The Running Woman

In this post I share some details of the eating disorder that I had when I was a teenager. If you’re experiencing or recovering from an ED, please be aware that this may be a difficult post to read and proceed with caution. Thank you. 

At this very second, I feel joyful. I’m in the sort of mood that makes me want to run out into the street and start foxtrotting with the nearest lampost, hugging the local Big Issue vendor, and dashing into the M&S under our flat and scattering sheaths of tenners, while yellling “Percy Pigs are on me!”

This is because I have just been for a run.

I am not one of nature’s runners. I come from a long and perversely proud line of exercise refuseniks. My parents may have piled on the academic pressure, but I think it was a point of pride that I was so bad at PE. Performing poorly at sports ran in the family, or rather, it sulkily limped along, complaining of sprained ankles and demanding Kit Kats.

Growing up, I was big, slow and self conscious. I avoided exercise in the way I avoided wasps, and boys on bikes who would shout insults at me that I didn’t entirely understand. (Now I think of it, I suspect the boys didn’t, either.) But when I started secondary school, I realised I’d been swizzed. It was a school for posh, clever girls, and I’d blithely assumed that we’d all be really crap at sport. Perhaps there would be no PE! But there was a sizeable Venn diagram overlap between the A star students and the lacrosse ninjas. I was insufficiently posh or clever, and I didn’t have the self esteem that I needed to survive.

So I stopped eating, and started to use exercise as a punishment for my many failings. My inner voice was much more critical and demanding than any bootcamp leader. Accidentally eaten a Pringle? Go on a brisk four mile walk and think about what you did! Christmas Day? Well, you can’t be trusted to be near all that chocolate. Get on the exercise bike in your parents’ room – the one Mum uses to hang her dressing gown on – and go on a stationary cycle for three hours, or at least until The Sound Of Music has finished.

Eventually I recovered, but eating disorders never fully leave you, and mine gave me a particularly poisonous present to take home in my party bag – the idea that exercise was horrible, and a stick to beat myself with. It was connected with weight loss, and the way I wanted the world to see me. It wasn’t a way to feel good. It was something I had to do when I had been bad.

Trainers! Not just for running away from bears.
My trainers! Not just for running from bears.

Over the years, I tried and failed to maintain some sort of fitness routine. Kind, patient friends encouraged me – not just to go and do some exercise, but to reframe the way I saw it, and to think about taking care of my body as an act of self love, not of self loathing. I tried Bikram yoga. I joined gyms. I bought a FitBit. I signed up for a 5K and freaked out, deciding to cancel, and just donate more money than I could afford to the charity I was supposed to run for. I was too frightened to move.

Even though I know that my anxiety disorder is about eight times easier to control when I exercise regularly, that I like the way that exercise makes me feel, that I can power walk up the highest incline on the treadmill until the sweat burns my eyes and I look so sodden and spaced out that I might as well have just been hauled out of a river, and it’s euphoric – I feared running. “I will be bad at this,” I thought. “People will see me and laugh at me. Children will point. I will feel ashamed. Why try?”

Then I heard that the gym was shutting over the weekend, right before my holiday. I realised that 12 days with no exercise would be bad for my head and my heart. People had been telling me about trying a running app designed for people who had never run before. “It’s amazing!” my friend Rhiannon enthused. “There’s a recording of a lady called Laura who tells you what to do, and she’s so patient and encouraging. You alternate between running and walking, and it’s hard, but she keeps you going!”

So I set off for the local park, comforted by the fact that enough people felt as anxious as I did about running for the NHS to bother making an app for us. It was much harder than I thought it would be, and at first, I felt embarrassed every time I bounced past another runner. Were they thinking about how slow I was, about how out of shape I seemed? Did they pity me? Did they want to stop me and tell me that there was no point, I should just go home and get back to my sofa?

Well, I don’t think most of them even noticed me, but occasionally I’d share an eye meet and a smile with one of the proper runners. And I don’t think it was a condescending “Good for you!” nod – it was a smile of solidarity, a cheering glass clink with a distant stranger. And being outdoors and among all the green took me out of my head prison and right into the world. Oh-God-So-Sweaty-And-Crap-And-Out-Of-Breath-And…ooooh, look! A swan in the boating lake! Why-are-you-so-slow-these-people-are-going-to-overtake-you-you-big…how adorable is that puppy?! Dogs are a great source of inspiration for new runners, because they move with such unselfconscious, happy freedom. Every time I worried about accidentally getting in somebody’s way, or how weird my arms might look, a dog would gently remind me to calm down and keep going. 

FullSizeRender (4)

When I woke up the next morning, I was looking forward to my second run. I just came back from my third, and the memories make me smile – the lacy, leafy canopies leaning over pathways and protecting me from the full glare of the sun. Noticing more than 10 different shades of green in the trees, as I bounced along.  Being waved at by a kid in a cool lobster t shirt.

I know this is the very beginning of something. Not my running career – but of me finally being able to recognise the fact that exercise is even better for my head than it is for my body. There are so many things to be scared of, and so many physical and mental reasons why it’s hard for millions of us to get started. But exercise is waiting for us when we’re ready for it. It might not make our bodies ‘better’, but it will make us love them harder. It will bring us joy.

So I Got ‘Medication Shamed’…

Everyone’s mental health story is different, but here’s where meds fit into mine…

Sunday, Monday, Happy Days!
Sunday, Monday, Happy Days!

I love other people’s bathrooms. I want to crack open your cabinets. Let me take a shelfie. I’m incurably nosy, you see, and I want to know all about you. Can I covet your Crème De La Mer while empathasing with your eczma? I’m envious of your Armani Luminous Silk foundation, but comforted to know that you too, have at some point suffered from Athlete’s Foot.

This blog is a place to be flagrant about your pharmaceutical needs. I know my cupboards and cabinets reflect who I am, and not just because the main one is made out of mirror. I have some fancy ass shit. My bathroom tiles might be a bit cracked, the sink a little stained, but come on and look at my gear! Behold the Molton Brown shampoo! Check out my Korres shower gel! Marvel at the mini Muji candle! But I also have some less than lovely stuff to show you. Here’s some Imodium, for my occasional but devastating IBS. Super tampons, non applicator, for when my flow is all go. A rusty razor and single, used, false eyelash I haven’t chucked out because I am lazy, busy and disgusting. And a couple of boxes of Citalopram, the antidepressant.

It has taken me a long time to learn that my anxiety isn’t a flaw to work on. I didn’t ask for it, I can’t make it go away, and all I can do is manage it. I’ve tried this dozens of different ways, and for me, medication makes a real difference. There are secondary activities that help, like therapy, exercise, meditation, regular naps and eating lots of vegetables. But without Citalopram, I can’t do any of this. I’ve tried. When I am unmedicated, I constantly feel as though the world is ending, I am underwater, and there’s no air, only wet and tears. I’m smothered with self loathing and fear forcing my body down like a big, bad, scratchy blanket. Medication is an important, positive part of my story. So I was taken aback when I read a few unkind comments ‘shaming’ my decision to picture it on the blog. After all, that’s what I’m here to write about. This is why there are two boxes of antidepressants in the picture.

Anxiety doesn’t need a reason, explanation or excuse. Everyone experiences it in a different way, and it can be as unexpected and hard to control as the weather. But a drug that boosts my levels of Serotonin and regulates the way that the chemicals in my brain behave is what makes my emotions easier to manage. It doesn’t go away. It doesn’t stop me from ever feeling sad or scared. But it allows me to live my life and do my job in a way that sometimes wasn’t possible when I wasn’t using medication. It gives me the mental energy to catch ‘unhelpful thoughts’ – the ones about worthlessness and pointlessness. The ones that can create a current that won’t stop whirling until it drowns you.

When you grow up feeling scared of everything, you learn how to stay silent. You keep still, you do your very best to be unseen, but hopefully, eventually, one day you think “Fuck this. I can’t miss out on my own life because I’m afraid. There has to be a different way to survive.”

Living out loud is hard, but it’s what helps the most. This is show and tell. There have been very bad days when seeing a real, relatable person post a picture of a box of their medication might have made me feel less alone. I don’t want to hide the packet. I want it out there, with my perfume, powder and battered paperbacks. When people question my right to reveal it, it makes me very angry. But I don’t feel worthless or frightened. I think that’s progress. 

Something For The Weekend

“There is a common superstition that ‘self-respect’ is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation.”

Joan Didion, On Self Respect

A Letter I Wrote To Myself About Getting Fat

Screen Shot 2015-06-28 at 16

Shall we talk about your body?

Your body, which used to be thinner. Which you took for granted, because it fitted into cheap, tight dresses. Your body, which took you up and down Brixton Hill, every day, twice a day, never unheralded by catcalls, the stream of men and their “Oh baby hey baby nice tits nice ass hey WHERE YOU GOING?”

Your body was a girl’s body, made from dancing and late nights and skipped dinners, of hopefulness and sleeplessness and sadness. It took care of itself, or rather, you didn’t care that it couldn’t. It wasn’t for you, and so you didn’t mind that you couldn’t always afford to feed and nurture it. The admiration of others was nourishment enough. You often went to bed feeling empty. You thought it was heartbreak. It was probably hunger.

Then your body became plump with love.

Late dinners and later breakfasts, cream in your coffee, champagne in the bath, room service bacon sandwiches. Watching your skin, glowing and gold, buttocks round on white sheets, talking and kissing and laughing, the tension in your stomach dissipating.

Love gave you the confidence to grow your career. And your body grew with it. Writing in bed, writing on sofas, writing at the kitchen table, your body still so your brain could pump thoughts furiously, fingers flying.

Now, you have the body you deserve. The body of a woman in love, who is loved, who’s managing to make money and maintain a room of her own. A woman who adores buying wickedly extravagant dinners for people she likes, and has the wherewithal for a cab home afterwards. A woman with wide hips and full thighs, who can’t pour herself inside the cheap, tight dresses any more.

And even though you have everything to be confident about, everything to play for, this has made you sad. You worry that in spite of everything you have gained, the world liked you more when you took up less space.

It’s hard to be honest about how you feel, how you worry sometimes that even though you’re bigger, you’re disappearing, how dressing up was once a source of joy and it’s how a source of panic, how it’s hard to fully appreciate why zips get stuck and buttons don’t meet in the middle. And everyone says “love your body”, but it’s an empty instruction, like “fly a kite!” It sounds wonderful, but it’s hard, and confusing, and you feel guilty because you can’t get it right.
You don’t have to love your body all the time. But love it in bed, and in the bath. Love it when you’re walking fast, and your music is loud, and your boots are clumpy. Love it when you’re walking up huge, hidden gym hills, and the sweat burns your eyelids, and you still, somehow keep going. Love the way your belly shakes when you laugh, and your legs shake when you orgasm, and your shoulders shake when you cry. Keep taking vitamins and washing your face carefully. Dance more, dance harder, and don’t stop downing a pint of water after the wine, before you go to sleep.

But mostly, don’t worry. As long as you can sing and come and giggle and wiggle and weep, you’re treating your body exactly as you’re supposed to.