This is the week it all falls apart

I decided last night, after my training session with J, that I really needed a break.

I've been pushing myself harder and harder, but it would seem that I've been pushing in all the wrong ways. My anxiety is high, my energy level is low, and the last straw last night was seeing the number on the scale registering three pounds higher than last week.

Three pounds.

It's not the end of the world. For all I know, it was a fluke, one of those weigh-ins that figures in all the retained water and everything you ate for lunch. It happens.

But last night, it all but broke me. I've been working so hard, I told myself. It's not fair.

You know, like someone out there told me this would all be fair. Yeah, right.

Even though I decided last night to take a break, I packed my back this morning, wearily but optimistically. As the final minutes of my work day ticked down, I still wasn't sure if I'd actually let myself rest.

These pounds won't lose themselves.

It wasn't until I failed to make the turn to the gym, on the way home, that I let myself off the hook. And what a relief.

I'm giving myself two days. Two days to not think about lifting, running, or boxing. Two days to read books, watch tv, and sleep. Maybe even cook some of the meals that I keep not cooking, because I'm at the gym until after 7:30 and I just don't have the will to do work around the house.

Rest is not an admission of defeat. Rest is necessary for the body and mind. It's necessary for the spirit. I've gotten by with denying myself this need on sheer determination, maybe a little spite. A little anger. But that sort of attitude, while temporarily empowering, isn't self-sustaining.

In a few days, I'll be back to the gym, hopefully blogging about how I'm back on track and kicking all kinds of ass.

Until then, you can find me right here. On the couch.