I decide to focus all my energies back on my therapy programme, and away from any unhelpful distractions. The peace I felt wash over me during my woodland walk has helped me to choose simplicity and to steer myself back onto the path I was following, which felt to genuinely be helping me to identify, rationalise, process and manage my destructive body-dysmorphic thoughts from a place where I once had no power or control over them. I cannot regress any further, and so I begin to click through my routine rapid-fire questionnaires, as per the usual protocol:
Answer (d) a lot;
Answer (e) all the time …
24
EXPLORING
I wake up and I’m feeling brave: brave and adventurous. So much so that I don’t even have a plan – I just want to get out on my bike and explore. I want to see where the road takes me, with no end destination in mind.
So, I plonk my padded backside onto my Malteser-framed bike, and we head off on our next adventure. I turn right onto the road outside my house, which carves straight through woodland and is densely packed with ancient, deciduous trees. They arch over the road almost meeting in the middle, giving it an enclosed, tunnel-like feel. Within moments, a 10-tonne truck comes thundering along on one of its frequent trips to and from the nearby recycling plant. I remember the first time I felt the very same wind-tunnel effect and the drag on my bike as the truck whooshed past me, pushing the air out of the way like a swimmer doing breaststroke. It still feels unnerving, especially on my skeletal, floaty-light road bike, but I know what to expect from riding Trek along the very same stretch of road.
Just hold on tight and keep pedalling, Rach! I tell myself, waiting for the resistance in the temporary wind tunnel to abate.
I turn left onto the same main road which climbs sharply as it bends, and where I was unceremoniously buckaroo’d off by Scott just days before. I still have some greasy black smears on my remaining fingernails as evidence of my emergency handiwork, but this time around, I’ve thought ahead and packed some disposable latex gloves I found stuffed in a box underneath the sink. At least I know how to put the chain back onto the cogs if it comes loose again, and I can minimise any further damage to my nails in the process. RESULT! But surely – as far as odds go – then it would be HIGHLY IMPROBABLE for the same thing to happen twice?
I continue cycling up the hill, and soon I’m approaching the steep bend. The incline is making it harder to maintain my cadence and so I crank roughly with the gears, but I’ve left it too late. Scott bolts, and the chain comes off in exactly the same place as it did before. Fucking hell! How is that even possible? But this time, I know what to do and I’ve come prepared. I lift my skeletal cycling companion up and unceremoniously flip him over. Unzipping the pocket of my rucksack, I don my disposable gloves. Fuck you, oily chain, if you think you’re going to wreck my nails again! I fiddle about with the chain, shifting a few cogs here and there, and – just as before – harmony is restored.
I get back on the saddle, and we begin to roll away. A smile spreads across my face as I can feel myself increasing in speed, efficiency and confidence with every revolution of the wheels.
We soon ride past the same smelly farm I cycled to on Challenge #6, but I don’t turn off here. Instead, I look ahead at the open road which beckons me further. I’ve never been beyond that hill … I ponder. I wonder what’s over there? I cycle past my familiar junction and head out along the unfolding road ahead of me. It’s all completely new. It feels exciting and I feel brave.
‘Ha ha ha! Get a grip, Rach,’ my Bastard Chimp chunters in my ear. ‘You’ve only cycled half a mile further up the road! Hardly earth-shattering, is it?’
Oh, fuck off, Chimp! It may be small progress, but these are all steps in the right direction. I give him the middle finger and quickly turn away.
I’m even beginning to have a breakthrough with mastering my gears. I continue to experiment, flicking smoothly to higher gears on the flatter sections and lowering them again on the climbs, and some small semblance of understanding begins to take place between us. We’re rolling, now! I can feel the chain and cogs clicking into place, and I can sense when the gear change is forced and feels wrong: Scott and I are beginning to converse and to understand each other.
I look ahead and I’m immediately pulled back into anxiety management mode. Fucking hell, that’s the motorway bridge – I’m about to cycle across the M62! A gust of air suddenly rushes at me sideways as my front wheel reaches the high motorway bridge. My grip on the handlebars tightens. This is an eerie, exposed place. I know that some people come up here only to jump over the side, onto the motorway carriage which is a long way below. I daren’t look to my left or right, and I daren’t allow myself to think about how someone might end their life in this way. Sadness is all around me. Samaritans posters run along the entire length of the bridge, and tiny coloured ribbons flap frantically on the railings, together with remnants of a sparse bunch of flowers which has been fastened securely so that the wind didn’t destroy them within seconds. I want to get off the bridge: I just want to get away from here, and to the safety of the other side.
Scott feels vulnerable along here. He doesn’t have Trek’s chunky, robust frame and the wind whips around him in every direction, making him wobble frantically. I wrestle to control the front wheel and pedal as fast as I can to reach the other side.
I make it across the bridge and my quads are burning with the effort of the sudden increase in pace, whilst my heart thumps loudly in my chest. I can’t honestly tell if it’s due to the increased exertion, or the emotional weight of other peoples’ pain that I have just cycled through: it’s a reminder to me that we’re all hurting in some way.
A mile further on, and I ride past a road sign saying, ‘Welcome to Kirklees!’ That’s another metropolitan borough, and it makes me feel like I’ve broken through some invisible barrier, venturing further afield than I have ever done before. I have absolutely no idea where I’m going, so I just keep pedalling.
It feels increasingly remote, and I’m now surrounded by wild heathers and moorland. The wind is picking up, and I’m getting cold. Eventually, I approach a crossroads up ahead, where I can only turn left or right. Phew! I’ve been cycling uphill along this one, desolate countryside road for almost eight miles. I’m high up and it’s a beautiful vantage point from here, so I decide to stop briefly in a parking area. Relieved to remove myself from Scott, I look ahead: I can see a reservoir which I never knew existed. Another road cyclist pulls up alongside me, and we stand side by side, gazing down at the water sparkling below.
‘Excuse me. This may sound very strange, but do you have any idea where we are?’ I ask, breaking the comfortable silence to risk sounding utterly ludicrous.
‘Ha! Yeah, this is March Haigh Reservoir,’ he says, sounding confused by the question. I’ve heard of it many times before, but I’ve never actually been there.
‘Thanks. It’s only my third ride out on this little number,’ I reply, gesturing to Scott and trying to put into context the reason why I appear to be so entirely clueless as to my current whereabouts. ‘I’m just out exploring.’ I look down at my GPS watch, which confirms that I’ve just cycled eight miles up a hill.
‘Wow! Not bad going, that. It’s a hell of a climb up here,’ he says. ‘Nice machine you’ve got there, by the way.’
I smile at my beautiful Scott, now serenely propped up against a fence. I decide not to tell my new cycling friend that I’m still working out how to change gears properly, or that I’ve only just deciphered that the left gear works my front derailleur (the critical part of the bike responsible for shifting the gears, I have learned), and the right one the back.
‘Thanks!’ I reply, beaming. ‘I only bought him a few weeks ago, and I already love him!’
I say goodbye to my new friend and head off on my downhill, white-knuckle ride back home. The wind whips across my face as I feel my speed increasing, mile after mile. I stand up on my pedals with my bum high in the air, snot
blowing across my face. And there’s a tune playing in my head:
Every stop I make, I make a new friend,
Can’t stay for long, just turn around and I’m gone again.
I quickly identify it as the soundtrack to The Littlest Hobo with his love of adventure, and I can’t help thinking to myself:
Who the actual fuck am I?
I’m smiling, inside.
25
GETTING BACK ON TRACK
Email from: Dr G
Subject: Checking in
Hi Rachel,
Thanks for your email, and honestly, it’s OK. I understand how life can throw curve balls and that this can have an impact on therapy. I’ve put you in my schedule for next Tuesday for our mid-point review.
If you do have a spare moment, even just logging in briefly to look at the worksheets, or beginning to think about your first exposures and how they impacted on you is still better than nothing at all.
Good luck in these busy – and challenging – times. I will talk to you soon.
Dr G
As I read Dr G’s kind response to my ‘Sorry, Sir! The dog ate my homework’ bail-out on our mid-point review, I breathe an audible sigh of relief. I feel relieved that I haven’t burned my bridges and lost the opportunity to see how this course of therapy might work for me. And I do exactly as Dr G suggests: I log in and read over some of my diary entries. First, from the very early days of writing down my BDD experiences and identifying my damaging thoughts to possible ‘interpretation traps’ and the many exposure therapy challenges I set for myself. I remember it all so vividly; I can feel my throat closing as I sat panic-stricken outside my work, wondering how on earth I could step out of my car. I can also take myself straight back to that time – a time before I knew anything about ‘interpretation traps’ or the SWAT team whose job it is to bring them to my attention. I didn’t know about any of that stuff, back then.
I continue reading through my diary, and I can still feel my heart pounding in the moments before I walked into the school playground with my unwashed hair for the very first time, feeling completely vulnerable as I faced my first ‘exposure therapy’ challenges. I can also recall the feeling of mild euphoria as I bounced back out of the playground, when it dawned on me that these were all lies I’d been telling myself. It seems such a long time ago, and I realise that a lot has changed in my mind, already.
I reply to Dr G and explain to him about my decision not to go down to London over the Marathon weekend, and the peace I needed to find instead. I tell him that I feel like I must stop and process everything, so that my stress levels don’t develop into something darker and more sinister. And I let him know that I have done as he’s suggested, and that it’s already coming back to me: the challenges I’ve faced, the learning, and the progress I’ve made. I feel like I’m taking tiny steps forward again after my mini wobble.
* * *
It’s time for my mid-point review with Dr G. Just as before, I’ve hoovered the carpet and picked up any discarded pants and socks from the bedroom floor. I’ve made a proverbial ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign for the other occupants of the house. I decide to go to my yoga class beforehand, because I know that it works wonders in resetting my head.
‘You look well, Rach!’ one of the regular ladies says as I’m walking through into the studio, carrying my yoga mat.
‘Oh, thanks!’ I reply, unsure what else to say. It takes me aback a little, because I haven’t had a shower or washed my hair this morning. I make a mental note to discuss this with Dr G during our review this afternoon, because this has happened to me a few times, recently: not only have I continued placing myself in ‘exposing’ situations, but I’ve actually received compliments on how I look when I do! The irony makes me laugh to myself as I consider the lengths I would previously have gone to, making great efforts to ensure that I leave the house looking pristine, only to feel self-conscious and uncomfortable when I do. It’s the last ten minutes of our yoga class. The teacher invites us to put on some warm clothing and to settle ourselves in a comfortable position. I wrap my bare feet in my hoodie and lie flat on my back, my arms splayed out to the sides, palms facing up.
‘Where else can you let go?’ the unfamiliar husky voice asks (it’s not our usual teacher). ‘It might be helpful to do a scan of your body, and to see where else you can soften.’
Taking her words literally, I begin to work my way down my body, making a conscious effort to ease my muscles, lose any tension, and to let go. I hadn’t realised my forehead was crinkled with tension, or that my teeth were clenched. I switch off my facial muscles, loosen my jaw, and continue working my way down my body, un-shrugging my shoulders and allowing my belly to soften. It feels so good to allow my overthinking mind to switch off, and for my entire body to relax.
The sun is bursting through the skylight in the yoga studio and warmth floods my body. I begin to realise that my decision to come to the class without undertaking my previously onerous preening regime has freed me. It may have begun some weeks ago as an anxiety-inducing ‘exposure therapy’ challenge, but it has since allowed me to be present in a place without constant expectation, evaluation – and criticism. I’ve finally been liberated from my own relentless strive for perfection. The room is still, and I’m calm. I open my eyes and look up at the skylight, feeling my tummy rise as I breathe in deeply and sink into the floor as I breathe out again, and I feel grateful. I’m grateful for the exposure therapy challenges, and for Dr G; I’m grateful for learning about potential ‘interpretation traps’ and for the kind lady who complimented me as I walked into the class today.
And I can’t believe that I’m perhaps most grateful for the loss of running, which ultimately led to me seeking help for this. I’m now convinced: I think the therapy might just be working …
* * *
‘So, how’s it been going?’ Dr G asks in his soothing American drawl. I realise that this is more of an ice-breaker than part of the review, but I’m keen to tell him about what happened at the yoga class today. I’m not sure how he can measure that, or whether it will be useful data (pronounced dar-tar) for his study, but I want to share it with him, anyway.
‘Hey, that sounds great!’ he says, once I’ve finished telling him about my unexpected compliment from Kind Lady At The Gym. His eyes are warm and smiling, as though he is genuinely happy to hear about my progress. He’s launching into the mid-point review assessment questionnaire preamble when I realise something: I haven’t been distracted by seeing my own image floating about in a small square in the corner of my computer screen. I remember the very first video assessment I had with Dr G, and feeling like my eyes were being permanently drawn back to assess myself for flaws. What’s more, I haven’t just spent an hour straightening my hair. Yes, I jumped in the shower when I got home after my yoga class, but I’ve left my hair to dry naturally, and I’ve scraped it into an unremarkable ponytail just to keep it off my face. I answer his rapid-fire questions with ease, responding to the usual ‘How many times have you …’, ‘To what extent do you …’ and ‘Please select which of the following statements are true …’ as though it’s second nature.
‘Thanks, Rachel. That’s the review complete,’ Dr G informs me just as I’m getting into my stride. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. I have so many other mini victories to share with him, and so many other observations I have about the way my mind is starting to see things differently, and the changes I’m seeing – and feeling – as a result.
26
ONE STEP AT A TIME
Once I fully immerse myself in my *new* two-wheeled challenges, I eventually let go of the many futile attempts to force my body to run. Gone are the dreaded two-mile teary test runs along the canal, and my desperate efforts to run around the block from work (via the sandwich shop for my lazy boss). The London Marathon has long since been and gone. I am finally able to let running go, and to turn my attention to more positive, worthwhile goals, such as challenging myself to
ride up some of the demanding local hills and exploring into unknown areas. The shift in focus helps me to recalibrate my head and to re-evaluate my goals. It feels like the shackles had been taken off and I’ve been liberated from the belief that running is the only possible answer for my mental health troubles.
But life has a funny way of keeping us on our toes and reminding us who’s boss. The moment we allow ourselves to believe that we’ve finally got it all sussed, that’s precisely when the game changes and we realise what we think we know isn’t quite what it seems. So, it should have come as no surprise that when I’d fully immersed myself in my new cycling interests and goals – and of course, my BDD therapy – running would come creeping back to tap me on the shoulder and remind me that he’s still here. As the wise old saying goes, ‘If you stop looking for love, it will find you’, and it looks like this might also be true for, well, pretty much anything – running included. IF YOU STOP PINING FOR IT, THEN IT COMES KNOCKING ON YOUR DOOR. Which is exactly what happens.
He came back.
But running had left me, once. He’d abandoned me at the altar, leaving me holding an unjustifiably expensive bunch of flowers and the prospect of paying for (and going on) a honeymoon by myself without any kind of explanation as to why he couldn’t be with me any more. I’d been jilted; abandoned; devastated; and almost destroyed as a result. So, when he eventually turns up knocking again, I am cautious. I don’t trust him, and I don’t want him to think that he can just come striding back through the front door, all ‘Hi honey, I’m home!’ as though nothing has happened and expect me to be the same person that I was before. I’m not the same person. I’ve changed – I’m still changing. And I like changing! On this basis, I have a few ground rules that I need to establish before running can reclaim his sock drawer.
A Midlife Cyclist Page 13