Good for you!
Wonky sludge, torn gussets, and the pursuit of euphoria
Even though I am experiencing significant mental strain, I recently made the cavalier decision to stop doing therapy. I have an enormous sense of clarity about my thoughts and feelings and have never desired controlled introspection less.
Instead, I want to shake my limbs and sort out whatever is going on with my pelvis and knees before the thing happens - the thing that I strongly believe is about to happen [they pop out of their sockets and I can’t pop them back in again].
My friend is supporting me on this journey. She and I have made a pact to get back into movement. This accountability is not only a bonus for me in terms of motivation, but because I got sent six fairly graphic ‘Before’ images of her naked body on WhatsApp first thing on Monday morning.
My aim: vigorous exercise three days a week for a month. It sounds easy, but I am short on time, and most days I wake up feeling battered.
I used to be a very athletic woman who would think nothing of spending her spare thirty minutes on push ups or a HIIT class on YouTube. I used to run from work to home - fifty minutes - guzzling water from a backpack with a plastic sack in it. For about three weeks in 1998, I was the fastest person in my primary school. I held a school record for the standing long jump as a teen. In my late twenties I did hot yoga six times a week, and I swam every day of my pregnancy. In my head I am still a fierce little sprinter, a disciplined and determined girl. In reality, I weave through the streets feeling like wonky sludge.
On a recent run, a mum I vaguely recognised shouted, “Good for you!”
My sportswear definitely gives off a good for you type of energy. I don’t like leggings so wear very small, cheap shorts that ride up at the crotch. They remind me of sports day, but they look like something someone would wear if they hadn’t upgraded their gym kit since they got carried away in TKMaxx the day after the 2011 Olympics opening ceremony. The gusset is torn, and strips of fabric poke out of the shorts like worms from soil.
On day two of the pact I woke up weak and dizzy. My muscles ached, and I imagined my feet hitting the tarmac might snap a few tendons. I decided to walk a bit - to the supermarket and back. I went the long way, and all the streets just stank of old bins: distressed kebab boxes and dog dirt bags, smelly warm cans of cider. On top of the bad aroma, I found the experience of walking around very familiar streets agonisingly boring, so I started to run in my jeans. It was exercise but I didn’t feel good about it. I decided it didn’t count as my one of three. I was in jeans, and I ate a bag of wasabi crackers straight off the shelf as soon as I got to Lidl.
On day three I considered paying a building or person to help me. Swimming was an option, but the dedication it requires is absurd: two hours in total, two showers, and I’d have to put a wash on when I got home. Yoga too, but then there is the long duration, the agitated Savasana, the extortionate prices, and my disdain for the performance of cleaning the mat at the end. Weight training sounds good, perfect, really, but I am intimidated by the websites. Like signing up might involve joining a community, going for tiring drinks on a Wednesday. And I don’t want a gym membership because of the obligatory introductory PT session, during which a large, disinterested man will publicly measure my waist and take notes on my shoddy form on the elliptical.
Day four, and I just got back from an eighteen minute run that mostly felt awful. But still - eighteen minutes is good. Two years ago, on Zoom, a microbiome expert told me I would never run for longer than twenty minutes again because of my autoimmune disorders. She said I had to slow down, only do Yin and walk. I thought she was going to tell me to stop eating nectarines, not to give up completely.
I took her words on board. For two years. As a result, I have turned into a slug. But now everything hurts, and the speed freak inside me is itching to move. I want to tolerate the low-level pain, so I can break through to where the clouds part and where peace and euphoria momentarily lift me.
I want my body and brain back! I want good posture! I want to be a small part of who I used to be!
Most of all, though, I really don’t want to talk about it.
Good for you, microbiome expert! And great work on the no therapy, my writing would be so much compelling if I didn’t have mine ungaslighting me every Monday 😒
I prefer how you write about running to how I write about running.