Today I worked on deadlifting and core strengthening because the workout, which immediately follows my personal session, was bench presses and pull ups. I feel like my body is getting stronger by the day. It hasn't changed much to look at but I can feel the difference when I setting my form and executing the move. So, I'm only 7 lbs. off my goal of 170 lbs. deadlift, so I was happy with 163 lbs.
I especially needed that mental boost, because going in I was downcast and filled with self-doubt about my final project: a genealogical memoir. Yesterday I spent hours trolling through Goodreads, Amazon, book reviews trying to find books that would fall in that same or a similar category. There are dozens - but most have some brilliant or enthralling story to tell. DNA revealing their parents aren't who they think they are; overcoming years of physical or sexual abuse; immigrating to a new country where you don't speak the language; overt and covert racism and discrimination.
All I could think is: "My life wasn't that bad. Who'd want to read my memoir?" I lived a mostly ordinary life to my mid-teens - went totally off the rails - recovered and have led a rather mundane life since then. As if my life story were not traumatic enough to entrance anyone into reading it.
But then I thought about what it means to take risks, to try hard, to delve deep, to be vulnerable. Telling my life story would mean being open and forthright, which I rarely am about my personal life. It's about taking chances. About looking at the ugly stuff.
Like only getting the 163 lbs. bar off the floor once and ending on a high note. Like bench pressing small weights as I work up to big weights. Telling small secrets so that I can better open up about the big ones that I don't credit because "it was all in the past" as if that somehow erases the event.
Like going backwards off the hip extender until your hands touch the floor and then pulling yourself back up.