Exercising, and exorcising

I cry fairly frequently at the gym. Weeping while exercising is not a new thing on me. I worked with a personal trainer a couple of years back to  complement my physiotherapy to get my knee working again after I had a torn ligament replaced. It was excruciating, as all physiotherapy is - since my very minor accident I read Melanie Reid's column religiously in the Times magazine every Saturday with a whole new understanding of what she might be going through. Exercise is one thing - usually fun if you have chosen somethng you enjoy. Physiotherapy? Most definitely not fun. When I do these painful routines on my own I have the luxury of being able to quit whenever I have had enough. Working with a physiotherapist is quite another matter. No place to hide, and a decent PT with a good understanding of sports science, as mine did, knows exactly how far to push, which is a lot further than I would suffer myself to go. So. Tears of, well, mostly self pity actually, since the truth is that if I dug into the pit of my stomach I could make the extra inch of stretch that my PT was insisting I talk my knee into making. But the pit of my stomach is also where, it seems, I feel most vulnerable. It stays protected 24/7. No surprises then that when my PT makes me reach deep into it, tears come. Does this happen with any of your other clients, I ask. Oh yes, he replies, unflappably. Most of them. Women? I ask. Inconceivable that blokes could weep over their kettle bells. More men than women, he says laconically. Wow. I am revelated. Since then I have discovered that exercising through a period of emotional trauma, while one level generates endorphins and helps me rebalance, also touches that core. Fairly often I will come up from my fifteenth abdominal crunch, look at the sky and feel my eyes fill. Or I will be halfway through a one minute plank and drip brine onto the workout mat.  Not nice for the other clients? Actually, they appear to be oblivious. Of course they're dripping sweat on to their workout mats so there isn't too much difference really, is there. And looking at the size of most people's headphones - Dr Dre finest - it would take a full ensemble of caterwauling toddlers to rouse them, so my one small moment of misery goes unnoticed, which is comforting. Exercise really is holistic. It makes my blood run faster, it strengthens my muscles, it makes me a little bit happier, it puts daily work hassles into perspective, and it is a space for me to exorcise some of the despairing grief that spills out of me when I drop my emotional guard. I cycle home after my teary ab crunches, whip up some sour cream breakfast buns, scatter cinnamon and brown sugar on them, make myself a cup of tea, wait for my family to follow their noses, put my feet up, read the paper. Physiotherapy. And psychotherapy.