Sweating to the extremes: Lifting through black and white thinking.

gracemcloughlin15
Jun 20
5 min read

A dichotomy of cognitive distortion: The angel and the devil.

Black and white thinking involves the extreme perspective in absolute terms with no room for nuance or shades of grey. Black-and-white thinking turns training into a moral test: I’m either winning or failing. And even when I know it’s irrational, the feeling doesn’t care. The gym becomes both the place I go to hold myself together — and the place where I watch myself fall apart.

As someone diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, black and white thinking can shape every rep, every skipped session, into a story of success or failure. But what if the gym isn’t a test? What if it’s just a place to move your body—to feel, to breathe, to come back to yourself? Progress doesn’t have to shout. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s just walking through the door again, even when your mind says don’t bother. That counts too.

This blog post will outline my experience with this thinking pattern to then offer advice rooted from the learning within my own experience and journey…

Idealisation.

White and the gym is my sanctuary.

There was always a version of me I was chasing — a vision built out of aesthetics, symmetry, control. I’d romanticise the routine: early wake-ups, perfectly split training days, abs that stayed sharp even when I softened. It wasn’t just discipline, it was religion. The gym became the temple where I worshipped the body I thought would finally make me feel enough — or at least silence the chaos long enough to breathe. I’d swing into white-ideal thinking, where missing a session meant failure, and changing the plan meant weakness. Everything had to be clean, structured, precise. I clung to it, because it gave me clarity when my mind didn't. And yet — even on the days when I was exhausted, when I wanted to lie down and disappear, I’d still go.

Hiding behind an unrealistic fantasy and claiming her to be the most secure, powerful confident.

Idealisation can sneak into the gym, turning trainers into heroes, routines into gospel, and progress into perfection. One good session and suddenly you’re unstoppable—strong, focused, finally “fixed.” But the crash comes quick. A tired day, a missed lift, and the shine wears off. It’s not about weakness—it’s how our minds reach for something certain in a world that often feels too much. But bodies aren’t perfect, and neither are people. Letting the gym be messy, human, and real might be the bravest rep of all.

Devaluing

Black and the gym is a battleground of perfectionism.

A curtesy of worship; a curtesy of delusion. The crash comes quickly.

When my beliefs become more regimented than the routine itself, un unsteady narrative pushes me into a plunge of self- hatred, anger and shame. Devaluing with BPD can flip the script in an instant. One moment, I’m making progress, feeling focused and strong. The next, a slow session or missed rep convinces me it was all an illusion. The effort doesn’t count, the progress wasn’t real, and I’m back at zero. It’s like the story rewrites itself in seconds: from almost invincible to utterly worthless. The hardest part isn’t the workout—it’s surviving the whiplash of my own mind. Trying to hold both truths at once—that I can struggle and still be strong—is a workout of its own.

Devaluing is often part of a bigger cycle with BPD—a loop that starts with idealisation. At first, the gym feels full of possibility: every session is progress, every effort means you’re finally getting it right. But the moment something disrupts that—fatigue, a missed day, a small setback—the switch flips. Ideal turns to worthless. Motivation disappears, shame creeps in, and suddenly the same space that felt empowering now feels like proof of failure. Then comes the urge to fix it—start again, go harder, chase the high of idealisation—and the cycle repeats. It’s not laziness or inconsistency. It’s the emotional pendulum swinging fast and hard, and learning to spot the swing is the first step to softening it.

Coping

The idealisation–devaluation cycle in BPD can act as a coping mechanism—though not a sustainable one. It’s the mind’s way of trying to create certainty in an emotional landscape that often feels chaotic or overwhelming. Idealisation gives a temporary sense of control, hope, and purpose: “If I do everything right, things will finally feel okay.” But when reality doesn’t match that ideal—when things get messy or imperfect—devaluation rushes in to protect you from disappointment by shutting everything down: “It was never real, so it doesn’t matter.”

This all-or-nothing thinking can feel safer than sitting with uncertainty or mixed emotions. So while it’s a coping mechanism, it often causes more harm in the long run, reinforcing self-blame and burnout. The challenge is learning to tolerate the grey areas—the middle ground where effort is valid even when it’s not perfect, and where self-worth isn’t tied to flawless performance.

Destructing

The idealisation–devaluation cycle can be self-destructive, especially with BPD. It often leads to unrealistic expectations followed by intense self-rejection when those expectations aren’t met. In the gym, this might look like pushing too hard during the idealisation phase—ignoring rest, obsessing over progress—then completely withdrawing or giving up when you hit a setback. Over time, this cycle can erode motivation, damage your relationship with movement, and reinforce feelings of failure or worthlessness.

Sometimes, I train not because I love my body, but because I’m trying to outrun it. To mute it. To punish it into silence.

It’s not intentionally self-destructive—it’s often a way of trying to cope, to find stability or self-worth. But because the extremes don’t leave room for balance or compassion, they end up reinforcing the very pain they’re trying to escape. Recognising the pattern is a powerful first step toward breaking it and learning to approach progress with more patience, flexibility, and care.

Breaking the binary

Breaking the binary means letting the gym be more than a spotlight or a scoreboard. It becomes a kind of container—a space that doesn’t ask for perfection, only presence. Not just a place for your most regulated, driven self, but for the version of you that’s frayed,

flat,

or flickering.

The walls don’t care if you lift heavy or stretch in silence.

The floor holds you either way.

Some days you move with power; some days you just arrive. That counts. The gym can stop being a test and start being a room where all your versions get to exist—without needing to earn their place.

I’m learning that discipline isn't black or white — it’s patience. It’s knowing when to push and when to soften. It’s forgiving myself for needing softness at all.

I used to think strength meant ignoring the chaos in my head. Now I think it means facing it — and still showing up with kindness.

To anyone who feels like they’re either too much or never enough — I see you. The gym doesn’t need you to be perfect. It just needs you to come as you are. Even if all you do is breathe and begin again.