FRIDAY, DEC. 16, 2016

Embracing the zeal

A friend made an offhanded joke about CrossFit members being a cult while we were hanging out a while back.

I know he doesn’t read my paragraphs, so I decided to let him talk.

He complained about the fact that CrossFit athletes tend to talk about their accomplishments a lot and seem boastful about their fitness.

Finally, I told my friend that I went to CrossFit Merle Hay. The workouts have helped me lose more than 120 pounds, get stronger, more flexible and more mobile than I have been in years.

My friend shrugged and said I didn’t seem like a narcissist. I let the conversation thread die out.

It strikes me as ironic to be judged harshly for both being morbidly obese and for trying to fight it at a gym.

I should say this for the record: I don’t endorse CrossFit. This is the gym and workout plan I chose, mostly because of my close friendship with CrossFit Merle Hay owner Nate Yoho.

I generally support any course of action that involves eating less and moving more, especially in a society as sedentary as ours, whether it be long walks or a regimented program of diet and exercise.

CrossFit seems to have some kind of reputation as a place where people get hurt. I don’t understand this, in part because I went to CrossFit while I was hurting.

My knees hurt so bad it was hard to step off curbs or get in and out of cars. I could easily hurt my back carrying in groceries or getting out of bed.

At CrossFit, I’ve only gotten stronger, faster and leaner.

Am I a picture of fitness? Absolutely not.

The things I see the elite athletes do at CrossFit boggle my mind. The feats seem truly superhuman.

But we all had different goals. My goal is losing weight and having the physical strength and endurance to live my life without limitations as long as possible.

It’s true that CrossFit athletes do talk about their activities. I spent a good five minutes talking to Nate about my technique on the rowing machine in a recent session.

Nate encouraged me to lean back farther, pull harder with my arms to get the most out of my strong legs. The first workout I tried his tips in resulted in much higher rotations per minute during my rows.

A year ago, I never thought I would ever have a conversation with anyone about technique on a rowing machine.

That CrossFit athletes talk about what they do isn’t so unusual. How many times have you been stuck next to someone who is very into gardening, shopping of fantasy football?

I don’t write these paragraphs to pick on my friend. He’s as good and loyal a man as I know.

What I am emphasizing, however, is that we could all do a better job of being more tolerant of different ideas and different ways.

The truth is, I probably held much the same view of CrossFit as my buddy before I started it. I thought of CrossFit athletes as zealots.

But if this zealously is helping improve and extend my life. Count me all the way in.

WEDNESDAY, DEC. 7, 2016

Empathy is winning

“Someone @DMRegister must think @newsmanone story is compelling but it’s getting old, repetitive & a waste of space. Not good writer either,” wrote a Twitter user who identifies as Susan Thorne and uses the handle @SueIowaGal.

I don’t know this person, or at least I don’t think I do. But the tweet tweaked all the proper insecurities.

Making Weight is “getting old, repetitive & a waste of space.” Yeah, I’ve thought that, too. It worries me a great deal. Part of the reason the story is so slow moving is because weight loss and wellness are very incremental with successes and failures.

Only the gross fiction of game shows such as “The Biggest Loser” produce weight loss results in quick bursts.

In fact, a study of 14 contestants who participated in the 30-week competition regained most of their weight if not more and suffered slower metabolism, which means they were burning fewer calories than they were before they participated in the show.

But the audience, in this case, readers of this news organization, have come to believe the arc of carefully crafted fiction can be replicated in life. I assure you, it cannot. And that’s why my effort to lose more than 300 pounds began as a marathon rather than a sprint.

Still, I worry that readers, who are easily distracted and often bored, will lose touch with the underlying themes of continuing to fight for wellness despite setbacks and the judgment of others who really don’t understand how hard it is making life-altering choices.

So that stung. It’s a criticism for which I have no answer other than this: This is non-fiction and I am a work in progress. I can’t and won’t alter course to make the story more entertaining. I’m working for wellness, not “likes” on Facebook and Twitter.

The second half — “not a good writer either” — hurt a little, too. It hurt because I am insecure. Most people are. Few of us talk about it. We bluster or hide. In these paragraphs, though, I am as stripped down and raw as I can be.

This is a difficult path because I am more vulnerable to the cruelties of social media hecklers.

Yes, criticism comes with this job. I understand that and even welcome it. But the tone of the internet is overwhelmingly angry. My friend Bill McClellan, a semi-retired columnist for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, calls the trend “compulsive outrage disorder.”

I am old enough to remember the beginning of the modern internet. When I was a student at Drake University in the early 1990s, we had something called a VAX system.

It had primitive email and text-only web searching. If you wanted to download a single photograph from the web, you needed some fairly sophisticated computer science skills to do it.

But even then there were bulletin board systems, the precursor to the chat rooms, which I suppose are an early ancestor of social media. And the bulletin board systems on that old VAX system where overwhelmingly angry.

The most popular posts were by people who said the meanest things about others on campus, particularly those in public services like the student government or campus newspaper editor.

I’ve got a lot of experience dealing with mean things said about me by people I don’t know on the internet. And I am no better at it today than I was more than 25 years ago.

I harbor great insecurity that I have my job not because I earned it through merit but simply because I survived through attrition after job cuts. My bosses tell me this isn’t true and this is a manifestation of my negative self-talk.

Maybe they’re right. But there are plenty of former Register employees on Facebook who gleefully jump on any of my or my colleagues’ foibles to make withering remarks that I hope at least make them feel good about themselves.

Whenever I write about these kinds of worries, someone drags out the cliché: “Just grow a thicker skin.”

I reject this premise. That simply gives a permission to people who are being mean for the sake of being mean. I’m a sensitive person and sometimes things said of me hurt.

I recognize, too, that I say things, either in an attempt at humor, through sarcasm or simply because of my perspective, that hurt other people’s feelings. I’m truly sorry when it does. That’s never the goal.

Just the other day, I got into an argument with my boss over what was ultimately a trivial matter. I lost my temper in a fit of anxiety and said things I regretted. I later apologized. She accepted. We moved forward.

I write about the effect of this tweet on me not to induce sympathy from readers. Rather, I note it because mental health is as critical to wellness as physical health.

I’ve noted my struggles with anxiety and depression in these columns many times. Again, this isn’t a plea for sympathy but an earnest effort to broaden understanding and engage empathy.

I’m just one person who is trying to lose weight, better control my mood disorders and generally get healthy. But, in a way, I represent roughly a million Iowans considered obese and about 750,000 Iowans who live with a mental health issue.

I write about my struggles for all those people who don’t have the benefit of advocacy or representation in the media. And if that means I have to take hits on social media or the comment section, so be it.

But I think empathy may be winning.

I finished my second full year as a columnist for The Register in November. Since I started the job, I’ve made it a practice of saving positive emails in a folder and counting them on or near my anniversary.

Readers sent 1,309 positive emails over the last year. And thank you to every single person who took the time to sit down and write their kind thoughts, well wishes and other uplifting messages. It means a lot.

As for the Twitter critic, I responded with my usual form tweet:

“Gosh, it’s nice to meet you, too. Where would you like your autographed photo sent?”

THURSDAY, DEC. 1, 2016

The long and short of it

I’m learning that you need both a long and short memory when it comes to intense exercise.

For example, in a recent workout, my coach and friend, Nate Yoho of CrossFit Merle Hay, put me through a metabolic conditioning that involved a deadlift, shoulder press and burpees.

The plan was to decrease in reps by round, starting at 10 and ending with one. The workout was capped at 20 minutes. The added twist was three burpees every two minutes.

The first round went well. I attacked the 10 deadlifts and shoulder presses with relative ease. I hit the floor for burpees with as much grace as my 440-pound frame can manage.

The round of nine went OK, but I tired quickly.

By the round of seven, I was gasping for air, a little dizzy and needed to take a seat between reps. The 20 minutes expired and I stalled after the round of seven.

Nate encouraged me to get a drink and focus on lowering my heart rate with slow, deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth.

I was annoyed that I didn’t do better. Nate told me we would retest on the workout in a couple months. He figured I would pass all 10 rounds by then.

I lacked his confidence in me, but this is where the memory question comes in.

In the short-term, I need to forget that workout results. I did the best I could. I didn’t get as far as I wanted to, but I still worked out at a strong pace for 20 minutes. There will be more weights to lift, more burpees to, um, burp, and so on.

The point is to get in as many quality repetitions in as possible even if it falls short of the goal of the planned workout. Each rep builds muscle, burns fat and increases endurance.

Sure, I still wish I could rip through the workout at top speed right now.

“If you did,” Nate said, “what would we have to strive for?”

I smirked.

“I’m sure you can find a way to make it harder,” I said.

This is where a long-view is necessary. It was not that long ago that I got winded walking to the mailbox and hesitated to step off curbs because my knees would hurt too much from the girth crashing down onto the fragile, arthritic joints.

A week or so back, I realized I could lift my lower leg off the floor and catch the ankle with my hand to stretch out the quads. I haven’t been able to do that since high school. We’re talking more than 23 years ago.

When I started at CrossFit with Nate, I had to awkwardly lift my leg onto a box and lean back to stretch that quad. Now I’m much more flexible and leaner than I was eight months ago.

I still get disgusted with myself when I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror coming out of the shower or see pictures of my bulbous belly.

But I have to remember that in a relatively short period, I have come a long way. And it’s valuable to measure those gains.

No, I wasn’t able to finish the workout Nate laid out before me. That’s fine. I will make it one day. The victory is making enough progress to even safely attempt such an exertion.

Forget short-term foibles. Celebrate long-term accomplishments. And remember every rep counts.

TUESDAY, NOV. 22, 2016

Scaling back

The holidays provide a difficult challenge for anyone trying to lose weight.

Last year, still early in my efforts to recover from morbid obesity, I decided to forego a traditional Thanksgiving meal at my uncle’s house. My parents and I celebrated together quietly on another evening with a menu friendlier to my diet.

I’m following the same plan this year, but with an added twist. I’ve decided not to check my weight until after the first of the year.

This is not giving myself permission to blow my daily calorie goals for the entirety of the holiday season. Rather, it’s been a stressful couple of months with public tragedies and personal struggles.

Weighing in, even when I expect good results, is an anxiety-riddled experience. All of the health professionals in my life repeat the same mantra: Weight is not the only, nor the best measure of health.

Still, I know that more than 440 pounds is not a health weight nor sustainable if I would like to live comfortably over the next few decades.

So when the scale creeps up, I am terribly disappointed in myself because it feels like I’m doing the same work twice rather than gaining ground.

The science of this thinking is poor. Weight fluctuates daily based on a myriad of factors, including water intake and the kinds of foods you recently ate.

For example, my weight numbers tend to be goofy if I step on the scale after having taken a protein shake or within two hours of an intense workout.

Further, every time I write about my weigh-ins, particularly those after which I’ve gained weight, the internet trolls really pounce.

I would love to tell you that after two years of doing this job and nearly as long chronicling my health efforts, that I have found a good way to cope with the cruel things people say to me about this or any other topic.

But I haven’t.

People say I need to get a thicker skin. The thickness of human skin is about a tenth of an inch. Mine is no different. I just don’t like to be insulted.

Why, then, would I actively seek a career that puts me before the public eye and requires me to comment on issues that are controversial? Well, that’s a long story, but at least one reason is that stacking paragraphs is what I’m best at and fear is only a powerful force in your life if you let it limit your possibilities.

Still, I’ve been on edge for a long time. Now is not the time to test my maximum endurance, which, while it is quite high, has been pushed enough for one fall.

The truth is, I’ve probably gained a few pounds in the last few weeks. I do two things when I’m anxious: spend money and eat.

I’ve dug out some bags of french fries from the back of the freezer. I stabbed more than a few tator tots with my fork. One or two Marie Callender’s frozen meals, heavy with fats and carbs, landed in my microwave.

These incidents would usually lead me to a lengthy series of self-loathing. But this is a long game and, frankly, I’m tired of hating myself. I wrote last week about how anxiety has twisted my brain for several weeks and for much of the fall.

I’ll go back to the scale in January. I’m not afraid of it. I just don’t need to do things that add to acute stress right now. This is my choice to make and I’m comfortable with it.

I’m still going to the gym and getting stronger, more flexible and agile working with my friend and trainer, Nate Yoho, of CrossFit Merle Hay. I enjoy these sessions very much and come to view them as much as mental health therapy as physical fitness.

I plan to keep my workout schedule through the holidays. We’ll get back on the scale after the first of the year. For now, I want to focus on fellowship of friends and family, calming thoughts and activities and making the best food choices available during a challenging season.

THURSDAY, NOV. 17, 2016

Setting it aside

The new day’s sunlight filtered through the vertical blinds in my living room when I finally realized I had been up all night.

I looked at the bright red digits on the clock on my TV stand. The time was shortly after 7 a.m. on a Sunday.

I was wide awake and had been for nearly 20 hours. Normally, this kind of insomnia is associated with the panic attacks symptomatic of my acute anxiety disorder.

But I did not feel anxious. I did not feel anything.

I just kept flitting between small projects for no good reason.

It started with finishing a page in my “Doctor Who” adult coloring book, an activity specifically designed to be calming.

Usually, that works. This time, though, I became hyper-focused on finishing the page before I went to bed.

I remember going into the bedroom at about 2 a.m. That’s late for bedtime, but not terrible for a former night police reporter who enjoys the quiet solitude of what Frank Sinatra described as the “wee, small hours of the morning.”

I grimaced at the stack of comic books, magazines, half-read paperbacks, computer cords and other clutter gathered by my bedside.

I decided it must be organized. This resulted in an hours-long reorganization of bookshelves and some furniture in my bedroom.

In the sorting, I discovered a small stack of 50-cent comics I bought at Black Medicine Comics. They were well-worn books from my childhood, “reader copies” as the collectors say.

Some years ago, I bought an old-fashioned spindle rack similar to the one I bought comics off of at Montross Pharmacy in Winterset when I was a boy.

I keep the rack in a corner of the living room. I thought I would put the comics on the rack and go to bed.

Then I realized I didn’t like the fact the comic rack was in the corner and I couldn’t really see the books I’d just put on it.

Another hours-long reorganization of furniture began.

A text from my girlfriend appeared on my phone at 10 a.m. I was still up. I told her I’d been up all night. I didn’t really know why.

She asked me if I’d taken my depression and anxiety medication on time. Sometimes I wait to take my medication so I can finish writing a stack of paragraphs or some other activity. But I took them at their appointed time, 10 p.m.

We exchanged a few texts. She urged me to get some rest. I showered and went to bed, but did not feel tired. I eventually fell asleep.

I don’t remember what time I woke up Sunday afternoon. I talked with a few friends by phone. I napped through some dull NFL games on TV.

The reminder chirped on my smartphone. It was time to take my medication. I did. I went into the bedroom to read and get ready for a new week.

Then I looked at the stack of books I reorganized just a day before. Wouldn’t they look better if I stacked them in a completely different way?

Finally, just after midnight on Monday morning, I called my therapist’s after-hours service. He called back right away.

I explained the patterns of behavior over the past two days. I couldn’t figure it out. I wasn’t manic, at least I didn’t feel that way.

My therapist talked me back through recent events. I helped cover the ambush killing of two Des Moines-metro police officers. Though I am not a police officer, I have a great affinity for the men and women who do the job.

Then I wrote about my childhood friend Liz fighting terminal cancer. I recently learned another friend, Steve, who used to have the desk next to me at the Register, was “in the home stretch,” as he put it, with pancreatic cancer.

And then there was the election. Sure, the popular thing to do is call people upset at the presidential results “crybabies.” But good friends of mine were terribly sad and angry. I could feel it. And it hurt.

“That’s a lot of stuff you’ve got going on in a short amount of time,” my therapist said.

“So why am I playing Tetris with my furniture?” I asked.

“It’s just something to keep your mind off the things you don’t want to talk about,” my therapist said. “Your mind engages in these projects so it doesn’t have to think about what hurts.”

That made sense. It had been a rough few weeks. Too many carbs slipped into my diet. My motivation to hit the gym practically evaporated despite the supportive atmosphere. I felt wild and out of control.

“I talk to a lot of people who are feeling the same way,” my therapist said. “Do you know what I tell them? Set it aside. There’s nothing you can do about it right now. You have to live your life.”

This seemingly simple advice helped me unlock “sleep mode.”

I’m still very anxious, maybe as bad as I have been in a very anxious year. But I’m doing my best to handle it, keep commenting on the passing parade and telling stories.

It isn't easy, but, then, nobody ever promised us easy.

WEDNESDAY, NOV. 9, 2016

Clearing the mechanism

I thought I was processing the grief that came with the killings of two Des Moines-metro police officers as well as could be expected until I drove to the gym last week.

In the strip mall home of CrossFit Merle Hay, a vendor put up fencing and signage for a Christmas tree lot. I thought of Des Moines Police Sgt. Tony Beminio and Urbandale Police Officer Justin Martin.

Their families were weeks away from experiencing their first Thanksgiving and Christmas without their loved ones. Beminio was the father of three. I thought about my first Christmas without my dad nearly 28 years ago.

I pulled into the parking lot and parked a few rows away from the gym. I composed myself and walked in.

My trainer and friend, Nate Yoho, seems to inherently read moods. After stretches, we started a deadlift. Deadlifting is my favorite weightlifting exercise. I can’t say why. I just like it.

I pressed my mind into thinking about my form as I yanked 272 pounds from the floor for five sets of three repetitions. We did another round of three sets of three reps at 250 pounds.

On good days at the gym, my mind locks into the exercise and all noise both internally and externally fades away.

It’s a wonderful mindset. Your body strains, yet you ignore the exhaustion in favor of one more rep. You don’t even hear the music blasting on the gym speakers.

The best representation I can think of for this comes from the mediocre 1999 baseball movie “For Love of the Game.” Kevin Costner plays an aging pitcher throwing a perfect game on the last day of his career. Early in the movie, the camera pans across the jeering Yankees fans and the cacophony of noise inside Yankee Stadium. He looks in at the catcher and thinks to himself, “Clear the mechanism.” With that, the noise around him fades away and it is just pitcher, catcher and batter.

This level of engagement is rare for me. Often the exhaustion breaks my concentration.

But the elite athletes at the gym, like Nate, are practiced enough at the mental game that they can lock in more frequently and it is a marvelous thing to witness.

I could not “clear the mechanism” last week, at least not in terms of getting into a zone where I was attacking the exercises without awareness of how tired I was.

Yet as I worked through 20 minutes of metabolic conditioning that involved rounds of carrying 53-pound kettle bells in both hands, rowing and sit-ups, my mind at least temporarily pushed out the grief.

My session ended as they usually do, with me panting on the floor in a pool of sweat, feeling an odd mixture of accomplishment and annoyance that I could not do more.

As I drank my protein shake, Nate and I talked about the fallen officers. I told him about the Christmas tree lot. Nate and I became friends after I wrote a story about the loss of his wife, Laura, to cancer three years ago.

We both paused to consider that in the beginning, everyone tries to help you cope with grief. But eventually, the ham sandwiches are all gone, people go home to their lives and you are left with a great emptiness that remains for the rest of your life.

Nate still feels the loss of his wife. I still miss my dad.

Most days, both of us are able to “clear the mechanism,” as it were, and live our lives.

But some days, the hurt feels raw and fresh. And you are left with only one solution: Keep moving forward.

THURSDAY, NOV. 3, 2016

Strange sensation

I visited my doctor, Shauna Basener, while I was on vacation last month.

The appointment was our first since she moved from a clinic in West Des Moines to the McFarland Clinic in Ames.

I decided to follow her despite the extra travel time because I feel a strong sense of trust, rapport and open communication with Shauna as a doctor and a person.

This relationship is critical while dealing with chronic health issues. In my case, those issues are morbid obesity, high blood pressure and arthritis in my knees and lower back.

In one of our first visits, Shauna won my trust when she told me to stop taking an iron supplement because my blood tests showed it was unnecessary.

“The best medicine is no medicine,” she said.

This is a philosophy I wholly support. This is not to say I oppose medication or regular preventative care.

The idea is to help the body function properly without the assistance of medications or supplements. I still take two medications for blood pressure, three medications for mental health issues, a daily vitamin and a fish oil supplement.

But in the time I’ve worked with Shauna, I’ve changed my physical well-being enough to stop taking medication for type 2 diabetes and high cholesterol.

My blood pressure reading was good enough that Shauna considered lowering the dosage of my blood pressure medication or dropping it altogether.

This idea astounded me. I thought once a person went on blood pressure medication, it became a permanent part of the routine.

But the weight loss and increase in physical activity over the last 19 months improved my health enough that some of the chronic conditions have eased.

My blood tests during this visit showed similar promise.

My A1C test, which gives doctors a picture of my average blood sugar level for about three months, was the second-lowest (that’s good) since I began recovery.

My cholesterol levels were within acceptable ranges and improving.

And my weight was 444.6 pounds – a loss of 118.6 pounds since I began the journey nearly 600 days ago and also my lowest mark to date.

I gained 13 pounds between August and September and the thought distressed me so I feel into a deep funk complete with the usual round of negative self-talk.

Between September and my October physical, I lost those 13 pounds and three more.

This inspired an unusual emotion: hope.

Getting healthier means, barring accident or catastrophe, I likely will live longer.

Most of my life, I’ve thought about the end of my life.

My dad died when I was 13. My mom died when I was 14. My dad was sickly for the last several years of his life.

I used to write my will and testament on wide-ruled notebook paper that I kept in my desk because I thought that was something I needed to do.

One of my favorite teachers in fourth grade died of leukemia. I remember staying home from school the day after she died and trying to will myself to die because I didn’t want to face school without her kind face and gentle manner.

Throughout all my struggles – health, financial, psychological or vocational – in my 41 years, I have always thought about how my life would end.

I assumed it would end badly, with lots of pain and suffering or, as I have often admitted, by my own hand.

Now, though, there is a good chance that isn’t going to happen anytime soon. This represents a dramatic shift in perspective.

If I’m going to live, what am I to make of my life? I need to reshape my outlook.

It’s daunting, but it beats planning your own funeral.

THURSDAY, OCT. 13, 2016

A path forward

The pain lanced through my lower back like an electric shock.

The time was about 3 a.m. I tried to sit up in bed, but my lower back hurt so much I actually cried out.

I tested the boundaries of movement. Articulation at the waist hurt the most. With some painful effort, I threw my legs over the side of the bed and pulled myself up to a standing position.

I equated the harshness of the pain to the back injury that started this journey to recover from morbid obesity 19 months ago.

I gingerly shuffled to the closet and fished out a prescription muscle relaxant I keep in case of emergencies. I swallowed one with some water and slowly walked into the living room.

I tried to think of what might have caused this flare up. My workout at CrossFit Merle Hay earlier in the day went fine. I was tired but felt no pain or stiffness.

Trainer Nate Yoho wanted to try a new movement, something called a sumo deadlift. I stood on two boxes a foot tall. I squatted and reached past my feet to grab a 35-pound kettlebell from the floor. Then I stood.

The challenge was almost like pulling 35 pounds out of a hole in the ground.

At the time we did the exercise, I felt the usual strains associated with a workout, but nothing spectacular.

We finished with a metabolic conditioning cycle that involved kettlebell swings and the rowing machine. I walked – and partially ran – a mile.

I drank a protein shake and a recovery drink. I sat around for a while to watch the most experienced athletes prepare for an upcoming competition.

I returned to my home office to stack paragraphs and knocked off for the day in the early evening.

I recalled no incidents that would have set off this tight, aching back.

Yet there I sat in my living room, waiting for the pain killer to kick in propped up by some extra pillows in the small of my back and barely able to move.

I worried the injury would stop the progress I’ve made at the gym in recent weeks. Since a recent setback in weight loss, I’ve shifted focus from the scale to what I can do with my body.

I’ll return to the scale soon enough, but confidence comes quicker and more practically through training than it does in those few anxious seconds before I step on a scale.

The pain, combined with the sluggishness that comes with muscle relaxers, sidelined me from the gym later that day.

I hate to miss sessions, which is in itself something of a victory. I never thought I would enjoy training as much as I do and in such a variety of ways, from the physical exertion and strength gains to camaraderie of the trainers and athletes.

I also hate to miss sessions because even though I know recovery is just as important as exercise, my brain – twisted by anxiety – always believes a missed session means my body begins to atrophy and I’ll lose all the strength and mobility I’ve gained.

It’s an irrational worry, as most of mine are, but it’s something I wrestle with in these situations.

On the day I took off and during my regular off day, I tried to stretch as often as I could. I bent over and put my palms on the floor. I cycled through the exercises I learned in physical therapy when I originally hurt my back.

The pain lingered at varying intensities, but by the end of the second day off I started to feel better. My back still hurt – especially after long periods sitting or lying down.

But I found myself texting Nate, pledging to be at our next session. I wasn’t fully recovered, but Nate is used to working around injuries.

He recently had a client with a torn bicep who came in and managed to work out. My injury was far less severe than that.

I took several lessons from this frightening recurrence of back pain. First, I am in better shape and stronger than I was 19 months ago. That means my body recovers faster even when it really hurts.

And secondly, while I might worry that every pitfall will be catastrophic, I’m slowly beginning to understand that not everything is going to end in disaster.

This is something my mental health therapist has been working on with me for years, as have my family, friends and loved ones.

But it took working out at CrossFit with Nate to finally realize there is always a path forward.

WEDNESDAY, OCT. 5, 2016

Cast of characters

Sometimes I watch them, the other athletes and trainers, as I sit on the wooden bench at the front of CrossFit Merle Hay, dabbing the sweat from my bald head and recovering my breath.

It still feels like an exaggeration to refer to myself as an “athlete” in this gym filled with men and women who look like Greek marble statues come to life.

But Nate Yoho, the gym’s owner, insists upon it. Once you heft the first weight, pull the first row and walk the first step, to Nate, you are an athlete – his athlete.

When my workouts end, I drink a protein shake and suck water from an aluminum bottle.

They truly come in all shapes and sizes, both athletes and trainers.

There is 72-year-old Denny Joe, survivor of three open-heart surgeries. A doctor told him he would never run again. He runs nearly every day on a high school track near his home.

He works with Nate, who helps him with flexibility, strength and stamina. On a recent day, I watched Denny Joe prop himself up on his forearms and rest his ankles on a box. He held a ridged position with his abs tightened for 2 minutes. They call the exercise planking. I call it amazing.

On the days when my arthritic knees bark and I want to stay in my comfortable oversized office chair, I think of Denny Joe, the septuagenarian superman who still runs when they told him he could not.

Van Marshall works alongside Nate as a trainer. He hurt his hamstring recently and then hurt it again. This stops normal people from intense workout. It turned Van into a carpenter.

He assembled workout equipment that allowed him to exercise without straining his injured muscle a third time.

My favorite: He wound a thick rope around a sled and stacked heavy weight plates atop it. With another athlete, they took turns pulling the heavy sled across the floor. While one pulled, the other did pushups.

When I gasp for air and think I have no more to give, I think of Van and push just a little harder.

Michelle is another trainer at CrossFit. She works with a young, overweight middle school girl. She pours her heart into inspiring the girl to embrace fitness the way she embraces reading and academic achievement.

Michelle starts each session by walking beside the girl. I don’t know what they talk about and it’s none of my business.

But in those dark moments when I want to quit because it feels hopeless or the chemical malfunctions in my brain turn my thoughts against me, I think of Michelle and the culture of this gym. I know I never walk alone.

I watch Nate as he works with other athletes. He greets everyone with a smile. He encourages, corrects, directs and pushes.

He is in top physical condition, stronger and faster than he has ever been in his 33 years. He recently set a series of personal records in competition-style workouts. Had they been in a competition, he would have finished 17th in the region and in the top 100 in the world.

Nate relates the accomplishments with the giddiness of a small boy. Yet I witness him reflect that same enthusiasm and joy for the gains of his athletes.

Words fail to accurately reflect how much I respect this man, how honored I am by his friendship. He played minor league baseball but never cracked the big leagues, the kind of disappointment that turns many people into round-bellied storytellers at the end of the bar, loudly reliving their glory days to anyone within earshot.

But Nate rebuilt. He came home to Des Moines, became a trainer, met the love of his life, got married and opened his own gym.

Then Nate lost his wife to cancer a few months before his daughter was born by surrogate. That’s the kind of twist of fate that could crack a man.

Nate rebuilt again. His world rotates around daughter Caralyn, who turns 3 in November. Nate plans to move into a larger site to accommodate the growth at his gym.

Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and grimace at what I see. I think withering thoughts about my lumpy body, saggy skin and all the mistakes and overindulgence that led to that point.

Then I think of Nate, who never judged me not on my first wheezing day when I could barely lift a 45-pound bar without pain lancing through my back and not on my most recent workout, when I tossed a tire, cradled a kettlebell under my chin while squatting and pulled ring rows for 22 minutes in a row.

I think of this man who helps me three times a week push harder, get stronger and be better. And I know he does it because he cares. He wants me to succeed, sustain and achieve.

Self-discipline is a wonderful concept and not to be underestimated, but neither is teamwork. With my bent mindset, I give up on myself often.

Yet with this cast of characters working so hard to help themselves and each other, I shrug off the anxiety and doubt despite internal misgivings.

I need only look at the faces of my teammates to find the faith to keep moving forward.

TUESDAY, SEPT. 27, 2016

A better kind of scale

I needed a win.

The weigh-in that showed a gain of 13 pounds over the previous month brought my spirits low. I felt as if the work I had done in increasingly intense workouts over recent months was in vain.

I had the vague, unrealistic fear that I was creeping back to the nearly 600 pounds I was before I began this journey.

Nate Yoho, my friend and trainer at CrossFit Merle Hay, seemed to sense this when I arrived at the gym.

We started with a deadlift, my favorite weightlifting exercise. It’s the one that reminds me I once couldn’t carry a few bags of groceries without hurting myself.

Now I can pull hundreds of pounds off the floor without a problem.

I can’t see the muscles in my back, but my girlfriend says they are firmer, and I feel stronger.

Nate and I started, as always, with 10 reps of just the 45-pound bar. We started to warm up, increasing weight and decreasing repetitions.

The plates started stacking thick on both sides of the bar.

“I see we're going with the no-messing-around weight today,” I said to Nate. I may have used a different word than “messing.”

“We’re going for it,” Nate said.

By “it,” Nate meant a personal record. I set one several months ago at 331 pounds.

At the time, Nate said I probably could have done more, but I began to lose my form — which can lead to injury — on my final reps, so we stopped.

This time, with form locked in, I pulled from the ground to my knees, keeping my back straight, my chest up and leading with my shoulders.

Nate kept sliding on more plates. Finally, we reached 352 pounds, which would best the previous record by 21 pounds.

I squatted into position, set my heels and yanked that bar to my waist. I held it for a second before I let the bar drop and slam to the floor.

Nate and I bumped fists. That felt damned good.

We dropped the weight down to 225 pounds for five sets of five reps. I focused on the form that sometimes fails as I try to set records.

I squeezed my shoulder blades together and led with my upper body as I stood. I worked the rounds.

With each round completed, Nate fist-pumped on the side. He bubbled with jubilation.

“This is what I do this for,” he said. “This is about you getting your life back. You’re no longer a prisoner in your own body or your own home. You don’t have to worry about hurting yourself doing everyday things.”

He reminded me I pulled 352 pounds off the floor and was closing in on a full body-weight deadlift — a major accomplishment in weightlifting, especially for a man of my girth.

Then he pointed out I finished 25 reps of 225 pounds. No amount of groceries I bought was going to weigh that. That strength was mine now, to nurture and build upon.

And that felt even better than the personal record.

For our metabolic conditioning, Nate retested me on a workout I completed twice during our time together.

The set involved declining reps on three separate exercises for time, beginning at 10 and decreasing by one until the last round was one rep.

The three exercises were rowing on the machine, push-ups and pulling a 20-pound medicine ball from the floor and throwing it down.

My first time was 18 minutes — 18 seconds. The second time I ran the gauntlet, my time went up — in part because I fiddled with the straps on the rowing machine too much.

This time, though, I felt a burning sense of purpose, a desire to rip this thing to shreds.

I don’t remember much about the metabolic conditioning series other than when I felt even the slightest sense of fatigue, I screamed to myself in my head, “Next time, you do one less than this time.”

When I pounded the medicine ball on the floor for a final time, I fell to my knees and rolled over on my back. Sweat rolled back off my bald head and pooled on the gym floor.

I could barely breathe.

“Time,” I wheezed to Nate.

“12:29,” he said. “You just beat your old best time by almost 6 minutes. You went to a different mental place to do that.”

Nate shook my hand. I stayed on the floor.

My chest heaved. My heart rate slowed. I smiled.

I’ll take this measure of fitness over the scale every single time.

TUESDAY, SEPT. 20, 2016

Setbacks and commitments

My shirt hung heavy on my sweaty frame.

The day’s workout at CrossFit Merle Hay felt good. Coach Nate Yoho put me through a timed metabolic conditioning circuit.

It involved a row, followed by a bike ride followed by a 200 meter walk with a 50-pound barbell in each hand.

The thing took 20 minutes, 10 seconds. We both wanted to finish in less than 20 minutes, but the strength of my grip faded on the back half of the 200-meter. I need to stop one more time before the finish. It cost me a few seconds.

Still, I felt good. I thought of all the things I could do now that I wasn’t able to do when I when I started at the gym about nine months ago.

I probably am the physically strongest I have ever been and, outside of playing basketball as a sophomore at Winterset High School, this is probably the most sustained physical activity I’ve ever done.

I drank my protein shake and a recovery drink. I chatted with Nate. We talked about how my form had improved in various lifts and exercises. I am beginning to develop body awareness.

I felt good and strong. I decided to drive over to Mercy Weight Loss and Nutrition Center to check my weight.

Workouts continued to increase intensity over recent weeks. The sweat and grind must surely produce a positive result.

Jacque Schwartz, my regular dietician, wasn’t available. Another professional familiar with these paragraphs took the measurement.

My jaw hung agape at the results. I gained 13 pounds since Aug. 11. It was the biggest rollback since I began recovery from morbid obesity more than 18 months ago.

I held back tears as I slid on my shoes and socks. I hustled out to my car and collapsed into the driver’s seat. Despondency washed over me. Boy, the jerks on social media were going to love this. I can almost see the all the creative fat jokes being crafted once this column is published.

The first thought I had was to take the car down to Iowa Highway 5 south of the airport and get it up as fast as I could go and smash it into the bridge truss at top speed.

I have suicidal thoughts sometimes. It is painful and embarrassing to admit, but it is true. They come from a combination of thinking errors, adverse childhood experiences and the malfunction of brain chemistry that goes along with chronic depression and acute anxiety.

This does not mean I am actively suicidal. It means that sometimes when I struggle, my mind visits upon those thoughts, usually exceptionally briefly. I first had suicidal thoughts in fourth grade after my favorite teacher died. I think once your brain cracks the seal on that kind of thinking, it always lurks in your mind even if you aren't going to act upon it. Author Susanna Kaysen, who lives with borderline personality disorder, described the persistent, illogical nature of suicidal thinking in her autobiographical book, “Girl, Interrupted.”

“Once you’ve posed that question, it won’t go away,” she wrote.

That’s how suicidal thinking is for me. I think about it, usually when I screw up or believe I have disappointed people who give me their love and put their trust in me. Through behavioral therapy, I’ve learned to manage suicidal thoughts. The first thought I have is that I don’t want to cause pain to the people I love, especially Parents 2.0, the kindly east Des Moines couple who raised me after my parents died.

Then I think of the poor cop who has to see whatever is left of me at the accident scene. Or I consider the fact I might survive the attempt but permanently and severely injured.

All these thoughts pass in a few seconds or less. Usually, the real problems – sadness and disappointment – are revealed. Sadness and disappointment are rational reactions to negative events. These I can work with, unpleasant though they may be.

One note of caution here: Always take seriously someone who talks openly about suicide. I have a lot of experience wrangling these thoughts and an excellent support structure in place, but others — especially adolescents — don't have the experience to know the pain will pass.

My boss read these paragraphs and called to check on me, as one should. We had a talk. I assured her I was OK, just going through a rough patch. Talking is always a good idea. The worst that can happen is a person tells to buzz off or that they are fine. The best that can happen is they ask for help.

I called my therapist and told him I was in a spiral. He asked me what might have caused the weight gain.

My best guess was too many carbohydrates. I indulged in one too many English muffins, lasagna and pizza a few times in the previous month.

My therapist emphasized that weight is but one measure of success. I was stronger. I looked better. I found a new community at the gym. I knew that, but when overwhelmed by the disappointment, I could not see it.

My therapist asked me what my plan was. I decided to cut my daily calorie intake from 2,500 calories to 2,250. I planned to more vigorously eschew carbohydrates.

I also planned to break up my total calorie intake into three or four smaller meals instead of some snacks or protein supplements and one large, high-calorie meal.

By the time I finished detailing the plan, a kind of calm settled in. My therapist always says it helps to say things out loud. The negative thoughts sound silly and the positive ones make more sense.

I texted the bad news to Nate.

“Life happens,” he said. “I’ve never had a client who lost more than 100 pounds that didn’t slide back. Did you think you were going to be the first?”

At first, I thought Nate unsympathetic. Then I remembered a story he told me while he was playing minor league baseball some years ago.

He went through a 0-for-40 slump. He was the fourth outfielder on the team and only played once or twice a week.

“I’d go 0-for-5 and sit for four days,” Nate said. “Nobody wanted to be around me. I was in a bad mood all the time.”

The lesson, though, is that nobody bats 1.000. I made some bad decisions with food and it caught up with me. I already had a plan in place to improve.

Yes, the usual trolls would come in via social media or email with their scolds and finger-wagging about the fat man who got fatter.

I don’t have to write about the dark places my mind goes or the pain I feel when I don’t reach a goal. I choose to do so because setbacks, mistakes and failures are a part of recovery. Pretending that they aren't is simply a lie.

Such challenges matter less than what one does about them once they’re presented.

I was back at the gym Monday afternoon, lifting weights, doing push-ups, burpies, squats, dumbbell snatches and kettlebell swings.

The journey continued.

TUESDAY, SEPT. 13, 2016

Getting to the good stuff

Forty seconds remained in the 15-minute workout.

At CrossFit Merle Hay, where I continue my ongoing battle against morbid obesity, they call it “AMRAP” – as many repetitions as possible in a set time period.

The menu of exercises included five “wall balls,” which involves squatting with a 20-pound medicine ball at your chest and standing up, throwing the ball to a mark on the wall in front of you and catching it, a 10-calorie exercise bike ride and 15 sit-ups.

Nate changed the form on the sit-ups. In the past, when my belly was larger and my back weaker, the goal was to get my hands to my knees.

This day he wanted me to get my hands to my toes, tapping my fingertips on the 70-pound dumbbells I hooked my toes under while doing the activity.

When he first described it, I thought I couldn’t do it. I found I was able to do it with relative ease. This, of course, changed as the workout continued and my body tired.

The workout was near complete and I’d made three full rounds and was two sit-ups away from four complete rounds. But my abdominal muscles – I promise there are some under all of the fat rolls – started to fail.

I needed to hit two more sit-ups with 40 seconds. I hit one. But on the final try, my muscles just surrendered and I fell back.

Nate hollered for me to try again, counting down the seconds on the clock.

I tried and got about two-thirds of the way there, but my gut muscles had no more left to give.

I rolled over and pulled my knees to my chest. I sweated and gasped on the rubbery gym floor. Nate gave me a fist bump. The final tally marked 119 reps.

This is the good stuff, I thought, out of gas and exhausted.

How did it come to pass that such a feeling of exhaustion became “the good stuff?”

In recent weeks, this job had been getting to me. I live with acute anxiety disorder. My brain twists small problems into big problems and sometimes no problems into big problems.

I was really struggling with a few work-related things: jerks on social media, worries about convincing a broad audience that it’s worth paying for the content in The Register and so on.

My bosses assured me they were pleased with my work and that they were happy with how my paragraphs connected with our audience.

My brain was misfiring and I was in a loop. And when you’re an anxiety sufferer in the middle of a downward spiral, very few things can jolt you back to clarity.

I worked with my therapist. He can usually do it, but I wasn’t settling to a normal rhythm. Everything felt uncomfortable and overwhelming.

I’ll talk to my girlfriend about her cats or my buddy Paul from Memphis about stupid TV shows and bad movies, which is nearly all of them.

But that nagging feeling that my life was out of control and everything was going to end badly persisted. I woke up in the morning in a nearly full panic and found myself extra surly and suspicious.

It reached a point where I wanted to write a column that poked fun at one of Iowa’s sacred subjects but I was afraid to do it because of the beating I would take on social media, through email and phone calls.

That was the moment I knew I needed to take a timeout. I took FMLA leave to clear my head and bring the anxiety symptoms back into manageable ranges.

I’m an insecure person. Lots of people are, maybe most of us are. I want to be liked and loved, but I’ve picked a strange occupation to seek adulation in the age of angry discourse augmented by social media.

Still, an important part of my job is challenging the audience with ideas counter to the status quo. If I’m afraid to do that, I can’t be the kind of columnist I want to be and I might as well turn in my laptop.

I took 11 days off, including the Labor Day holiday and two weekends. I rested. I read. I eschewed social media. I hung out with friends. I tried to get my sleep schedule back on track.

And I hit the gym.

I played catch with Nate and Van Marshall, a trainer at the gym. I ran through the workouts despite arthritic knees aching with the barometric pressure shifts during a rainy period.

And the days I was at the gym, I felt settled, even gruntled. There’s science behind this. Workouts produce endorphins and serotonin, which lead to better moods and less anxiety.

But the routine of it – working out to near-exhaustion, hanging out with the crew – was as important as any of the physicality involved.

About eight days into my sabbatical, I woke up and felt fine. My gut was calm. My brain was active and eager to be at the gym.

“Today is the first day in about two months that I’ve felt good,” I said to Nate.

“It’s about time,” Nate said.

I agreed.

Back to the recent workout: I lay on the floor in a kind of sultry daze.

“Did you see there is a Part C?” Nate said. He meant there was another round to the workout. My brain cursed him, but I fought my way to my feet.

He wanted me to walk or run a mile, not for time. I restrained my profanity again. I drank a protein shake. I got my wind back. I hit the bricks.

My mind worked ahead. As I navigated the bumpy, pockmarked pavement behind the gym, I already was thinking of climbing the long hill on the access road.

By the time I was at the access road, I was thinking about the turn back to the building to complete the first lap.

My mind was working at the same frenetic pace it does during anxiety attacks. But instead of shredding my psyche with worry, it was planning my attack to finish this mile in less than 20 minutes.

I jogged the last 100 yards or so and finished at 18 minutes, 54 seconds. I was out of breath. I sipped a recovery drink and sweated on the bench while Nate worked with other clients.

Yes, I thought, this really is the good stuff.

TUESDAY, AUG. 30, 2016

Head games

The kettle bell with the green stripes at the base of the handle weighs 53 pounds.

Rust peeks through portions of its rounded base where the black paint has chipped away.

Chalk dust coats the ball with clean spots made by drips of sweat striking the lead weight in a series of swings to end a grueling workout.

Through the loop on the handle, you can see the obscured image of a man exhausted, splayed out on the floor with his seemingly lifeless hand laying on the soft padded floor of Nate Yoho’s CrossFit Merle Hay gym.

This portly paragraph-stacker unceremoniously dropped the kettle bell to the floor after 20 swings and collapsed in to what Nate calls “the CrossFit position.”

I began the workout with some trepidation. My arthritic knees ached with the recent humidity and volatile barometric pressure.

Recent workouts challenged the joints’ stability with jump roping and light jogging. I warmed up slowly on the humid day.

As always, Nate asked how my body felt. I warned him my knees ached, but, as always, I was not at the gym to be comfortable.

We began with an exercise called “thrusters.” The lift involves putting weight on a bar, holding it at the tops of your shoulders in front of your body with your elbows pointed out.

You squat and then thrust up from the squat, careful to keep your heels on the floor, and then push the weight above your head as your hips swing forward.

My knees hurt, but they eventually loosened up or enough adrenaline flowed that I did not notice the ache as badly.

The cardio portion of the workout came next. Nate lined up nine activities to be completed for time. It began with a 20-calorie row, a 100-meter run (run!), and 30-calorie bike ride, followed by another row, run, ride and run.

The capstone was 20 swings of the 53-pound kettle bell.

Let’s pause for a moment to consider the notion of a 447-pound man running. Brian Brown will not be recruiting me for any special events at next year’s Drake Relays.

But running is something I’ve largely avoided since maybe playing a few pickup basketball games at Bell Center when I was a Drake University student more than 20 years ago.

When I began this recovery from morbid obesity, a 156-foot walk was enough to drench me with sweat and force me to sit down, near complete exhaustion.

I was in slightly better shape when Nate invited me to his gym in late January this year. But running and jumping were far from my mind.

Yet in recent weeks, we’ve started running and jumping. It’s difficult and taxes my knees in particular.

But my knees are strong. A doctor took X-rays when I weighed close to 600 pounds. There was still good cartilage and space between the bones. I was simply putting a lot of pressure on the joints, which caused the arthritis.

Now I’m challenging those joints again, though with a body that is much lighter. Still, they hurt. Yet I keep pushing them. Because something strange is happening to me.

I want to see how hard I can really go.

I am good at rowing and the stationary bike. I keep a good pace at those, even when fatigue sets in. Running is new.

Nate said I could walk the 100 meters if I needed to. I pledged to run all four rounds, even if it was barely a jog.

I stayed on the balls of my feet and dug in when I needed to climb the hill back to the gym.

I regained my breath on the bike or rower. I still went hard, but I’ve become strong enough in those exercises that I can perform at a higher level and still recoup some of my energy for activities that are more taxing.

Nate set no time goal for me, but mentally I wanted to finish in less than 20 minutes. On the last 100 meters, my creaky knees really ached on the downhill run alongside the gym’s building.

I turned to run back to the gym and I turned it on. Now, I don’t want anyone getting visions of Usain Bolt here. It was a slow, plodding, clopping graceless run.

But for a man of my girth on this point in my journey, it was a damn Olympic sprint.

The last round was 20 kettle bell swings. My breath was shallow. I decided to break it down into four sets of five swings. I made the first five and took a break.

My gray T-shirt was heavy with sweat. My arms and legs were slick.

I swung five more and thought for a moment that I did not have two rounds in me. I leaned on the stationary bike for support. I gasped for air.

Nate suggested I try six swings to get more than halfway home. I decided I wanted to be done.

I swung the final 10 swings in the third round. The kettle bell landed on the floor. I followed, spent and gasping.

The elapsed time was 17 minutes, 3 seconds.

Nate shook my hand. He let me be for a few minutes while I regained my breath.

I propped myself up on my elbows.

Nate said I’d been hitting the floor a lot after workouts recently. I said he was pushing me harder.

He corrected me.

“No, you’re breaking through mentally,” Nate said. “You’re going to that place in your head that really wants to push as far as you can go.”

I understood exactly what he meant. Look at all I can do now when 18 months ago, exhausted after 156 feet, I asked Stefanie Kirk, physical therapist at Mercy South Physical Therapy, if I had any hope.

Now my mindset is: Just how far can I go?

TUESDAY, AUG. 23, 2016

Jump, jump around

I bought a jump rope.

If Vegas took odds on what this paragraph stacker would buy, jump rope would not have even been on the board.

But I bought one because my trainer, CrossFit Merle Hay owner Nate Yoho, said it was time to integrate jumping into my workouts.

We worked on some light jumping, just a few inches off the ground. My arthritic knees took the pounding fairly well.

So I shelled out almost $25 for a jump rope. This isn’t actually a rope. It’s a thin aluminum cable with slim handles with rubber grips.

The elegant little thing is a far cry from the nylon jump rope with wood handles I received for participating in Jump Rope for Heart in fifth grade.

Scores of jump ropes hang on hooks at the gym. But Nate worried that none would be long enough for my 6-foot-4 frame.

So I invested in exercise equipment. It even comes with a small nylon storage bag to keep it tightly and tidily wound inside my gym bag.

I have not jumped rope since it was a unit in physical education class, likely in elementary or middle school. I recall charts on the wall with various tricks one could do.

My favorite was “side swing,” which involved swinging the rope on each side of your body and no actual jumping.

But this is a new era. CrossFit athletes do something called “double-unders,” in which they spin the rope so quickly and jump high enough that the rope clears their feet twice for every jump.

This big-and-tall man is not ready for double-unders. I am barely capable of single jumps. But once the jump rope arrived, Nate decided to incorporate it into the metabolic conditioning.

The act of getting a body that weighs 447 pounds to jump up repeatedly while spinning a rope underneath is somewhat comical if observed from the outside.

Yet I was surprised how easily my morbidly obese form took to the rhythm. I made six jumps unbroken the first time. Nate adjusted the length of the rope and I was able to do an unbroken stretch of 16 jumps.

This will hardly set a world record, but it almost certainly is a personal one.

Jumping rope reminds me of swimming. It’s something done effortlessly as a child but somehow became exceptionally exhausting as an adult.

I felt my heavy body pile-driving into the gym floor with each leap, yet I kept jumping the line as quickly and often as I could.

Nate included jump-ropes in our metabolic conditioning for the day. The series of exercises involved a 10-calorie row, 10 push-ups and 10 rope jumps over 18 minutes.

These metabolic conditioning routines are rough. I try to get through as many rounds as possible, but I often find myself gasping for air early in the process.

The arms always go first. By the second or third round, they might as well be those flags waving wildly in those wacky inflatable tube men on display at used car lots.

The legs hold out better, to a point. But I often feel the burn in my quadriceps earlier than I like.

Nate would admonish me that I am much stronger than I was when we started in January. But I stay in the moment.

One pull, one jump, one push-up. There is no past or future, only now.

Somehow, in the midst of that cycle, the jump rope became the easy part. I got a rhythm fairly quickly and made it through 10 jumps unbroken three or four times.

Ah, but there were consequences. The first time we used the jump rope, it was a Thursday workout. Nate had just returned from a trip out east.

Typically, Thursday workouts are a little lighter. The body is beat up from going hard at the beginning of the week. The Thursday workout is just to get the blood flowing.

But Nate’s assistants led me through workouts earlier that week. He did not see me grind through. So he decided to bring his own grind.

The workout ended and my legs quivered.

The next day, my knees ached as they hadn’t done since the early days of physical therapy with Stefanie Kirk at Mercy South Physical Therapy.

I invested in a large bottle of ibuprofen, which cost almost as much as the jump rope. But hopefully the 1,600 pills will last longer.

The medicine did the trick for the inflammation. A light weekend allowed the knees to recover.

But after Monday’s workout, I texted Stefanie to ask her what muscles were hurting. I described the location of the pain.

She sent me the name of the muscle and a link to a health website to learn more about it. My trouble spots were the hip flexor and something called the quadratus lumborum.

So not only am I jumping rope like I did in middle school, I’m learning physiology through aches and pains after workouts.

I took physiology from a great teacher at East High School named Paul Sloan.

I don’t recall how well I did in the class, but if you’re reading, Mr. Sloan, you were right. I probably should have paid more attention.

WEDNESDAY, AUG. 17, 2016

New sensation

Anticipation is the worst part of anything. I’ve typed that sentence before, but I find it especially true as I evaluate the changes in my life while recovering from morbid obesity.

The latest weigh-in at Mercy Weight Loss and Nutrition Center shows a loss of 116 pounds since March 2015 and a decrease of my body mass index of more than 22 percent.

I remain morbidly obese, but I am headed in the right direction — and have been nearly 18 months. My diet is better, but hardly perfect.

My exercise routines at CrossFit Merle Hay continue to grow in intensity. I probably am physically stronger now than I have been at any point in my life.

Still, sometimes my brain defaults to running my body as if it were still 563 pounds.

For example, one of the reasons I began this journey was because I hurt my back carrying in groceries from the car. I carried in all my groceries at once because my body wasn’t fit enough to make two trips to the car without serious exhaustion.

In a recent workout, I set a personal record of deadlifting more than 330 pounds, under coach Nate Yoho’s guidance.

Yet, still, whenever I get home from the grocery store with the bags in my trunk, I think, “Oh, man, am I going to hurt my back again?”

I eat well, but I do not carry 330 pounds of groceries at any point. I doubt I carry in 50 pounds of groceries.

And the other day, as part of a circuit workout, I carried a 53-pound kettlebell in each hand on a 100-meter walk as a part of a series of exercises in metabolic conditioning. It wasn’t a strain.

Carrying the groceries isn’t, either. But my mind thinks I can’t, even when my body obviously can.

It’s a strange thing.

When I weighed 563 pounds, one of the most difficult tasks I faced six days a week was walking the 150 yards or so from my apartment building to the mailboxes in the parking lot.

At my worst, I would drive my car to the mailbox, get my mail and then park as close as I could to my door.

Nate and I have just begun to work on running and jumping in workouts — two activities I thought my body would never be able to handle again. I even bought a jump rope.

I walked a mile the other day for time. I don’t remember the time, but it wasn’t bad, and I wasn’t out of gas.

We’re going to try a jogging and walking combo the next time we test on the mile.

So, of course I can traverse 150 yards without a problem. I just think that I can’t.

So I hesitate. I think, “Oh, that is so far.”

Then I walk and think, “Why was I worried about this at all?”

One of the things my physical therapist, Stefanie Kirk at Mercy South Physical Therapy, and I worked on early in recovery was getting in and out of the car without pain.

To this day, some 116 pounds lighter and much stronger, I often pause with my door open, dreading the idea of standing up and getting out of the car.

I know I can do it without needing to use my arms to pull myself up on the frame of the door and roof of the car.

But I still think about it.

I suppose this will eventually pass.

I felt a little milestone recently at the gym when Van Marshall, a CrossFit trainer who was pinch-hitting for Nate while he was out of town, gave me a lengthy workout.

I looked at the slate he outlined for me. It was one of those scaled workouts that decreases by one rep each session, beginning at 10 and ending at one.

The circuit involved rowing, ring rows and a weightlifting exercise. The whole thing was topped off with an 800-meter walk.

I looked at that workout and thought, “Yeah, I can do that.”

Now that is real progress, friends.

WEDNESDAY, AUG. 10, 2016

Lessons in mental health

Dear Natasha,

Your therapist emailed me asking for a copy of a recent column I wrote about an incident in my childhood in which my mother briefly locked me in the basement and how that affected how I think about the world.

Your therapist kept with the ethics of her profession. She did not tell me your name or anything specific about your case other than you, too, struggled with adverse childhood experiences.

Natasha, as far as I know, is not your real name. I picked the name Natasha because there is a Natasha Romanov bobblehead figure on my desk as I type. Natasha is also known as the superhero Black Widow and is played by Scarlett Johansson in the “Avengers” movies.

All your therapist said was that you struggled as a child and were working toward ways to change how that affects you.

This is good. This is great. It is an important first step, maybe the most important one of your journey. I wanted to pass along a few things I have learned in my efforts to regain mental health and physical health.

You are not alone. It seems that way, especially in the darkness of night when there is no one to talk to and the anxiety and depression creeps in. But there are millions of us out there who live with mood disorders. Yes, we struggle. But through the struggle we learn about ourselves and the better we understand ourselves, the easier it becomes to accept who we are and become the person we want to be.

It’s going to hurt. There is no pain-free path through the suffering we’ve endured or our current challenges. Remembering the things that we survived, whatever they may be, hurts. Sometimes it hurts worse than the day it happened. But you can get past the pain and on the other side of that is understanding. I wish there was an easier way toward personal enlightenment, but there isn’t. I promise you, though, it’s worth it.

Closure is a lie. The link between adult behavior and childhood experience is well-studied and scientifically proven. Still, the world is not made up of thinkers. People like snap judgments and simple answers. They will tell you to “just get over it already” or that you need to seek something called “closure.” Maybe you will even tell yourself these things. These are fantasies. “Closure” is brought up when people who are tired of talking to you about the things that hurt the most. There is no such thing as closure. The most painful moments in our lives, be it the death of a loved one or a hardship endured, are with us for the rest of our lives. We never “get over” them. We just reach a point of where we understand that pain is a part of our identity.

A reason is not an excuse. As you continue on your wellness journey, you will begin to understand the links between your current behavioral issues and their roots in your past. Still, you must accept responsibility for the mistakes you make now and in the future. You may not have had an easy go of it so far. That’s true for lots of people. Everyone makes mistakes and will for the entirety of their lives. Through therapy, you’re investigating the causes of the thinking errors that lead to patterns of mistakes. But the only way we make progress is by accepting our faults with our strengths and owning the person we are as a whole.

Keep moving forward. You will fail. You will still have bad days. There is no such thing as a perfect person and there’s no sense in shredding your sense of self-worth because you’re not perfect. Remember that no matter how hard life hits you, no matter how often our brain chemistry twists our thoughts into knives that cut us so deeply, we are still standing. Survival is no small feat. Don't take it for granted. There is a difference between surviving and living. And the key to that is accepting that you are deserving of love, dignity and respect. I work on that every day and haven't come to fully accept it. But I, like we all are, am a work in progress.

Sincerely,

Daniel P. Finney, fellow traveler

WEDNESDAY, AUG. 3, 2016

The gauntlet

CrossFit Merle Hay owner Nate Yoho wrote the day’s workout plan on the black dry erase board in yellow marker.

He said it would be a challenge. I read the list. I thought it was attempted murder.

Still, in nearly eight months working with Nate, I’ve yet to refuse one of his “challenges.” The tasks daunted me.

The first round consisted of 60 reps of squatting and tossing a 14-pound ball to hit a target on the wall, 50-calorie row and 40 reps of a weightlifting exercise.

A five-minute break followed.

Then came 40 swings of a 35-pound kettlebell, a 30-calorie bike ride and 20 pickups and tosses of a 40-pound ball.

Then came a seven-minute rest.

The final round was 20 “thrusters,” a chore that involves squatting with weight on a bar across your back and then pushing the weight over your head, 10 jumps onto a platform and five burpies, a kind of torture that can barely be described without profanity.

I was halfway through squatting and tossing the 14-pound ball against the wall when the I first thought I was never going to make it through this insanity.

My shoulders burned so bad somewhere through the first weightlifting exercise that I was glad to be bald for I would surely never be able to wash my hair again.

I remember the first break. My legs and arms quivered. I could barely lift my water-filled University of Iowa Iowa women’s basketball tumbler, a recent gift from my dear friends Lisa Bluder, Jan Jensen and Jenni Fitzgerald.

I thought for sure I was going to throw up each time I leaned over to pick up the kettlebell for a series of swings. I thought I might actually pass out in the humidity. My forearms were slick with sweat.

My shirt, one of those newfangled fabrics that’s supposed to wick moisture away from the body, was heavy with sweat. Apparently the designers had not consulted Nate Yoho when they made that wicking promise.

I kind of enjoyed the second round of ball throwing. I picked up the sand-filled ball, hefted it to my shoulder and let it fall to the ground behind me. I repeated the process 20 times.

I like throwing things on the floor. It feels like something you should get in trouble for. Yet in the gym, under the right circumstances, such activity is rewarded.

I can’t remember the seven-minute break. I know I took it. I drank water. I’m sure I hurt everywhere and felt spent. But my psychologist says the brain doesn’t remember pain. It’s a good thing. If it did, I would never get out of bed.

I recall Nate saying near the end of the break that I should walk around a bit to loosen up. The first task of the final round was thrusters. I botched the first three reps before Nate corrected me.

At this point, I only had so many reps of anything left in me. It was no time to start losing form. I recovered.

The jumps came easy. Somewhere Stefanie Kirk, my physical therapist at Mercy South Physical Therapy, is squealing. When I first came to see her about 18 months ago, I couldn’t walk 156 feet. Now I was jumping. It was only a few inches onto a soft platform, but still — jumping.

Then came the burpies. No one likes burpies. The fittest person in Nate’s gym will groan at the notion of burpies. A burpie is an exercise in which you touch your thighs and chest to the ground, hop to a standing position and then jump.

Experienced athletes often jump over a weight bar. My goal is to jump enough to get my feet off the floor and clap my hands above my head.

I did 30 burpies to close out a workout session earlier that week. I had “burpie burns” on both knees — red scabs from where the fabric of my shorts rubbed against my knees so much it created bloody sores.

I needed to complete just five burpies to end the session. I felt like a building collapsing each time I hit the floor. But I fell five times and got up five times.

The workout ended. I survived.

Nate showed me the timer on his phone. I had worked out for an hour straight.

“How does that feel?” Nate said as he offered me a fist bump.

“Awful,” I said.

That was a lie. It felt fantastic. I mean I was spent. If he had asked me to do one more thing, I definitely would have thrown up.

But consider: I weigh about 450 pounds with arthritic knees. I made it through nine different exercises with a total of 275 repetitions.

If you’d asked me before I started if I thought I could make it through all that, I would have scoffed.

Yet I did.

“I didn’t think I had it in me,” I said to Nate.

“There’s always more left than you think there is,” he said.

TUESDAY, JULY 26, 2016

Yesterdays matter today

Morbid obesity is a medical diagnosis, but I also look at it as a symptom of my complex psychological profile.

I’ve written often about the close connections between mental wellness and physical wellness, in particular the relationship of obesity to adverse childhood experiences. But I rarely write about the experiences themselves.

Today, I want to share one story, a milder one, from my childhood as a way of talking about how patterns of behavior formed in my brain that continue to contribute to mental and physical health problems some 26 years after my mother died.

I was a small boy. I’m not sure how old.

We lived in the baby blue house on Lynner Drive off of what was then known as Harding Road in northwest Des Moines.

My father was a traveling salesman. He was often away.

My mother could be loving and caring. But her moods were volatile. She took many medications for a variety of ailments both real and imagined.

Some of the medications include opiate-derivative painkillers that now are illegal because of their highly addictive nature and side effects that include severe short-term memory loss.

I didn’t know any of this at the time. What I knew was that if Mom was sleeping, it was best not to interrupt that because you never knew if you were going to get Loving Mom or Other Mom.

I was so afraid of Other Mom that on more than one night, when she slept through dinnertime — which happens when you are on heavy painkillers — I crawled on my hands and knees to the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of Lucky Charms and crawled back to my room.

I crawled because I didn’t want to risk waking Mom. Loving Mom would have made me toast and been apologetic.

Other Mom would have been apoplectic that I was out in the kitchen dirtying dishes, and she probably would have sworn she made dinner, even if she had not.

One day, Mom slept in her room. I was looking for two comic books. I wanted to trace the art on notebook paper.

One was an issue of reprints of the Invaders, a World War II superhero team that included Captain America. The other was an issue of the Avengers, now the basis of blockbuster movies.

I was fairly certain the comics were in the cream-colored bag with yellow handles that had a Joe Cool Snoopy silk-screened on the side. I kept things to do in that bag, activity books, colors and so on.

When my parents went places, rarely were there things for children to do. I was expected to be seen and not heard.

The bag was in the basement. I was not supposed to go to the basement without permission, but I decided to risk it.

I went downstairs and found the bag, but the comics were not in it. Mom appeared behind me.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THE BASEMENT?” she asked. It was Other Mom, and I was in big trouble.

I stammered an explanation. She would have none of it. The argument was brief, one-sided and loud.

It concluded with Mom saying, “WELL IF YOU LIKE IT DOWN HERE SO MUCH, YOU CAN JUST STAY HERE!”

She flipped off the light, slammed the basement door and latched the hook and chain.

I tried to push the door open, but she slammed it onto my arm and I withdrew. The darkness scared me.

My feet were bare and there were sometimes creepy little water bugs on the concrete tile floor.

I waited until I thought she was gone. I was a husky boy, even when I was small. I opened the door as far as the chain would allow and leaned in until the chain ripped loose of the door frame.

I hustled up to my room, closed the door and nothing was said of the incident again.

The next day, Loving Mom took me to the Target down the hill to buy some “Star Wars” toys.

Even typing that story today, I feel a tightness in my chest, a primal kind of fear that is hard to explain.

I’ve written about schema before — behavior patterns set as children as a reaction to environmental stimuli.

There were three ways I learned as a boy to cope with the potential for Other Mom: eating sugary foods, watching TV and buying toys, comics and books.

As a child, these were effective survival strategies.

But they have led to unhealthy behaviors as an adult, some of which I have finally begun to address directly through psychoactive medication and behavioral therapy.

Yet whenever I feel stress — whether it be a performance evaluation at work, a cruel comment from a reader or simply an unexpected change in plans — I default to these reactions.

I am a spendthrift. It is a terrible habit that I’ve learned is not uncommon among people who struggle with mood disorders.

Historians, for example, say Winston Churchill, who lived with depression, was constantly in need of money after he left the prime minister’s office.

I have spent myself into bankruptcy once. I continue to struggle with overspending.

Some people use the cute name “shopaholic” to describe the affliction. But this isn’t enjoying sales at Von Maur.

This is me trying to buy a sense of security and safety. My apartment looks like a combination toy, book and DVD store. And still I buy more.

I should pause to note I don't blame my late mother for the mistakes I make as an adult. The authorship of those errors rests only with me.

But there is a difference between a reason and an excuse. This is an examination of the root cause.

It's the simplest and most human of all: I am insecure.

Most of us are insecure to a degree. Mine is both chronic and acute.

It is strange that I chose a trade in which I would put so much of myself up for public scrutiny, but that is a column for another day.

Sometimes it’s hard for people to understand that things that happen to us as children affect how we feel about ourselves and act as adults.

It was a long time ago, the thinking goes. Let it go.

Unfortunately, that’s not the way the brain works. It takes time to build new schema and the struggle goes on.

The good news is Parents 2.0, the kindly east Des Moines couple who took me in after my parents died, are thrifty. They saved 4 cents of every nickel they ever earned.

They counsel me on debt management and spending. I know I frustrate them because of my struggles turning off the spending spigot. But we make progress.

It really is the same principle as working out at the gym or losing weight. One starts and moves forward.

There will be setbacks, weight gains, missed reps on the dumbbells and money spent that should have been saved.

The best I or anyone can do is get up tomorrow and try again.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 20, 2016

A fitting tale

My friend Yvonne sent me a gift card to a big-and-tall men’s store for my recent birthday. She suggested I get myself something to celebrate my smaller frame after losing nearly 110 pounds since last March.

I drove to West Des Moines with some trepidation. Yes, I’ve lost weight and it is both visible to myself and others but also measurable in gains in physical activity and health.

But lost weight does not always translate into a trimmer frame. The body loses weight asymmetrically. Some parts shrink quickly, others seem to desperately hang onto the fat.

Then there is the problem I have described before of hanging skin. I was more than 560 pounds when I began this recovery. That extra weight stretched some of the skin in my body beyond its natural elasticity.

As I have lost weight, the skin has not shrunk to fit, so to speak. So I have great folds of flesh in my midsection that were once fully filled with fat now dangling at my beltline and below like the deflated envelope of a hot air balloon.

Shopping for clothes was never my favorite exercise, fat or otherwise. I have an odd predilection to either loud, brightly colored Hawaiian-style shirts or navy blue golf shirts and khaki slacks.

Variety may be the spice of life, but the wrong shirt will hang in my closet for years unworn – much to the frustration of Mom 2.0, who for years try to style me up only to see me favor navy blue and khaki.

This much I will say about shopping for larger sizes for the good: 20 years ago, shopping for what was called “husky” clothes was an adventure in awful fashion.

It was as if manufacturers scoured the notebooks of the D- students at fashion design schools and told their factories to make that peach and cream stripped shirt, only really big with a pocket on the left breast and an elastic waistband at the bottom.

Today, I can find clothes emblazoned with logos of my favorite sports teams, comic book characters and other pop culture ephemera. Still, I trend toward the navy blue golf shirts and khaki. There are very few places where such attire isn’t considered acceptable.

Despite the expanded selection, there is always a lot of emotion tied up in trying on clothes. I’ve worked hard not to make this journey about a single number – my weight.

But almost as haunting as my weight is the size of my pants. The number on the scale can be kind of abstract after a bit, but few things terrorize the psyche as much as trying to button and zip up a pair of jeans that once fit loosely.

Still, I was realistic as I selected several sizes of my current brand of khakis from the rack. All the exercise at the gym, the swimming and the diet would still count even if my pant size had not changed.

I tried on a pair two sizes smaller than my current pants. I knew this wouldn’t work. This was sort of a Hail Mary. My current pants are very loose, but comfortably so. I like my pants a bit on the baggy side.

I was right. Two sizes down was too far to go. I couldn’t button them. I shed them and tried the next size up.

This was the real test. Where was I at? Had my circumference at the waste shrank along with the number on the scale.

I slid them on. Not a bad fit, I thought. I buttoned and zipped them with ease. These are all good signs. But there is a final test that all pants must endure before I will pay money for them: How do they sit?

When I sit, that’s when those folds of flesh at the waist bunch up into what some inelegantly describe as a “front butt.” I took a deep breath and sat. And … fail.

The otherwise nicely fitting pants pulled taut over my belly. I looked at myself in the mirror and realized I would be uncomfortable and self-conscious, especially with the pockets filled with my keys, wallet, smartphone, pens, notebooks and sundry other items.

In the past, this sort of thing would have sent me on a spiral, feeling as if all the work had been for naught.

Instead, and pleasantly so, I felt only vaguely disappointed. I know I am healthier. I also the journey is still in its early phases. My current khakis are made of sturdy material. I’ll wear them a little loose for a while longer.

I spent the gift card on a T-shirt with superheroes on it and a polo shirt made of that material that wicks sweat away from the body. I even broke form with the color. It’s a pleasant dark gray.

MONDAY, JULY 11, 2016

Don't cheat, just eat

A while back a reader stopped me in Tasty Tacos. He was a follower of Making Weight and wondered if my three taco meal was a “cheat day.”

The fellow was good-natured and lacked malice. It was, I thought, an honest question.

I told the man I don’t believe in cheat days. I’m allotted a specific number of calories per day – 2,500. When I reach that number, I stop eating.

This isn’t to imply I have a perfect record on that. I go over a smidgen here and there and sometimes more than a smidgen.

Estimating calories can be tricky even with the help of a quality smartphone app such as MyFitnessPal, my preferred calorie counter.

The goal, of course, is to use most of those calories up on food that is high in nutrients and low in certain fats, sugars, simple carbohydrates and chemicals.

So I could eat 2,500 calories worth of Twinkies, but I’m not going to get much nutrition out of that. And it won’t do my type 2 diabetes much good, either.

That said, I don’t go in for the “cheat day” concept. We can all make better choices about what we put into our bodies, but none of us are perfect.

I would fare poorly on a diet of mostly greens, a few fruits and some meat. So, yes, sometimes an English muffin or even deep dish pizza finds its way onto my plate.

I mitigate these calories by planning. For example, a buddy took me out for my birthday a few weeks ago. I wanted to go the Wig & Pen in Ankeny and indulge in their glorious deep dish pizza.

We split a large. That was four slices for me. I looked it up in advance. Those four slices amounted to 1,400 calories. We ate side salads with the meal.

I still had room within my calorie goal for a glass of milk and a protein bar before bed.

Obviously I wouldn’t want to eat deep dish pizza every day. That would be counterproductive. But once in a while is fine, especially if I’m keeping up with my exercise schedule and making regular trips to the swimming pool.

The idea of cheat days bugs me for a couple of reasons. First, I think it encourages binging, which is a behavior that one simply must avoid to lose weight and get fit.

Secondly, the “cheat” part of the concept implies you should feel guilty about the food you enjoy. That kind of thinking leads to shame and hopelessness that can lead to a shattered diet plan.

I’m all stocked up on guilt and shame for this lifetime. So I’m not going to feel guilty about what I eat. What I am going to do is try to make the best choices possible within prescribed limits.

For example, Parents 2.0, the kindly east Des Moines couple who raised me after my parents died, host an annual July 4 bash.

The buffet table is laid out with scores of delicious goodies. Hardly any of them are on those preferred food lists.

So this year, I went with a game plan. I decided in advance which foods I really wanted and which foods I could pass on.

I measured out my pork and beans, grilled turkey and pulled pork, coleslaw and pickles wrapped in chipped beef and cream cheese.

I left the chips and the dip behind along with the scalloped corn and cheesy potatoes.

The toughest passes were Mom 2.0’s delicious spritz and sugar cookies.

Oh, I could have had one, but I saved my sweet for the once-a-year treat of homemade pineapple sherbet.

I ate a small meal at the end of the day of some leftover grilled turkey and a yellow tomato. I made sure I went for a swim.

It turned out I was about 150 calories under my goal for the day. My carbs were with in prescribed levels, though my fats were higher than I would want to see on most days. I blame the cream cheese.

Still, I had a lovely meal with company of good friends and family. I was able to enjoy the holiday.

I believe not considering it a “cheat day” prevented me from overeating and making myself miserable both physically, by overstuffing my stomach, and mentally, by feeling guilty for how much I ate.

So if you want my advice, don’t cheat, just eat within prescribed limits.

THURSDAY, JUNE 30, 2016

Numbers game

I haven’t written about my weight in a while, which seems odd given these paragraphs are about my ongoing efforts to recover from morbid obesity.

When I started this journey, that was the only number that mattered to me.

How I felt about myself and the entire journey rested on the number that flashed on the scale.

If I lost weight, I was good. If I gained, I was bad. My mood swung violently with each pound. Anxiety rattled me in advance of weigh-ins.

But I’ve been at this a while now. I’ve come to the realization my recovery and health is not measured by the scale.

This isn’t to say I’ve gained a bunch of weight. I don’t know. I haven’t been to Mercy Weight Loss and Nutrition Center, where I weigh in, since May.

I’m not avoiding it. I’m just not that interested in the results.

No, I’m not giving up on the journey. I’m just measuring progress differently.

Instead of body weight or even body composition, I’m looking at the things I can see with my own eyes.

My pants are baggy to the point of being clownish. Clothes in my closet that haven’t fit for years are comfortable again.

I can even see the changes to my body. Oh, I’m still plenty lumpy. Yet skin sags where it was once filled with fat.

I can feel muscles in my arms, legs, shoulders and chest.

And there are plenty of other numbers.

I can carry 35-pound kettle bells for 400 meters. A year ago, I whined when Stefanie Kirk, my physical therapist, handed me 2-pound weights.

I can press 120 pounds over my shoulders.

A back that once couldn’t carry in groceries without injury can now withstand deadlifts of 230 pounds for four repetitions in six sets.

I can row on a machine for 500 meters in less than two minutes.

I can squat to my heels without losing my balance and I can do that with 125 pounds on my back.

Nate Yoho, owner of CrossFit Merle Hay and my fitness coach, posts my progress on a private Facebook page that only he, Stefanie and my doctor, Shauna Basener, can see.

I can see the differences in my body, from the thickness of my belly to my balance in the videos and pictures he posts.

When I took to the pool this spring, I started doing the exercises Stefanie gave me last year. But they were too easy.

So I just decided to swim. I swim uninterrupted for 40 minutes. I get faster and stronger each week.

My muscle mass is increasing. I know this not because of a readout on a computer, but because it is easier for me to sink to the bottom of the pool.

Last year, I couldn’t dive down to touch the bottom of the pool the entire season.

This year, I do it on every dive. I try to do a handstand on the pool.

I’m getting ever closer to being able to do pushups off the floor.

The other day at the gym, I fell down. I lost my balance while trying to do front squats, an exercise where I hold a weight bar at my neck and bend into a catcher’s squat.

I’ve seen it happen to the other athletes at Nate’s gym. They front squat a lot more weight than me. But everybody falls down.

Here’s the difference for me: I got back up again and finished the rep.

At the beginning of this journey, a fall might have sidelined me for the day.

I used to get calf injuries with big knots on the muscle. Nate would roll them out with a special tool.

I haven’t had that problem in a long time.

I feel better. I am stronger.

Am I done? Heavens no.

There is so much more to do.

But I am getting better about not letting the journey be about one number.

MONDAY, JUNE 20, 2016

Just one of the guys

I looked at the red numbers on the dusty, old clock radio by my bedside. Monday morning had arrived. The workweek loomed.

My brain stalled. The chemicals that cause anxiety churned somewhere in the folded pink-gray mass inside my skull and a froth of panic bubbled.

I tried to process the intense fight-or-flight response with intellect. I knew this was a chemical malfunction. There was no real reason to be this horrified by the new day.

All I needed was to swallow one of the greenish yellow pills. Fifteen minutes would pass. My heart rate would drop. I would be fine.

But I resisted. In retrospect, of course, I feel the fool. A close friend struggles with anxiety, too. She also takes prescription medication to control it.

When the first pangs of an anxiety attack echo in her mind, I tell her to take a pill. Sometimes, she pauses. I remind her the medicine cannot work if you just think about taking it.

Oh, were I only so good at taking the advice I so smugly give.

Time passed. I checked emails. I looked at the spate of paragraphs that needed stacking for the week. Yet the tightness in my chest remained. Anxiety gripped my heart in a clenched fist.

All I wanted in this world was to get back into bed and pull the sheets over my head. Today was too much. We’ll try again tomorrow.

Why didn’t I take the pill? I can’t explain that. Sometimes I believe I can out-think my anxiety. If I know what causes it, I can deactivate it.

This is a little bit like thinking you can disarm a bomb that’s already gone off.

Still, I stubbornly hunkered down and tried to grit it out. As I said, it was foolhardy.

I made breakfast, a piece of steak with some grilled tomatoes. Protein fills me up and gives me the energy I need for workouts with coach Nate Yoho at CrossFit Merle Hay.

I watched the clock. The time to go to the gym approached. My thinking cycled. My brain almost screamed at me: “Don’t go. Just stay home. You can’t handle this today.”

This line of thinking mixed with the usual self-deprecating thoughts that I’m a bad person, that I’m not smart enough for this job and soon the bosses will figure this out and fire me, and that I am simply unworthy of love.

Still, I did not take the pill. I always think the anxiety will pass through my mind like a scattered thunderstorm. It never passes. It’s always a severe thunderstorm and sometimes it’s an EF5 tornado.

I thought of Nate and the guys at the gym. I like them. I like being there the same way I liked being on sports teams as a boy. I’m there to lose weight and get fit, sure. But I have no illusions about being a competitive athlete.

(Nate would argue with me on that point, but the difference of opinion really doesn’t matter. He’s helping me help myself get healthier. That’s the goal.)

The clock read 1 p.m. I was dressed for the gym. I was ready to go. But I did not want to go. The flesh was willing, but the spirit was weak.

I cannot say with precision what made me decide to go instead of stay. I worry about disappointing Nate. I worry about backsliding on my physical progress. I worry about letting worry control me.

Maybe I went to the gym simply because of reflex action.

Again, it doesn’t really matter. I went. There is a small victory in that.

I loosened up, but anxiety still swirled in my mind. Nate laid out the goals for the day. We did some squats without weight to loosen my quads.

He told me what the workout plan was. I was breathing hard. My heart hammered. It wasn’t the workout. It was the anxiety.

Nate told me to take a couple minutes before we went through the combination of metabolic conditioning and strength training.

I went over and sat on a box in a dark corner of the gym. My hands shook.

Nate spotted me. He asked if I was dizzy or just getting mentally prepared for the workout. I confessed it was a bad day for anxiety.

He asked if the workouts helped. They do. Anticipation is the worst part of anything: workouts, getting together with my girlfriend, friends or family, or practically going anywhere or doing anything.

My workout started at the same time as another client doing something far more intense. I was working out for 16 minutes. The set was three burpees — an exercise that sounds like something cute you do with babies but is far less pleasant — with two weightlifting challenges and a walk.

I made it through the first round and was about halfway into the second when I realized I couldn’t control my heart rate anymore.

Yes, the workout was getting my heart rate up. The problem was, it was already pounding from the anxiety. I stopped. I finally took the damn pill.

I went back to the workout. I did the best I could. It wasn’t a wonderful performance. But I made almost four complete cycles in the allotted time.

I was disappointed. Nate thought I was upset with the workout. I wasn’t. I was angry at myself for not taking the pill hours before instead of bullheadedly enduring this anxiety.

I finished with a cool-down exercise on the rowing machine. By then, the medicine mixed with the endorphins released from the workout.

Calm settled in, even a bit of whimsy. Nate and a couple of his other trainers had a break before their next client.

We went out in the parking lot and played catch beside the building. We talked about absolutely nothing important. It was wonderful.

And there I was, just one of the guys.

MONDAY, JUNE 13, 2016

Hard rider

Coach Nate Yoho divides my workouts at CrossFit Merle Hay into two segments.

We begin with a weightlifting exercise. Then we transition into met-con, or metabolic condition. This phase of the workout includes three or four activities, at least one of which is a cardio challenge mixed with more weightlifting reps.

Nate recently added five exercise bikes to his equipment inventory. I hate exercise bikes. They are uncomfortable for my big butt and often don’t adjust properly for someone my height.

But Nate’s new machines adjusted fine. I would rather work on the rowing machine, but Nate wanted a trio of exercises that included a dumbbell 