Obsession? Compulsion?

Dearest Rachel –

As happens all too often these days, I find myself waking up to a dark room, staring at the ceiling. This would be understandable during the winter, but this far into July, I should be comfortably sleeping in, especially after putting in twenty-five thousand steps yesterday, between working out at the gym and walking with Lars. And, indeed, all those steps are making themselves felt; even after however many hours of lying here and getting some semblance of rest, my ankles register the dull ache of overuse.

I’m really not in any mood to get up and go to the fitness center to work out. I deserve the chance to take it easy, especially since I only have so much time before Kris gets here to do her monthly cleaning routine around the house – and for which I prefer to be present, not to supervise her, of course (far be it for me, of all people, to tell her how to do her job), but to ensure that she is paid once her services have been rendered.

Basically, I’m taking the day off from any responsibilities I might have at the ‘office.’ So you’d think I’d be able to allow myself to slack off on my exercise routine, especially considering how back in the days when I was enrolled at the Arlington Ridge Center, I considered myself particularly faithful if I showed up three times a week (and ironically, at the moment, there’s a construction project going on around the place that would preclude me from getting there at all). But suddenly, in the here and now, I’m thinking that I’m slacking off if I miss more than one day out of the entire week. What on earth is wrong with me?

I know, I know, you’d tell me that there wasn’t anything wrong with me – in some respects, that’s kind of how I got the point where I felt the need to do this in the first place; you were willing to accept and love me as I was, and so I didn’t bother to keep tabs on my diet and exercise. To a certain extent, it’s possible that you might have thought that if I went on some kind of regimen, you’d have to join me out of solidarity (although, in fairness, given your side gig of walking neighborhood dogs, you were already getting a certain amount of exercise that I wasn’t), and you wanted to do that about as much as I did (and do), which is to say, not at all. So accepting me and my shape may have been a way to accept yourself as well.

But as far as this compulsion – or would it be an obsession? – about working out, I’m sure there are a lot of people who would tell me that it’s a good thing, even admirable. The fact that I’m seeing results (even if they’re considerably more limited than they were last year, for some reason) is just the cherry on top. The things I’m doing for myself are just what I need, health-wise.

But that’s the thing, honey; I was never doing this for myself at all. Well, I suppose indirectly, I was, but that was because it was obvious even to me that the shape I was in would not appeal to ‘Megumi’ – assuming she exists. Which is where things get problematic, because I’m questioning more and more as to whether she even exists. And if she doesn’t, what am I doing this for? Why I am putting myself through this, if not to make myself presentable to some theoretical female companion? And yet, here I am, staring up at a darkened ceiling at a quarter to four in the morning, still sensing that my right ankle isn’t happy with having been put through more than its paces yesterday, contemplating the idea of forcing it to cover another four miles before the work day begins… and for what?

Look, honey, I make no claims to having obsessive-compulsive disorder; too many people do that as it is, as it’s trendy to identify yourself as “neurodivergent” these days. I don’t think I am, and unless some doctor actually says I am, I’m not going to cheapen the diagnosis by claiming it applies to me. At the same time, it feels like I’m doing this against my greater will; even the purpose that supposedly drove me to do this in the first place is fading to the point where I no longer know why I continue with these efforts. And still I continue with them, regardless. If I really do have this disorder, I suppose you could say I’m making it work for me, even as I make myself work.

But I don’t have to like it; which is good, because I don’t.

Still, if you could keep an eye on me, and wish me luck, I appreciate it, as I’m certainly going to need it, honey.