As I read the words I have written, I can place myself back in those exact situations, feeling the same thoughts as though I were standing in front of the living-room mirror, or sitting in the painful meeting at work. It affects me, deeply.
I feel so sad.
12
REST
Rest. That word … I can’t – and I won’t – rest. I HATE IT. I have an aversion to the word itself which would rival most nut allergies on the planet: my head feels woozy and begins to throb, I start to sweat and my heart rate increases at the mere thought of doing … nothing. I just can’t do it, I’ve tried.*
With this in mind, I’ve been conducting a little experiment.
I want to find out how much ‘rest’ I really give myself. How much ‘recovery time’ do my legs honestly get? I’ve been upping my cross-training activities, including walking (sounds innocent enough), aqua jogging (OK, I went once), yoga classes and sessions on the static bike (a necessary evil). So, this should surely be the recipe for a miraculous recovery, resulting in me having legs so fresh that I could skip over stiles with the effort of the nimblest spring lamb.
Has that happened? No, it hasn’t.
Why?
This, dear readers, is what my experiment has been designed to try and find out.
THE ANSWER? BECAUSE I CAN’T SIT DOWN.
I bought a Fitbit Alta HR and I wore it for one week.
Here’s what a NON-Rest diary looks like for me:
MONDAY
I speed walk up to the supermarket from work in my lunch hour to pick up two variety packes of Magnum ice creams for my boss. It’s a hot day, and so I also pick up a large bag of ice, so that said Magnums don’t melt on the three-mile-round trek back to the office. My rucksack weighs a tonne (I’m now carrying 2kg of ice bricks), and I’m already on tired legs from hiking sixteen hard miles on tough terrain across the Pennines the day before. But how could I resist? It’s sunny outside and the supermarket is only up the road, and it’s a breath of fresh air, and a break from my desk, and … well, it’s only walking. Total: 19,095 steps
TUESDAY
I decide to walk/jog back home from the school drop-off. But why go the most direct route home? It’s sooooo good to be outside. It’s beautiful on the moors, and what’s the harm in adding a couple of extra miles onto my journey home?
Hmmmm…
total: 17,791 steps
WEDNESDAY
God knows how I manage it, but I somehow clock up 16,309 steps for the day simply by traipsing up and down the stairs at work from my desk to the coffee machine and back … 500 times.
Total: 16,309 steps
THURSDAY
I must have ants in my pants. Or ADHD. Or neurosis (most likely).
I walk (the long way) back home from school drop-off (again), and then decide to walk into town. I could drive there in half the time, or even get the bus, but why would I? I desperately need to get outside. I need some fresh air, and I need to move. I suddenly feel self-conscious as I’m walking along the main road, but I’m not sure why. My heart is beating faster, but I know it’s not because of the walking. I make a mental note to remember this feeling of discomfort and to write it down in my BDD diary. Just being able to identify the panicky feeling, and to know that it’s there helps me to think logically and begin to process it rather than become engulfed in a head-fog of anxiety.
I focus on my breathing to try to stem the panic threatening to rise inside my chest. Just when i feel like I’ve contained things, I’m wolf-whistled by a passing white van man, which makes me jump out of my skin. I feel embarrassed by my dramatic reaction, but when I’ve finally calmed down, I laugh to myself. The guy in the van would have had no idea that I was in the process of managing an impending panic attack when he decided to ‘flatter’ me.
I meet up with my mum in town and we bump into a frail old gentleman we’ve known from years gone by. He asks my mum, ‘Is your daughter [pointing to me] at school, now? ‘I’m absolutely thrilled at the prospect of looking like Britney Spears from the ‘…Baby One More Time’ video, and immediately dismiss any possibility of him suffering dementia, Alzheimer’s or a sight-degenerative condition that may have caused him to be SO far off the mark.
Total: 16,972 steps
FRIDAY
Ahhh, at last I have an enforced rest day! I have a yoga class, which is inside a gym studio and so doesn’t require me to travel any distance, over any speed, and so – I surmise – this constitutes proper ‘rest’. And I don’t allow myself to walk/run/cycle or pogo-stick my way there, today. I drive there, like any other person of sane mind in my predicament would do. But I feel bad about this. I berate myself for taking the ‘easy option’, and I reprimand myself for being lazy. Why? I have no idea. The Bastard Chimp has taken hold once again, and he’s beating me into submission. Total: 9,790 steps
Since my unapologetically non-scientific experimental week, I’ve realised that honestly, and literally, I can’t sit down: I hate rest, and I need to move. I’m compelled to feel my heart beating in my chest and my muscle fibres twitching, because the alternative – stillness – frightens me. It’s an uncomfortable, eerie silence, a feeling of non-aliveness that I can remember so vividly from all those years ago when I didn’t know how it felt to move, and when my daily step count was a return trudge to the fridge for yet another oversize portion of Viennetta, and then back to slump in front of my telly to guess the price of a 1994 top-of-the-range caravan and a fully refurbished kitchen (including white goods) in The Price Is Right.
I never knew how it felt, back then, to feel truly alive. But I do now, and I can’t let that go. Not ever. It doesn’t dawn on me that there might be a compromise to be made, or a ‘healthy balance’ to strike. It’s difficult to process, having lived at both ends of the scale, and I need to believe that I can make my way tentatively back along to some middle ground, where I can still feel the joy of movement and of being alive, whilst allowing my body to rest and recover when it needs to. It feels like I’m being asked to walk along a very high tightrope – it’s easy standing at either end, but I feel frightened, wobbly and vulnerable in the middle.
Don’t look down, Rach. Just don’t look down!
__________
* I’m also convinced my tongue swells up, but it turns out that’s just when my coffee is too hot.
13
AVOIDANCE
You are likely to have tried many things to get rid of your anxiety about your appearance. However, they have not helped. Seeking reassurances and avoiding situations are classic responses to BDD. The goal of this treatment is to help you reconsider why you are worried, and to help you respond differently to anxiety-provoking situations. By approaching fearful situations head-on rather than avoiding and trying to control them, you may notice that you are more able to manage your BDD…
Since beginning to fill out my BDD diary just a few weeks ago, it’s clear to me that avoidance has become my default setting. In fact, I look at my first morning’s diary extracts, and I can easily identify my behaviours, which were based on precisely this:
•I avoided taking my daughter to school;
•I re-scheduled a meeting at work;
•I even considered missing work altogether and phoning in sick, only just managing to pull myself together and resist turning my car around to drive straight back home.
I read through these entries again, and I’m just beginning to comprehend the enormity of these avoidance-based behaviours. I didn’t take my little girl to school because I felt too ugly; I re-scheduled a meeting at work. Without any justifiable reason (other than my own mental health issues, that is), I messed up not only my own working day, but another person’s schedule, because I felt too ugly. I almost pulled a sickie, because I felt too ugly to go to work and do my job. And I know I’ve done this many times before. Suddenly, the realisation of this and the destructive impact BDD is having on my life overwhelms me.
I COULD LOSE MY FUCKING JOB BECAUSE OF T
HIS!
It feels like I’m staring this beast squarely in the face for the very first time.
Along with avoidance behaviours, I scan down my diary entries for other examples of reassurance-seeking. I don’t have to look very far:
•I’m transfixed by the mirror in our front room, as though only by staring into it will I be guarded against the real and imminent threat of ugliness. Although I can’t ask the mirror for reassurance, it is still considered to be the same short-term-fix-vs-long-term-damage compulsive behaviour.
•I run the risk of missing the traffic lights changing colour on my journey to work, as I’m too engrossed in picking myself apart in my car’s rear-view mirror.
•I’m bewitched by the mirrors in the ladies’ toilets at work, only feeling safe when I’m within sight. I feel myself being constantly pulled back there like a homing pigeon who has strayed off his familiar flight path: stay safe, Rach. Stay safe.
But I’m now learning that seeking reassurances and avoiding certain circumstances is counter-intuitive in its effect on managing the symptoms of BDD: rather like a junkie who only needs ‘a tiny bit of smack’, it feels to be helping me, and reduces my discomfort in the short term, but this behaviour only increases my symptoms and reduces my quality of life in the long run – I can certainly vouch for that.
It sounds so ridiculously simple, but to me this feels like a breakthrough. Logically, it makes perfect sense: I can understand the analogy of the crack addict needing ‘just one more fix’; I can relate to the feeling of short-term relief, and the sure knowledge that it won’t last very long (usually a matter of seconds). And my thinking, logical brain can accept that I will somehow need to wean myself off this behaviour if I’m going to feel any benefit in the long-term management of my condition.
Hallelujah, the theory is making sense!
But this stuff needs to happen in practice, now, just like Dr G said. It’s one thing knowing and understanding the theory behind it, but I know that I’ll have to start putting my learning into action. And that thought terrifies me.
14
SOMETHING MISSING
A few months have passed, and I hate to admit it, but Running Guru’s advice is helping. She may not be on my Christmas card list, but her suggestion for a ‘Training Plan B’ is proving to fill at least some of the gaping holes in my current non-running reality. Yoga is bringing me a sense of calm and strength, whilst trying new activities like aqua jogging reminds me that there are many ‘alternative’ (ahem!) ways to train, which I hadn’t perhaps considered before. The cross-training sessions on the static gym bike are working well in the sense that I can replicate some of the cardio interval training and endurance sessions my body requires in order to produce the vast quantity of endorphins I clearly need to be OK.
But something is missing.
It’s lunchtime, and I’m sitting on the static gym bike at work. I’m thankful for a five-minute recovery break after my first fifteen-minute tempo set, which was incredibly hard work. My bum still constantly threatens to slide off the plastic seat, but I’ve become used to that frustration, now. A woman walks into the gym and heads straight to pick up the remote control, after switching on the enormous wall-mounted television. My peace is immediately shattered by the noise of two Z-list celebrities who, I surmise, are visiting antiques fairs and having a competition to buy the most impressive piece of antiquated tat.
I look outside and the sky is a bright blue. The puffy clouds are cartoon-like and remind me of The Simpsons. And then I realise: I want to be outside. My static bike makes me work hard for another fifteen minutes, but I so desperately wish I was outside doing this instead of being stuck in here. I miss the rush of air and the feeling of freedom; the wind in my face and the view from the top of a hill. I miss the rolling fields and the patchy carpets of grass; how the cold makes my sweat evaporate before I’ve even noticed that I’m working hard. I miss the buzz of the passing traffic and the noise of life going on around me. I miss the peace of my own thoughts and the space I see wherever I look.
That’s it. I’ve worked out what’s missing: I just want to be outside.
I NEED to be outside.
But how can I possibly do this outside? It’s been nearly ten years since I’ve ridden a bike, and I don’t even know if I still can. My mind floods with conflicting thoughts, fears, possibilities and memories. It feels like I’m having a game of table tennis in my head: small white balls are being smashed around over a tiny net, and I can barely keep up with them.
Can you even ride a bike, Rachel?
Of course you can!
No, you can’t!
Why on earth can’t you? You’ve got a bike in the cellar.
You rode that, once. Remember?
Get it back out again!
But you’d probably kill yourself on it.
What are you frightened of?
You’re frightened, aren’t you? OMG, you’re too scared to ride a bike!
That’s right, isn’t it, Rach? YOU’RE TOO SCARED TO RIDE A BIKE, AREN’T YOU?
PING, PONG, PING, PONG … the balls keep flying over the net, but one thought settles with me, and I can’t shake it off: I’M TOO SCARED TO RIDE A BIKE. But why? How can I possibly be too afraid to get on a bike and ride it? Millions of people ride bikes every single day! What on earth is making me think that I can’t be one of them?
15
BACK IN THE SADDLE
I’m balancing on the tightrope, again. ‘The Power of Yet’ is in a duel with my Bastard Chimp, who is now jumping up and down, desperate to remind me of some basic facts: YOU CANNOT RIDE A BIKE, RACHEL. REMEMBER THE HORROR OF THE GIRLY CYCLING CLIQUE? YOU COULDN’T RIDE A BIKE THEN, SO WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU’LL BE ABLE TO RIDE ONE NOW? YOU’LL MAKE A COMPLETE FOOL OF YOURSELF. WHY ARE YOU EVEN CONSIDERING DOING THIS?
I listen to his arguments, and it reminds me of the mooting competitions we held whilst I was a law student. I do my best to remain objective, as though weighing up the evidence and trying to sift out the hard facts from any rebuttable presumptions, those being assumptions that are taken to be true unless someone comes forward to contest them and prove otherwise. I think back to my conversation with Tilly about ‘The Power of Yet’ whilst walking home from the farm shop, eating her sausage roll. What would she say to rebut the Bastard Chimp in his assertions? Surely it would go something like this:
•YOU CANNOT RIDE A BIKE YET, MUM … but you will be able to at some point in the future.
•YOU DON’T FEEL VERY CONFIDENT ABOUT GETTING ON YOUR BIKE AGAIN, MUM … but you will feel more confident if you are brave and take little steps forward.
•YOU DON’T KNOW IF YOUR BIKE IS ROAD WORTHY YET, MUM … but you can find that out, if you really want to.
I picture her talking me through all the sensible, rational points in response to the case my Bastard Chimp has confidently put forward. He’s pretty damn convincing, and I still shudder at the memory of the Stoodley Pike off-road mountain biking experience with the Girly Cycling Clique. But then I think back to when I was pedalling away on the static gym bike just a few days ago, longing to be outside under The Simpsons cartoon clouds and an eggshell blue sky. I so desperately wanted to be in the sunshine, and not stuck inside the godforsaken gym with the television blaring. How badly do I want it?
I consider the basis of my Bastard Chimp’s arguments, and I conclude that – despite there being some truth to his protestations – all his points are based on one general presumption: THAT I’M TOO FRIGHTENED TO RIDE A BIKE. I’M TOO SCARED TO TRY AGAIN. His entire argument hinges on fear. On that basis, there is simply no contest. Tilly is armed with the far stronger weapon, and she settles this duel once and for all with one final swing of her mighty sword: ‘The Power of Yet’.
‘Could you pop down and help me get my bike out, please?’ I shout up the stairs to my Other Half as I wade across plastic boxes and an old artificial Christmas tree in the cellar. ‘I’m going to get it serviced so that I can r
ide it again.’
The duel is over. Terrified as I might be, thanks to Tilly, ‘The Power of Yet’ has emerged victorious: I will be riding my bike again at some point in the (very near) future.
* * *
I pull my old 2010 Trek mountain bike out of the cellar and heave it into my car. I’m taking it to Halfords for a service – and by this, I mean I need them to make sure that the wheels are still round (the back one is, I suspect, oval), to pump some air into the tyres which now resemble Scotch pancakes, and to ensure the brakes still work. As much as I’m no cycling connoisseur, the brand name ‘Avid Juicy’ has stuck in my memory. I heard Chris mention it some years ago, prior to the ill-fated Stoodley Pike night ride, and I recall that it has something to do with the brakes. I fear mine may well have run out of their vital ‘avid’ juice.
Once I’ve hauled my dusty old Trek up the stairs to Halfords’ most inconveniently placed bike service checkout, I explain my requirements to the sloth-like bearded gentleman behind the counter. You see, I need to establish certain basic facts before I can allow myself to venture forth on my unfamiliar two-wheeled machine. I begin to reel off my list, as follows:
•Are both wheels round?
•Are the (hopefully circular) tyres pumped up?
•Are the ‘Avid Juicy’ brakes still working?
•Are the gears shifting?
I tell the man that they kept sticking when I last rode this thing, back in 2010. But I’ve forgotten how to use them, so it doesn’t make a huge difference, anyway.
A Midlife Cyclist Page 8