself to shreds over being a loser at it.

Sounds crazy, right?

Well that's because it is.

My trainer and the rest of my #fitfam remind me of that daily.

We'll add ditching that one to my goal list.

That list is a long one, but that's okay. I've already come this far, right?

xo.