Loud Mouth Brown Girl

In my whole life, I haven’t had as much encouragement, as I’ve had since I decided, to start going to the gym.

Now, I say I decided to start going to the gym, instead of “I decided to lose weight,” because weight loss isn’t a goal I want to reach for. I know I am going to lose weight by going to the gym, walking there, and eating healthier, I also know that there’s nothing I can do about losing weight, except choosing not to take care of myself.

The latter is not an option.

Why you ask? Because I actually do love myself. For seven years I gave my body whatever it wanted. McDonald’s, ice cream, cookies, cake. Whatever I wanted, I fucking ate.

Largely because after everything that I had been through – after waking up to realize I’d been through decades of rape, and that not one person in my life ever tried to protect me, I decided I deserved to fucking indulge.

I had set myself free. Yes, I did it by calling the cops, but I also did it by DECIDING, that protecting the little girl inside of me from ever being raped again, was more important than being loyal to a bunch of men who had been groomed into being rapists, before CHOOSING, to be rapists, as adults.

They made that choice. I decided I wasn’t going to be their chosen victim anymore, and for that, I was labeled a rat. So fucking be it.

The cops didn’t help me. They called me psychotic and had me hospitalized repeatedly, so they wouldn’t have to investigate my claims. Seven years later I am still considered a rat in certain circles, and my rapists are free to continue raping women and girls. Those that aren’t in prison, that is.

This year I think I spent the first six to eight months healing from the trauma of last year. I didn’t have the energy to walk, much less breathe, so I wasn’t planning on deciding to go to the gym.

But then a friend of mine and I got to talking and I remembered that I miss dancing. I miss being able to go for walks at night and I miss feeling safe. Before I woke up to my reality – before all the memories started rushing back to my conscious mind from my subconscious, I used to walk all the time.

I loved going to the crossroads by my old house and talking to Hera and Hecate and the Gods and Goddesses that came to this planet long before I was born. I don’t know if they could hear me or not, but it was my way of connecting with the universe, and saying all the things out loud, that I wasn’t able to say to other people.

It gave me a way to release what I was going through.

When I am at the gym I can’t necessarily talk to myself, but I can close my eyes and meditate while I walk on the treadmill or ride the bicycle, no one looks at me, no one talks to me, no one bothers to judge me because they are too busy being focused on themselves.

It’s the most privilege I’ve ever had in my entire life. The fact that I can afford to do this first of all, like what the fuck? Who the fuck do I think I am trying to be Cardi B?

I don’t know.

I just know that last Wednesday I send Lady A a text message that said “Fuck it, let’s gym.” And now I’ve done it for five days in a row, planning to go for a sixth, a seventh, a one hundredth, I am excited.

I am nervous, but I am also excited, I am excited about my new body, I am excited for the body I used to have to show, and I am excited for all the amazing experiences I am going to have, because I am finally at long last, in the space where I can take care of myself.

And don’t think for one second that I don’t recognize that being able to take care of yourself is a privilege, that not many people have.

I have a friend who works too much, and who loves her job, but because of her job is constantly ill. Working with kids who are always sick will do that for you, and unfortunately, because she’s constantly sick she can’t get strong enough to make the decision to go to the gym. NONE of this is her fault. She’s chronically ill, and being chronically ill is a true and valid disability.

It’s one I’ve struggled with my entire fucking life. I was always sick as a kid, either a stomach ache or something worse, and I think though I can’t prove it, a lot of it for me at least, at that age, was a manifestation of the abuse I was experiencing.

Now that I am in “this” space, I have room to heal. I’ve had time to rest my body, mind, and soul. I’ve had time to prepare myself, to get ready, to go to the gym. I’ve had time.

I have had time. I repeat, I’ve been given the grace gift of time, to heal. Not everyone gets that, but every body fucking should!

Everyone should have the ability to spend time walking for an hour to the gym and walking for an hour back, after spending thirty-forty minutes kicking their own ass.

I don’t know how to explain how good it feels to know that I went to the gym and I spent time with myself, and yeah it hurts. It’s punishing, but when my legs feel like jelly and my back cracks just the right way after a good workout I just fucking feel better.

I used to feel that way after my walks, but after years of walking, I want to get to the space where I can run, kick, and jump. And when it starts to hurt too much, I just think about Imane Khelif and the fact that I want to see her kick Logan Paul’s ass.

Then I think about what would happen if I could get strong enough to kick his ass myself, and suddenly it doesn’t hurt anymore.

I mean…everyone needs a goal, right?

Sending all my love,

Devon J Hall