opinion & features

It took me way too long to learn the value of a healthy body

Illustration by DILLAN BEKKERINGIf anyone had told me in high school that gym class would save my life one day, I probably would've made a greater effort to show up once or twice. Fact of the matter is, the athletic department and I never got along. And like so many other queer students enrolled in the public education system, I developed an aversion to exercise early on.

After graduating from high school I did not return to a gymnasium until my third year in university. Plagued by depression and drowning in copious amounts of boxed red wine, I decided it was high time I got my life in shape. Packing my shorts in beside my textbooks one afternoon, I asked for directions to the Duckworth Centre at the University of Winnipeg, and finally made use of the student membership I never knew I had.

After nearly killing myself when I fell off the stair-master checking out some cute guy, I saved face and moved directly into the workout area. Staring down each piece of metal equipment as if it had come from another planet, I broke into a sweat just thinking about trying to use it, and threw in the towel before I had even lifted a weight. Rewarding myself on the way home with a pint, I made up my mind that working out was for people who had nothing better to do with their time.

The next time I returned to a gym was three years later on the day after my 24th birthday. Having finished school and moved across the country, it appeared my life had finally started to catch up with me. Suffering one anxiety attack after another while trying to end a destructive love affair with gin, it was not until my birthday night, when I blacked out before getting the chance to blow out my candles, that I woke up the next morning determined to change.

Rolling out of bed and straight on to the fitness centre down the street, I put my credit card down on the table and invested in a personal training package that would last me eight weeks. Albeit expensive, my physical education with a trainer was invaluable. Not only did she show me how to exercise properly, she instructed me on how to set realistic goals, and then gave me the steps to reach them.

Although there is no question I still fall off the boat, I generally frequent the gym three times a week. Affording my life some much-needed structure, this routine gets me out of the apartment, off my couch, and keeps my nervous system in check. Anxiety, depression, alcoholism, eating disorders, and body image problems are nothing new to the queer community. The cure however is so simple: a healthier body equals a healthier mind. I just wish I could've learned this equation while I was still in school.

–Sean Robert is a Vancouver-based freelance writer. To comment on this or any other article in Outwords, write to letters@outwords.ca.