"... I'm gonna try with a little help from my friends." So say the Beatles anyway.
If you'd asked me to describe myself in a few words, one of the words I can guarantee that I would've used is "independent." As in, for the most part, I'm capable of doing what I want to do. That was a source of pride--kinda like how I feel about never having owned a car that wasn't a stick shift. You know, just some small feather in my cap. (I didn't say, mind you, that these things made any sense. I have no idea why driving a stick shift causes any sort of pride, but a girl has to get her kicks where she can.)
I'm beginning to think that my independence isn't always productive or helpful. There was a scene on Grey's Anatomy (not that the Pudgy Parson would watch that less than wholesome show...) a few weeks ago that painted a pointed picture of me. Arizona was a new amputee. She didn't know how to operate her new prosthetic leg, but she didn't really want help to learn, either. She made the therapist mad and he left her alone. So she fought on and tried to do it herself, and fell flat on her face.
I've realized that I'm getting close to the point where I've fallen before. If I were doing this alone, I think I would've gotten so frustrated at my grouchy knee that instead of taking time to strengthen it, I would've tried to push through. I've never like the expression "might makes right" but I know I've been guilty of using that tactic with my body. I know that if I were on my own, I'd be forcing myself to run, never mind that my knees are sometimes screaming when I just walk. I know that I've done daft things with how I eat (not like cabbage-soup-for-a-week dumb, but probably only because it sounded too gross to even think about.)
I'm in a place where I'm dying to power through-- to just go all in. To do this, quickly, fiercely, and with no regrets. But of course, my body is less excited than my brain is. After all, it's my body that's having to do all the work. It's my body that's having to overcome my past mistakses. It's my body that's having to create new habits. My body is throwing temper tantrums. One day it's a knee. Another day it's a random skyrocketing heartrate. Another day it's feeling like my feet are tied to concrete blocks.
But He-who-trains is a rockstar. He's watching and making notes and adjusting. He's making sure I'm honest, both with him and with myself, about where my body actually is. He's forcing me to work with my body, so that I don't hurt it. So that I don't repeat the cycle of pushing too hard, doing things incorrectly, and then winding up sidelined for weeks and months.
Whatever doubts I had about working with a trainer are gone. Even if it means making promises that are hard, but are for my health. Even if it means having to report back to some one, honestly. Even if it means having to sacrifice a little independence. Because He-who-trains and I both want the same thing-- for me to live in a body that's strong and healthy and capable of all the things my brain wants to do. But, it turns out, that only of us really knows how to get me there.
Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends...