I will be required to complete and submit weekly assessment questionnaires and, as I click through, I immediately recognise some of them from my initial video assessment with Dr G.
Oh no! Not these again!
‘Please tick the box that best describes the way you have felt about a specific feature of your appearance over the past week, INCLUDING TODAY.’
Fucking hell!
‘Do I compare aspects of myself … do I mirror-check … do I brood over past events … do I avoid certain situations … do I try to camouflage my flaw(s) … do I avoid reflective surfaces … do I attempt to hide certain parts of myself … do I question others about my appearance …’
I’m beginning to think twelve weeks sounds like a very long time.
9
PLAN B: AQUA JOGGING
Today has got TRAINING PLAN B, REHAB and RECOVERY written all over it. I have some brief respite from Mummy Duties within school hours – woo hoo! And so, following the advice of Running Guru, I have the following scheduled:
11–12 p.m. Yoga class
1–2 p.m. Physiotherapy session
4 p.m. My first ever attempt at … aqua jogging.
Remembering her definitive prescription for a ‘TRAINING PLAN B’, I have since put in place those things which – I’m told – should help me steer myself in the right direction over the coming weeks and – sob – possibly even months.
I could never conceivably go from running fifty miles per week to becoming a Pringle-eating couch potato – although my Bastard Chimp would have loved that as proof, if proof were needed, that I would one day return to my Mars bar-melting,sad, sedentary self. He would be ecstatic to finally be proved right – that all this running nonsense was never really ‘me’. He’s told me so many times: I would do well to remember who I am. But I won’t give him the opportunity.
Running Guru also helpfully sent over some training suggestions, too:
Aqua run sessions
Aqua run pool: 10–12 min easy, 8 x 15 sec on/off,
3–4 min rest, 5 x 30 sec on/off, 3–4 min rest,
2 x 45 sec max w/2-3 min rest, 8 x 15 sec on/off
Aqua run pool: 10 x 45 sec on/15 off (tempo), 3 min rest,
8 x 30 sec on/30 off (VO2 max), 3 min rest,
2 x 20 sec anaerobic w/1:40 rest
Aqua run pool: 10 min warm-up 8 x 15 sec hard/
15 sec rest, 3 min rest, 2 x (6 x 1 min hard/30 sec rest),
3 min between sets (VO2 max), 10 min warm-down
Static gym bike sessions
All below should include 10-minute warm-up &
10-minute cool-down (does she not realise that
I only have an hour for lunch?!)
Bike: 4 x 30 sec sprint w/30 sec rest, 2 min rest,
3 x (3 x 4 min w/1 min rest), 3 min after set,
15 min warm-down
Bike tempo:
2 x 15 min tempo w/5 min recovery in between
(recovery should be about 20% slower than tempo effort)
Keep heart rate steady until last 3 min of each tempo, then increase
Bike: 8 x 30 sec on/30 sec off, 2–3 min rest,
8 x 3 min VO2 effort w/45 sec rest, 5–6 min rest,
1 x 4 min max effort
After translating and fully digesting the content of Running Guru’s suggestions, I think that I finally have something resembling a ‘Training Plan B’. My head feels much happier with this as a concept, considering the enormous abyss which has been created from the loss of my beloved running. Just knowing there are things I can do – realising there are many proactive steps I can take to make sure that I stay as physically and mentally strong as I possibly can throughout this period – is helping me to manage the rising panic I feel on an almost hourly basis. Yes, it means I will have to plan ahead, and to think very differently about my training going forward, but that’s a very small price to pay for my physical and mental health.
I’ve also started going back to my old yoga class, which I haven’t really bothered with for years. And I don’t know why I’m so surprised, but my regular Thursday morning class is proving to be unbelievably therapeutic. I chat to my lovely fellow yogi friend, Pam, who can see that a little piece of me is missing. It makes me feel ever so slightly less insular and self-absorbed, as earlier this morning it was a struggle to make myself get out of bed and to leave the house – I just wanted to crawl back under the covers and hide. I’m so pleased I didn’t do that.
I’m going down to the local swimming pool shortly to try my hand at this ‘zero impact’ activity of aqua jogging for the first time. Part of me feels kind of pleased/mildly smug for being prepared to give it a go. I don’t do swimming; I’m not a water baby. I find absolutely no joy in getting cold after ten minutes and lugging around carrier bags full of sodden towels, only to find them growing fungus in the boot of the car three weeks later. One of the reasons I love running is the simplicity – the lack of fuss. If you’ve got a pair of trainers, some shorts and a T-shirt to hand, then you can run. You can set off from EXACTLY where you are. Swimming? Not quite so straightforward. When is the pool open? When is it ‘Fun Time with Inflatables’ madness for the kids? What about the serious, semi-pro lane swimmers? When should I avoid their wrath?
I feel self-conscious and weird wearing my new aqua trainers (yes, these do exist), fearing the pool attendant will blow a whistle at me whilst I blatantly walk towards the water in footwear. I wonder if he knows these are AQUA JOGGING, NON-SLIP SHOES? At the poolside, I wrap my enormous blue buoyancy belt around my waist and fasten it tight like a tourniquet on a severed limb, and I slip myself and all my clobber into the pool. I immediately try out a vaguely recognisable running action. My feet are still touching the floor as I ‘jog’ in what can only be described as a sub-aqua moonwalk (all I need to perfect this move is a single diamante glove). I soon get into my stride, and build up enough confidence to move up into the deep end.
Two young girls are splashing each other and laughing in the pool. They are about Tilly’s age, perhaps a year or so older. One of them looks across at me, and smiles awkwardly. Maybe she thinks I can’t swim? She glances back to her friend and they both giggle with embarrassment. When I try to ‘jog’ faster, I go absolutely nowhere in the water. I consider that I should perhaps be embarrassed at the thought that (a) I look utterly ridiculous; and (b) the young girls may think that I can’t swim. But I honestly don’t care what I look like. I give myself credit for being here, and for trying something new. I feel brave, and my body feels good for experiencing a surge of endorphins. Surely this is a mini-breakthrough moment for me: I can feel my heart beating hard in my chest, and I’m wrestling back control from the Bastard Chimp, who would have me hiding under the duvet, eating my body weight in Pringles. And that’s all I’m bothered about. Both girls smile back. This feels like progress, because although I don’t particularly take to the whole ‘fake-running-in-the-shallow-end-of-the-pool’ aqua-jogging vibe, it reminds me that it is possible for me to feel the joy of movement, of training and exercising in ways other than running. I doubt very much that this will become a regular thing for me, but right here, right now? I’ll take it as a small step towards a happier place.
I finish my aqua jogging session and haul myself and all my sodden paraphernalia out of the pool. As I reflect on the high intensity/recovery intervals, I feel reasonably smug and smirk at my Bastard Chimp, who is now sulking in a corner. That’s just before wringing out my ‘Mr Happy’ beach towel and deciding how best to manoeuvre my enormous, dripping buoyancy aid, wet trainers (or ‘aqua shoes’), plus a travel bag full of other swimming essentials half a mile back to the car without wearing any pants and socks, which I dropped on the changing room floor into what – I hope – was water.
It’s all helping me to be in a more peaceful place, without any way of knowing how long my running safety blanket will be absent. I’m doing everything I can to stay strong, and putting all these things in place is giving me back a sense of con
trol over the helplessness I otherwise feel.
I may be turning a corner with this.
10
AND RELAX
‘I honestly don’t think I’m missing running very much,’ I say to the pretty, curly-haired lady, who is sitting next to me on the windowsill, waiting for the yoga class. I say the words, but I know they are not the truth. ‘Who needs running, anyway?’ I fake laugh, not sounding even vaguely convincing.
‘Yeah! I’m trying to mix my training up a bit more,’ she replies, smiling. As she is talking, I wonder what her training consisted of, before. Did she – like me – have an addiction to Strava and a tireless compulsion for another endorphin ‘fix’ like some junkie waiting for his next hit? Was running almost permanently on her mind, with a diary full of races and grand plans to kick ass at this year’s London Marathon? Did she wake up at nights pondering her last training run, going through the mile splits in her head, wondering how to make marginal improvements? Is she trying to avoid a fast-track-back-to-Prozac, like me?
Regardless, I feel happy that I’m in a more sociable mood this morning. What has lifted my spirits? Would I feel like this if I’d been forcing myself to run, today? I can’t help but think not: I would most probably be feeling dejected, miserable and burdensome with running-related woes. Instead, I feel free and – well – kind of happy! And I don’t know why that comes as such a surprise to me.
Another one of Lianne’s regular ladies turns up and joins in our pre-class banter. She’s a self-confessed fitness addict, and I know that she completely understands what running is to me.
‘Did I hear somewhere that you’re running a marathon in Tanzania?’ she asks out of the blue. It takes me back a little.
I go on to tell her about my plans to take part in the very first Tanzanian marathon later in the year. That’s if I’m even ABLE to run, by then,’ I say, gulping hard as I struggle to comprehend my own statement.
During the yoga class, I feel strong. I know I feel strong. My body works hard, holding the various yoga poses. It straightens itself up and lengthens otherwise tight, shortened muscles whilst simultaneously challenging the limp, unused ones (mostly in my upper body, I discover). I’m getting used to the effort of controlled, focused breathing. I feel myself filling up with strength as I breathe in deeply, and I sigh with relief when I breathe back out again. Prior to this, when was the last time I gave any thought to my posture, my spindly arms or my core strength? I can see the makings of some muscle definition. Really, since when do I even HAVE any muscles in my arms? But I do, now. In some ways, I’m beginning to feel stronger than I was before. And I love the feeling.
The relaxation at the end of the yoga class comes like an ice-cold beer on a hot summer’s day. It’s soothing and peaceful, and it convinces me – if I needed it – that this yoga class is sent to touch the parts of my mental wellbeing that my myriad self-help books simply can’t reach. I’m so thankful to be here – it feels like a gift.
‘Thanks, Lianne,’ I say, once I’m out of my relaxed, Zen-like state. I never leave the class without thanking her, but I’m not sure she understands quite how grateful I am.
11
THE BDD DIARY
I’m having to keep a diary of my body dysmorphic disorder (BDD) experiences. This makes me laugh out loud when, on Day 1, I already have enough examples to completely fill it … by noon.
I’m asked to describe ‘the situation’, i.e. when and where I am when a BDD thought is triggered; ‘my thoughts at the time’ – I’m told that these should be specifically documented in the form of an ‘if … then’ statement; and, finally, ‘what I did to reduce my discomfort, or avoid the situation’ (otherwise known as ‘safety behaviours’ and – quite simply – ‘avoidance’. These are terms I will come to know well). The very first morning of my BDD diary looks like this:
SITUATION 1: In bed, 6:45 a.m. Woken up after a disturbed night’s sleep, and I’m worrying about having bags/dark circles under my (probably bloodshot) tired-looking eyes.
THOUGHTS: If I have bloodshot eyes and big dark bags/circles under my eyes, then I will look ugly and I will KNOW that I look ugly, which will make it hard for me to leave the house and look at people today, and especially difficult to face the school mums in the playground at dropoff, or go to work. And I have two meetings at work, so it’s likely to affect those negatively. ACTIONS: I pick up the small mirror/make-up bag on my bedside table (it’s still 6: 45 a.m.), and – turning the offensively big light on – I put concealer under my eyes to try and disguise the bags underneath them. I’m aware that I haven’t even washed my face yet, and I still have sleep in my eyes (plus, they are barely open), but regardless, I can still practise putting on my concealer for later, to see if it will work.
I ask my Other Half if he can take Tilly to school on his way to work, making up some feeble excuse about having to make an important phone call for work, but really, it’s just because I don’t want to face the school mums and I don’t want them to see me looking ugly, today. He says that he can do, so that’s good, and I feel slightly better.
I look in my work diary and consider re-scheduling one of the meetings I have booked in for this afternoon. I wonder what will happen if I turn up to the meeting looking – and feeling – like this? Will I flunk everything and forget what I’m supposed to be talking about, too worried about how shit I look? One of the meetings I simply can’t avoid, so I’ll just have to get through that one as best I can (I’ll sit quietly in the corner and just breathe, counting down the seconds until it’s over) but the other one I could possibly move to another day?
I ask my Other Half if I look tired, and if he can see the big, dark circles under my eyes. He says no, he can’t, but I think he’s lying just to be kind to me, so I ask him again. I keep asking him until I think he’s telling me the truth, but he doesn’t: he just walks out of the bedroom, instead.
SITUATION 2: Arriving at work, 9:25 a.m.
THOUGHTS: I feel a huge wave of anxiety wash over me as I pull into the car park. I don’t want to get out of my car, but I know that I must. I plan what I will do when I get into work: I will go straight to the toilets, where I can check on my eye bags/bad hair situation and assess the damage. Only then will I feel able to go to my desk and carry on with my day. ACTIONS: I go straight to the toilets, as planned, and spend ten minutes looking at the dark circles under my eyes and putting my hair in different styles to try and make myself look a bit better. I wish I could stay there for longer, but I may get into trouble for being Late for work.
SITUATION 3: Getting to my desk at work, 9:40 a.m. (ish)
THOUGHTS: I’ve successfully managed to avoid speaking to anybody, or being seen, and I feel relieved about that. I’m still feeling agitated and like I want to go back to the mirror in the downstairs toilet so that I can assess for damage and be on guard for ugliness, but I will have to wait a little while longer before I do. The feeling is like a compulsion – I’m being pulled back by the mirror, because I need to know how bad I look. That thought whirls around in my head, and I struggle to switch it off.
ACTIONS: I look at the clock, and tell myself that in ten minutes’ time I can go back down to the mirror in the toilets. I feel relieved that I don’t have to wait very long, and I start counting down the seconds until I can Leave my desk and go back down to the mirror – I don’t know why I feel safer there.
I email the woman who I am supposed to be meeting with this afternoon. I say that I am very sorry, but I’m having to leave work early today because my daughter isn’t feeling very well, and I will have to pick her up early from school. I feel bad for doing this, but I don’t see that there is any other option. I also feel relieved that I’ve managed to avoid the stress of this meeting.
Ten minutes later, I go down to the toilets, and I repeat the mirror-checking and hairstyle-changing. I think it’s ten minutes or so later when I return to my desk, but it may be slightly longer than that. A colleague asks me if I’m all right as I�
�m walking out of the toilet, and I say ‘Yes, thanks,’ but blush with embarrassment and hurry back to my desk.
SITUATION 4: Attending a meeting at work, 10:30 a. m.
THOUGHTS: I’m sitting in a semi-circle of chairs with five colleagues, one of whom is my boss. We are having a ‘weekly update’ managers’ meeting, and take it in turns to tell everyone about the headlines/latest developments from the past week, and to update each other on our progress since the last meeting. I am panicking because I feel tired and ugly, and I think that I LOOK tired and ugly. I wonder if my colleagues are looking at me, thinking, ‘What’s wrong with Rachel today? She looks tired and ugly.’
My colleague is talking, talking, talking. I can barely concentrate on what he is saying – partly because his voice is so monotone, and he is updating us on seemingly everything, including what he had for breakfast. I honestly don’t care. But mostly, I’m not concentrating because I’m trying to quell the panic I feel rising in my chest, and the sound of my incessant, rampaging Bastard Chimp as he taunts me that I ‘look tired and ugly … tired and ugly … tired and ugly …’ I simply don’t know how to silence him; I don’t know how to stop listening to him as his chants become louder and louder.
ACTIONS: I decide to select only the essential updates for my colleagues, thereby minimising the time I am under the spotlight. There are a few things I know I probably should tell them about, but I reason these can wait until I produce my written monthly management report. Besides, I’d rather not drone on like my monotone colleague. Unfortunately, I haven’t really been listening to him, and so I have absolutely no idea what any of his weekly headlines are, or what he had for lunch on Friday. My chimp was shouting too loudly in my ear.
It’s now noon, and I have already filled in four pages of my online BDD diary. I read over the extracts before sending them across to Dr G, and I realise how much of my morning was consumed – yes, it was consumed – by this wretched thing. Granted, it was a particularly challenging morning, I tell myself. It was infinitely worse than normal because of a broken night’s sleep, but still, it is difficult to read back my own words describing all the ways in which these crippling BDD thoughts have impacted on my day.
A Midlife Cyclist Page 7