Reaching the Limit

Last week I dreamt I was skinny. Properly skinny, with a flat, muscled tummy and a reflection that left me feeling triumphant. In the dream, that shape meant success to me, I had worked to achieve it and the result made me feel good. I don't know how, since dreams aren't very good at providing me with the back story, but I knew that my figure was newly reclaimed and deserved a hint of self-congratulation. When I woke up and saw myself in the mirror, I was more than a little disappointed. Not only was my dream lying to me about my shape but I was made aware that the "couple of pounds" I had recently gained was actually closer to a stone and the baggy jumpers that had allowed me to ignore the expansion of my waist were no longer as baggy as they were supposed to be.

I didn't respond to this revelation in the same way as I have on previous occasions (and there have been too many of those but that's in the past). It appears that my plans to be more positive towards myself have not disappeared, but slipped into the background chatter of my subconscious. Instead of tears of distress at being so fat and ugly again, or a vicious critique, slating my reflection for being greedy, worthless and disgusting, I was surprisingly calm. I accepted that I had managed to slip back to the same heavyweight status that had sent me running, panicking, to diet groups in the past. I acknowledged that it was partly due to lack of exercise caused by the fibromyalgia pain, but that comfort eating, triggered by pain, frustration and boredom, had to shoulder most of the blame. I also recognised that I have to do something about it. I can't do the "jolly fat girl" thing because, to be blunt, I don't feel jolly when I'm fat. I feel uncomfortable, with sore knees and aching feet. I get breathless far too easily and that worries me. I struggle with activity in a way that I know is not entirely down to the fatigue of fibromyalgia. I don't quite waddle, but I do feel that my gait has a certain sway that is more lumbering than I would like.

With a hint of resignation, coupled with determination, I decided it is time to act. There is no way that I can use exercise and self-imposed healthy eating to achieve my aims. Even when relatively fit, a couple of years ago, I was unable to run - it is just not my "thing". As for healthy eating, I have decades of dependence on sugary food sapping my willpower and trying to fool me that "just one won't hurt", when the "just one" is referring to a packet and not just a single sweet, biscuit or chocolate bar. The only thing that will work for me is a supervised diet so, this morning, I went back to see my Lighterlife Counsellor.

I don't know if I am a classic yo-yo dieter because I don't really know if there is such a thing. I know that my weight has risen and fallen many times over the years. I have lost the same two stone several times and a further two a couple of times. I have 5 different sizes of jeans in my wardrobe, all of them have been worn in the last two years and, whilst I am reluctant to put away the 10s and 12s in case I can wear them again, I know from experience that discarding the 16s and 18s will prove to be expensive. My most successful weight loss experiences have been with LighterLife, losing 5 stone in 2005 and 4 stone in 2010. Many will query the idea that this weight loss was successful, given that I have just regained all the weight lost in 2010 and I'm sure that quite a few eyeballs will be rolling at my venturing back to this system but I know that, as far as losing weight goes, this programme does work for me.

There is more to weight loss than just losing weight and, from my point of view, the weight returned because I had missed a crucial part of the process -  learning to eat properly. There is a full course of nutritional re-education available once a target weight has been reached but on both the previous attempts I hit a brick wall in the form of depression which stopped me from caring much about the consequences of any face-stuffing; hence regaining all the weight lost, from repetition of all the bad habits that put that weight there in the first place.

It did strike me as being a little odd, that I should get depressed after I had lost enough weight that size 10 jeans were feeling loose. It certainly made me consider that being thin does not equal being happy any more than being fat does. In fact, it has enabled me to remove a desire to be happier from my list of reasons to slim. Happiness clearly comes from the mind and not the body and taking a dependence on body-shape away has made it easier for me to work on my happiness as an entirely separate project. This time, the diet is very much (and only) about being healthier, about being able to walk without losing my breath, about feet and knees that don't curse me every day. I know from past experience that this diet makes me feel well and that is what I am looking for.

I would like to be able to look in the mirror and see a slender body (I won't kid myself that I could actually achieve "skinny") and I would like to be able to wear size 10s and walk in heels without hurting. What I really hope to achieve is to know that I have moved towards being a healthier, more comfortable size; that I have learnt to take control of and responsibility for my weight; that I can be the best me I can be, by my own actions, from my own decision.

I have taken the first step. I am on my way.

So Where HAS the Time Gone?

Last night, when I took my son to Scouts just before 8pm, I noticed it was properly dark on the way there and not just on the way back home. That was when I realised that we have reached the Autumn Equinox, the starting point of the Dark Half Of The Year and a moment which, in previous years, was known to fill me with a kind of dread. I have always been a summer-lover and would feel increasingly miserable as autumn deepened and winter set in.  I had no time to enjoy autumn because all that meant to me was that winter was on its way.  I would dread the hours of darkness, the cold and the damp, and my mood would deepen as the days darkened. I would almost count the days until the solstice when the days would start to lengthen. I would focus on Christmas as a little ray of light in the gloom and would then reach New Year and find there was nothing between me and depression until the flowers started to appear in spring. I would want to hibernate, to snuggle in one long duvet day until I could consider winter to be over. This year has been different, starting with a beautiful crisp winter which made me feel ready to wake up, followed by a soggy spring and another disappointing summer so, for a change, I am actually happy to welcome autumn into my life. Things outside are changing. The air is cooler but it is also fresh and inviting. The trees are starting to look interesting again. There are blackberries - and that means crumble!

The end of the summer is a traditional time for hearing various cries of "Where did the summer go?", "How can it be autumn already?" and "The years are just going too fast these days". A new school year is perfect for the realisation that our children are growing up, as tiny ones start all dressed up in "Big School" uniforms and our older children move on to bigger schools with greater workloads and responsibilities. It is natural, in these conditions, to remark on the progress that everyone is making. The phrase "where HAS the time gone?" echoes around towns and villages all around, as we all stop and wonder how we hadn't noticed its passage. How can a six week holiday have passed in just the blink of an eye? How can we have already reached the end of the THIRD week of term? The leather hasn't yet been scraped off my younger son's shoes, surely we aren't that far into the term yet!

What we forget, or simply don't acknowledge, is that time isn't going anywhere except into the past. It is in no hurry, it maintains a regular pace and it is we, with our busy lives and preoccupations, who ignore it as it passes - and then we look up in puzzlement when we realise that we didn't pay attention. If we don't pin time down into memories as it goes by then it is gone forever. I don't want to spend too much more time wondering about it as it is still going. It will not stop to let me think, it will carry on regardless, taking us into the future whether we are ready or not.

Some people spend their children's younger years waiting for the next milestone; the first tooth, the first step, the first word, the first day at school. Others seem to spend a lot of time wailing at how fast the time is going and how their babies aren't babies any more (as they pack them off to Middle School with a hastily brushed-off kiss). I have realised now that both approaches are somewhat misguided - for every moment we waste remembering with fondness the cute little gurgles of our little ones, we are missing some amazing moments in their middle childhood. Some of my eight-year-old's moments are far too good to miss, as he discovers something that he hadn't known before or learns to articulate a thought that we had maybe assumed was beyond him. Let's not miss any stage of their development, simply because an eighth adult tooth doesn't seem as exciting as the first tooth to appear. Every day has something new to be learnt. Enjoy every day, because it is the only chance you will ever have to experience that day.

I am as guilty as anyone of spending too much of my time thinking about the past or the future. I am just coming to realise that I have arrived in my forties without paying enough attention to the days that passed by on the way. No more! It is autumn and I am going to enjoy it for a change. I'll take out the camera again and see what I can find and I'll appreciate my boots and my jumpers as the weather cools down and I start to need those extra layers. I'll enjoy that peculiarly earthy smell of a misty autumn morning and the colours of the leaves as they dance and then drop. I will accept that Christmas is coming up - still in the future so I will not pay it too much attention as yet, but on its way so I will not rebel as it appears closer and closer. I will enjoy autumn and then winter with a much happier heart than before. If I spend the time hating it, the seasons still won't pass any faster, they'll just go by more painfully. Eventually it will be spring again and we will re-enter the light half of the year. I hope that, by then, I won't have lost another six months to busyness and routine, wondering "Where did the time go?" and "How can it be spring already?"

Why write?

I have always liked writing, ever since I was young enough to scrawl a proprietary "Katie" on every page of my "Chicken Licken" Ladybird book at four years old. Writing has always been a way of extracting and pinning down some of the words and thoughts that bubble up in my mind, distracting me from my everyday tasks. It hasn't always been easy, sometimes the brain-hand interface gets blocked, either by words pushing and jostling to get out so that they clog the exit and I can't choose between them, or by words refusing to leave the comfort zone of my brain because their sentences "just aren't ready". Many times, my written words have been bundled up into diaries, re-read maybe only once or twice before they were destroyed to keep them away from prying, fraternal eyes. Other times, I would fill page after page when writing to friends, while I was away at boarding school. Everything that I was unable to say to the girls around me could be poured out onto paper, up to ten pages of A4 paper at a time.

I wrote a story once, at school. At least, I started writing a story but it was met with such scornful hilarity that I was reluctant to share my words for a long time after that. Better to keep the words to myself than allow them out, to be ridiculed. For many years, I was content to keep the words inside, for their (and my) protection, letting them whirl and tumble in my mind, churning away in timeless daydreams, consoling myself that "one day" I would write a book.

My Forties have triggered something of a mid-life crisis, forcing me to examine all that I have done, am doing and will do, and making me realise the potential for "one day" to slip away from me if I don't grab it soon. But how will I write, if I never actually do any writing? The realisation that I have to get on with it, if it is going to happen, has prompted me to start blogging. My words still only reach a small audience but it is practice, it is giving me confidence and the act of writing is helping me to sort out some of the thoughts that have been stashed away for years in the junk room of my mind. My recent health problems and lack of energy have made me think about what I actually can do, rather than what I would do in an ideal world - and I have realised that writing still fits in the can-do box so I want to make a go of it.

My plans were inspired by a moment, a few months ago, when I was walking past the local bookshop and I realised that I actually want to see my name, on a book, in that window. It was a bit of a shock, I have never had any ambition so clear before in my life. At last, I know what I want to do when I grow up...and it is time to grow up and do it. Of course, real writers get writers' block from time to time and it was a bit disconcerting to walk straight into that wall the moment I decided that I wanted to be a writer. Feeling desperate to do something can sometimes be counterproductive. I realised I didn't know exactly what I wanted to write; novels? short stories? magazine features or journalistic articles? childrens' books? the story of my struggles with depression, fibromyalgia and autism? The words stopped flowing and I was left feeling a bit like a superficial "wannabe", talking the talk with no writing to back up my claims and intentions.

I knew I needed to do something and just get on with it, so when I saw a notice for a writers' workshop in a local community centre I signed up for it straight away. I discovered that I am much the same as the other writers on the course, with a little less experience than some, but not all. Given the task of writing a short story, I found that I had an idea within a few hours and it took just a few hours more to actually write it. I finally felt hopeful. Getting on with the task had shown that I can do it and the ideas started to flow again. I realised that writing is hard work but it is something that I can do when I sit down and put the effort into it. My stories are forming now; I may not have reams and reams of manuscript lying around the house but I have years and years of daydreaming scribbled in my brain, waiting to be extracted and pinned down in type.

Most of all, I have realised that I don't want to write in order to create best sellers, I just want to write so that I can show what I have done with my time; I want to say "there, look - I did that!" My stories will take a few years as there is a lot of research to be done now but I hope, in the meantime, to practise my writing with blog posts and short stories, with a smile on my face that says "This is me, this is what I do and I am having fun!"

Lost and Found

They say, "Seek and ye shall find" but sometimes it seems that the harder we try to find something, the more elusive it can be. I have been trying, for the last few months, to find the words for some more of these blog posts but words can be nervous little critters and they scurry away the moment they are exposed to the light.

Foremost in my mind, recently, has been the feeling of hopelessness, brought about by the resurgence of my fibromyalgia. All my intentions for the year appeared to evaporate, as even simple tasks, such as keeping on top of the housework, became harder and the more ambitious projects, like increasing my exercise, became nearly impossible. Despair does not feed creativity, however, so while my mind was caught up with the "woe is me" train of thought, the positive vibes fueling my writing projects were completely derailed. I have been clinging to my newly-hatched ambitions by talking about writing but haven't been putting any of those words into print. It seemed quite feeble to be suffering from writer's block so soon after deciding I want to become a writer but that's how it felt and I wasn't happy with it.

My internal saboteur got to work, telling me that I was only ill because it was the easiest way to be lazy; that I wouldn't have any trouble writing, if I were any good at it, so my failure to find words must mean that I am no good; that I was just useless and worthless and a waste of space. That voice of pessimism was trying to persuade me that I was wasting my time, it was yet another hobby that I would pick up, play with a while and then drop as soon as boredom sets in.

But I have friends; friends who believe in me, encourage me and want the best for me; friends who allow me to believe in myself, and I don't want to prove them wrong. I am also discovering that, however much my friends might want me to succeed, I am the one who has to do the work. I have to do it and I have to start somewhere. When I saw notices advertising a local writers' workshop, I decided that it was time to sign up and do something at last.

The first session was interesting and left me feeling both hopeful and challenged; the first task of a short story had me stumped for just a few hours, before my plans for an inspiration-seeking walk gave me the story I wanted before I had even left the house. In that first evening I had the first part written, the rest finished off in just the space of a morning. Suddenly I had found my words, I was writing again and it felt good. Meanwhile, the fleeting ideas I had in the back of my mind for a proper story have been growing, challenging me with the prospect of research to be done but filling me with excitement at the possibilities. I realised that I didn't want to write as an excuse for not doing anything else, or in the hope of writing a bestseller. My motive for writing was purely to give me a feeling of achievement, so that I can say "I did that". With that realisation came a kind of peace and a release of the tension that was holding me back. The pressure is off, the game is back on.

So, where I was so recently lost for words, I feel as if I am finally finding them. It may take time to gather them all together and put them in the right order but I know they are there, waiting for me.

Party On!

Parties are exhausting for me, physically and mentally. I love to join in and be part of the crowd, to dress up and dance to good music, to have a drink or two (if I am not driving home) but the noise, the activity and the social interactions all create stresses for my overloaded senses.

An invitation makes me feel valued and validated, I love the thought that somebody actually wants me to join in with their fun, that they care enough to include me. I might not take enough time to keep in touch with my friends on a regular basis but I really do appreciate them and to see the people I like is always a pleasant experience.

The lead up to the party begins with The Planning of the Outfit, a complex process requiring a touch of fortune-telling on my part, given the variability in my size at the moment. A lot of the fun of a party (but by no means all of it) is involved in the planning phase. I might need a shopping trip to acquire a key piece and, if I have nothing suitable, I will also have the pleasure of a jewellery-making project. I am always desperate to look my best and terrified of making a fool of myself in the process. It only takes the tiniest touch of makeup on my usually naked face to make it look like I've pulled out all the stops. That doesn't mean that a smidge is sufficient to make me into a ravishing beauty, it would take several thick layers and a good imagination to achieve that, it's just that a little makes such a difference that everyone is able to say, "oooh, you're wearing make up", and feel that I've made an effort. Unfortunately, I am so out of practise with said makeup, that it is easy to overdo it (at least in my view) and feel like a child's experiment gone wrong! Eventually I will have all the pieces assembled for the look I've chosen; I'll try it on a couple of times, change my mind, change it back again...and then at the last minute I'll wear something completely different!

I have to be careful, though, to make sure I watch out for that nasty little saboteur, fear. I used to have a bit of a party-phobia that was so subtle that I wasn't even aware of it. After spending a couple of weeks anticipating and planning for a party, I would delay booking a babysitter until the last minute, in the hope that I would be unable to find someone suitable and we would have to cancel. When planning a party at home, I found I would delay sending the invitations until quite near to the event, in the hope that not many people would be able to make it. I had assumed this behaviour was a part of my chronic procrastination but when I thought about it, I realised it was actually because, deep down, I didn't actually want to be at the party. It was always worst when I didn't know many of the people who would be there and I eventually realised that, although I might enjoy spending time with every one of my friends on an individual basis, too many people at once is just too stressful for me.

With hindsight, and new information, has come a degree of self-awareness that has explained some of this to me and I will endeavour to pass on what I have understood. When I talk to a friend they will probably have my full attention. I know who I am talking to, I am listening to their side of the conversation and I am preparing my next words. As soon as another person joins in it can become uncomfortable as I start to get confused; keeping track of two sets of words is harder and it can be difficult to predict the direction in which the conversation will go. For a little while I can cope but I find myself slowing down and withdrawing, until I am following their conversation but only as a spectator and not as a participant. I want to join in and be a part but my brain cannot cope with the split focus. It is no longer my conversation but theirs. This inability to enjoy a multiway conversation is exaggerated when there is a lot of loud background noise and possibly a lot of visual stimulation as well. Sensory overload threatens to engulf me and I find myself seeking quiet corners. I don't want to leave, I just prefer to sit in the wings and observe, until the fatigue sets in and I just have to go home.

I hate feeling like this at parties; it feels so rude and unkind to the friend who has requested my presence and I apologize to all my friends who have invited me but not seen me, or who have seen me, but only fleetingly. It's not personal, I appreciate the invitation and I value your company. I just hope that you can understand that when I slink away it's not that I haven't enjoyed your party, it's just that I've enjoyed it enough now and need to find my space again. Thank you for having me, I'll catch up with you soon, face to face and one-on-one.

Time Marches On...

I am sitting on the grass at the recreation ground, squinting in bright sunshine, surrounded by the noise of a school's worth of children playing. It really is rather a glorious afternoon and I find it hard to believe that it is still only March and not May. Actually, I am thankful that it is still March, as time is already moving far too swiftly for my liking. I am not ready for summer yet, however much I love this weather.

Learning to appreciate the winter and the earliest part of spring has now left me feeling as though I was so busy watching for snowdrops that I didn't see the time pass by. Last year, I waited all year for spring to arrive; this year, I blinked and nearly missed it!

I think I need to make sure that I keep my feet well and truly on the ground, even as I have my eyes on the world around me. I have been enjoying myself so far this year but I don't want to lose myself in the present moment to the extent that I trip up on an unanticipated future. The Easter holidays are just days away and then we have boys' birthdays and a busy summer term, so if you'll excuse me, I have things to do. After all, time is not going to stop to let me catch up.

"Why I Like Tai Chi"

My Tai Chi teacher asked us to think about the reasons why we like Tai Chi, why we keep on going back, week after week, even though the training is frequently frustrating and often involves some degree of discomfort, if not outright pain. It is certainly not a simple question with an easy answer; my reasons for training are as complex as the art itself.

I first started Tai Chi classes because I knew the people who were starting up a class at my local gym and I knew that I needed to find some form of sustainable exercise that might improve my health. I am not one to enjoy an exercise class but my first class, which consisted of qi gong exercises and some breathing exercises, left me feeling as though I had just had a wonderful full-body massage and I surprised myself by looking forward to the next class with an unusual degree of impatience. The teacher demonstrated part of the Yang style Long Form which looked so complex and so elegant, with a palpable hidden depth; my response was to think, "I want to be able to do that".

Within a few weeks I was trying to fit more classes into my schedule, until I was training Tai Chi up to six times a week. If there was a class at the training centre, I found myself going, even when I had not planned to do so. It was something my body wanted to do and my mind was more than happy to join in as there was something for it to do too; meditation and theory were as interesting as the exercises were exhilarating. I soon discovered that beneath the gentle exercise and disciplined routine lies a powerful, defensive martial art.  I discovered that I was learning to hold my body, to move it and to use it, in the way that it is meant to be used. By correcting the posture in my neck and shoulders, I shrugged off years of pain in those areas. By learning how to feel my weight, I learnt how to balance more effectively. I learnt how to access the strength of my whole body, instead of trying to use just a part of it.

The scope for self-improvement is unending as there are always new layers of refinement to practise. For a perfectionist, this was surprisingly liberating. Since perfection is impossible and I will be considered a novice for many years yet, there is no pressure to attain immediate excellence; I can work at the correct pace for my mind and my body, striving only to do just a little better each time, competing only against myself. The balance of hard and soft, that is encompassed in the Yin Yang, seemed a beautiful metaphor for how my life, my being, is structured. It made me realise that all the opposites and contradictions within my character are essential components, an important part of me; I began to feel more peace within myself.

It has not always been easy. When my depression became severe the tai chi was insufficient to counter the deep lethargy that made me avoid everything I enjoyed and I missed a lot of training. What I did notice, though, was that I really missed it, in the sense that I felt worse off for not training; I noticed the lack of it and suffered for it. With the fibromyalgia flaring up, my muscles find it hard to work through some of the training. A routine that appears to be slow and gentle can be very hard work to the deep muscles being used and can leave me feeling quite exhausted, having worked up a considerable sweat. What I do know, from returning to regular training, is that I feel much better when I train and much worse when I don't. I have trained in Tai Chi for over three years now and I don't plan to stop.

So in answer to the original question, "why do I like Tai Chi?"; It gives me strength, both physically and mentally. It makes me think about my mind and my body and how they connect to each other and to the world around me. It calms me and energises me and helps me to find my energy. It gives me a challenge that I need in order to find myself and improve myself. It is part of my life now.