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.

A Sense of Purpose

I have just watched an interesting cartoon lecture (RSA Animate "Drive") that was suggesting that motivation for intellectual tasks, as opposed to physical tasks, requires a purpose or some other form of intellectual fulfillment rather than fiscal reward. It makes a lot of sense to me that the body would need physical rewards for its efforts and the mind needs something a little more mentally rewarding. Clearly, this is where I have been going wrong in my attempts to motivate myself in terms of diet, exercise and my writing and photography projects.

When it comes to diet and exercise I have been trying to motivate myself with emotional and intellectual rewards. The idea of a slimmer, fitter, healthier me just isn't enough and my body then rebels and demands a physical reward, usually chocolate flavoured. Otherwise it refuses to play ball in the first place and simply won't perform, demanding a nap or a coffee instead. Maybe I should try to tempt these sluggish muscles with the promise of a nice massage; and see if I can persuade the taste buds that the skinnier jeans will be a better reward than the delicious but brief and fattening taste of home baking. Housework is deeply unsatisfying as a physical task with only verbal rewards (if anyone even notices that it has been done in the first place) and it is very hard to motivate myself to do any housework at all. Now I can try to think of some physical rewards to apply to the tasks and maybe I can get something done. Perhaps spring-cleaning the bathroom should earn me an hour in there later with a Lush bathbomb!

As for the intellectual tasks, I need to re-think my approach there as well. The prospect of potential employability, with associated financial reward, got me nowhere with my plans to get back into the software world. I remained completely and utterly unmotivated. I have fared better with the writing and photography because I have gained satisfaction from the results, particularly from the feedback I have received. My brain has been the one rewarded for its efforts and it is therefore more willing to try hard. I need to build on this experience and imagine greater rewards for my mind; a project with a purpose, that will produce something of which I can be proud. If I can visualise my prize then I can aim for it. Now, if I can plan a project requiring the software work, I may be able to make some progress there too, as long as I have the appropriate motivating factor. I know that I am capable of doing it because my brain works well that way - I just need to make sure that I know what I am trying to achieve and why, with the right motivation in place.

Keep Calm and Carry On

I am really struggling with a flare-up of Fibromyalgia at the moment. Because I was fortunate enough to have a number of years' remission, I had forgotten just how miserable a condition this can be. I had a brief flare-up last year, which subsided after about six weeks, so when I started feeling the characteristic pains again I was hoping that this flare would fade soon too. I really don't want to let the pain and fatigue derail my current process whereby I am pulling myself (kicking and screaming at times) out of depression and into a productive phase of my life. As so often happens, my body has other plans for me and I am going to have to find a way to adapt and overcome.

Fibromyalgia has a number of nuisance symptoms that make it hard for me to remain positive and focused. The primary symptoms are a persistent fatigue and whole-body muscle pains. It is a little like the "run over by a truck" feeling that sometimes accompanies a bout of 'flu. Sleep can be disrupted and difficult to achieve; it is also unrefreshing, making little difference to the fatigue levels even when a good night has occurred. My muscles hurt too quickly; even a little activity can burn or ache and I have no stamina for prolonged exercise. I also have the added "bonus" of the characteristic fibromyalgia tender points, which provide others with great amusement when I accidentally touch against them and yelp with surprise at the disproportionate pain.

I am trying to keep going; I don't want to give in. Having decided that this year will be MY year, when I finally sort my life out into some kind of order, I have become more bloody-minded than usual and have no intention of letting something as annoying as this illness divert me from my path. It is not easy when everything hurts and I am so tired all the time but I have to put things into perspective; it is not the end, it is not progressive, it may subside again. I have to learn to pace myself a little better without sliding into total inactivity; pacing involves doing some exercise, not none at all. I also need to remind my subconscious that feeling tired is not a reason to eat carbohydrates - I really do not need to add a weight increase to my other problems.

On a positive note, Fibromyalgia does not have to stop me from writing, or from taking photographs when I go out walking to get the "gentle exercise" that I need. I will not wallow in self-pity, however comforting it might feel at the time and keeping my stress levels low is all-important if I am going to get the best quality rest that I can. That well worn phrase, hijacked by just about everyone at the moment, seems very appropriate to me at the moment; however hard my life feels right now, it is time for me to keep calm and carry on.

Tired of Waiting

Sometimes it seems to me that I have spent the whole of my life waiting for something or other to happen. When I was very young it was birthdays, Christmas or the next school holiday that had me watching the calendar. As I grew older there were more significant moments to anticipate: my 18th birthday; the end of 'A' levels and my last day of school; the arrival of those terrifying envelopes that contained exam results and the results of my Oxford interview; the day I went up to university and became a student.

I waited for terms to begin and end, waited for the weekends when I would take the train on its three-hour journey to my fiance's house; for the two long years of separation to pass while I completed my course before we could get married. In all this time I was forever passive, not considering that the time that passed while I waited was a one-time offer that could not be rewound and played back later.

The waiting continued, developing into a deeply ingrained habit. Everything would be better in the end, if I could just wait for this to happen, or for that to pass. Years disappeared behind me while I watched them go, wondering why I never seemed to have achieved anything. I waited for my health to improve, for each diet to work, for the day when I would feel energetic enough to go out and do some exercise. I laughed about the fact that I still didn't know what I wanted to do when I grew up, as I waited to decide.

Then something changed. I realised, last November, that I still felt as though I were waiting for spring to arrive. I realised, in a rush of self-awareness, that waiting is useless if no-one is going to make it happen and sometimes we are the ones who need to be doing and not waiting. There was no point waiting for my depression to wear off, I had to do something about it.

I have had enough of waiting - it is time for me to act. That perfect moment might never arrive so I had better get on with life before it is over. If there are things that need to pass, or to happen, that are not under my control then I should wait patiently but I am not going to wait any longer for my life to pass me by. It is going to be tough, I have spent so much of my life procrastinating that it is very hard indeed to get on with a task if there is anything remotely more interesting to do. I have decided, though, that I don't want to miss out any longer; time keeps moving and I have to run to keep up but I don't want to be left behind, wondering what happened to my years. It is time to stop waiting and start living.

Signs of Spring

I can hardly believe it is March already. I have always considered the First of March to be the beginning of spring, rather than waiting for the equinox which, to my mind, should mark the mid-point of the season and not the start. Although we are still at risk of frosts and even wintry showers, there are clear signs that the countryside is waking up from its slumber.

Today did not disappoint; the leaves and blossoms are emerging with a colourful flourish and this afternoon's sunshine has prompted the most daring of all springtime rituals: the first flip-flops of the year. After a few grey days, when the fatigue was beginning to fray my determination, I am experiencing a welcome moment of cheerfulness. Maybe I am solar powered, as I always feel more energised when I have the sun on my face.

I have kept myself going through the winter by trying to be positive, enjoying what I saw around me instead of yearning for days and months that were not yet due. However much I enjoyed this winter I am still thrilled to see those signs of spring; the first leaves, the blossom, the flowers beginning to bloom, the sun that actually feels warm on my skin. I will enjoy every day of it - life is too short to do otherwise.

Photo-therapy

I often feel miserable in the winter and the lack of exposure to daylight is almost certainly a major contributor to this gloomy feeling. I certainly feel better if my routine is getting me out and about for fresh air, exercise and daylight. Motivating myself to go out and get my dose of daylight isn't always so easy though, especially when it is cold, dark or damp.

Inspiration came to me when I saw a friend's photograph of a kingfisher, taken on a riverside walk. We live just a mile away from a river where kingfishers and otters have been seen so I wrapped up my two boys and, armed with my phone's camera, we went for a long walk across the water meadow and along the riverbank. No interesting wildlife was spotted, possibly because my two noisemakers guaranteed the rapid departure of anything remotely timid, but my mood was certainly improved by the exercise and the fresh air. Without animals to photograph, I decided to take a few pictures of the trees instead - I was struck by how artistic they were in their naked elegance. Sitting on a bench by the waterside I realised that I could replicate that view, month by month, thereby generating a record of the progress of the year. This was something I felt I had missed during last year's depression, where I felt like I had remained in hibernation all year long and barely noticed the passage of the seasons.

By the time I returned home I felt alive, regenerated and thoroughly inspired. I wanted to get out and take more pictures, with a particular interest in the trees which are everywhere in my life but so often ignored. I realised I was looking at January in a whole new light; everything was fresh and I wanted to experience the month fully before it was over. I almost started writing poetry to describe how I was feeling but the words kept trying to rhyme in a way I didn't like so I turned to prose instead. I found myself looking for photo-opportunities everywhere I went, particularly on the walk to school and at playgrounds. What is more, instead of searching every branch for the elusive signs of imminent new growth, I was actually hoping that the trees wouldn't bud too soon. I wanted the opportunity to capture as many as possible while they were still in their stark winter form, with crisp lines against cold blue skies or watery sunsets. Winter was no longer a dreary, miserable season but a treasure-house of artistic opportunity.

Bare winter branches aren't so bare when you look closely

I now have a reason to get out more often and the daylight exposure is helping me maintain a buoyant mood. I look at everything in a more optimistic way, seeking the hidden beauty in the most ordinary views. The riverside walk may not happen frequently but I certainly aim to visit that bank at least once a month. Meanwhile there are many other locations just waiting for me to turn up with camera in hand. Even days when I don't expect to see anything worth picturing I can be surprised by a break in the clouds giving unusual and beautiful lighting conditions. 

Low sunlight against a backdrop of black cloud makes the trees glow with  unexpected colours 

I am truly grateful for having a phone with built-in camera - it may not be the best tool for the job but I always have it with me and it has given me a project to occupy my mind and feed my long-starved creativity.  I am now considering raiding the local library for books on how to improve my photographic skills and I plan to take my proper camera with its zoom and flash functions on my walks so that I can do justice to the scenes I find. In search of the therapy of exposure to daylight I found a different form of photo-therapy - and like so many unexpected discoveries, it has brought far more pleasure than I would have imagined.

Living Like Your Last Day...or Not

My project for this year is a selfish one: I am working on a programme of self-healing, trying to "fix" all that has been wrong in my mind and my body in the hope that I will become a happier person. As a result, I hope that by being happier and more at peace with myself, I will be a better example to my children and kinder to everyone in my life.

I spend far too much time on facebook but have "liked" a number of pages that supply me with inspirational and motivational quotations, as words can be very inspiring and the right combination can make a significant difference to the way one perceives a situation. Among these quotes I often see variations of the suggestion that we should live our lives as though it were our last day, an exhortation to make the most of what we have and extract every possible moment of joy. It seems like a good idea but I see a problem with this; what do we do when we wake up the next morning, if we have truly lived each day that way? No tomorrow would mean no consequences, no karmic hangover. To live each day as though tomorrow will never come could lead to some utterly selfish behaviour with no thought for the future.

An alternative suggestion I read recently (I regret that I cannot remember the exact quote or its origin) is that we should live as though we have another 50 years ahead of us. If we are not knocked down by that proverbial bus then we may have a lot of time to regret the impulsive actions of a last-day-on-earth attitude. Taking care of ourselves is important. We need to make sure our own needs are not neglected and we must make the most of each moment we are lucky enough to experience. However, we must take care not to be irresponsible about our actions, leaving a mess behind to be cleared up after our daily last hurrah.

If I were to treat today as my last day on Earth then I would be inclined to indulge myself, there would be no need to think about the future, no need to worry about calories consumed or chores left incomplete. On the other hand, if I were to remember that what I do today will affect me - and those around me - tomorrow and the day after then maybe I would be a little more considerate, to myself and to others, as the consequences of my actions will have time to be felt.

I think we could all benefit from being a little bit more responsible about our actions and their effects on others. Making the most of what each day offers us is a good thing but we should never forget that tomorrow probably will come - lets make sure that if we have many more years of tomorrows ahead of us, we are able to enjoy them all without the hangovers, physical, emotional and domestic, that we cause by spending too much of our energy "living for the moment". Yes, we should embrace the present; yes, we should avoid dwelling too much on whatever problems the future may or not bring us. But don't forget that time passes quickly and the future becomes the present all too soon. Let's enjoy today responsibly and be aware that tomorrow will come; and then we can enjoy tomorrow too.

Hitting the Wall

In the last week my motivation and positivity appear to have taken a bit of a tumble which was both surprising and disappointing, especially since I am trying to write about how wonderful it is to feel good after a miserable year of depression. I have been feeling particularly tired and have been suffering from a pulled muscle in my shoulder, which has been eased but not cured by tai chi exercises, so as well as fatigue I have also been in pain. To add to the disappointment, I then noticed that the characteristic fibromyalgia tender points have reappeared.

Fibromyalgia first affected me in my late twenties, appearing as an aftershock to a bout of glandular fever and heralding a period of about eight years when I was unable, through extreme fatigue and muscular pain, to work or exercise. It is one of those "hidden" syndromes where the sufferer looks far more capable than they actually are and where one of the primary symptoms is a low-grade, persistent, whole-body pain. This led to feelings of paranoia and self doubt when other people, unaware of how I actually felt, would suggest that maybe I'd be able to get on with activities if I put my mind to it and that maybe it didn't hurt quite as much as I said it did. With a lot of time and through learning to pace myself, I was able to emerge from the illness with only psychological scars and a severe lack of physical fitness. The exhilaration of feeling "normal" again made it easy to forget that Fibromyalgia will never completely disappear but will simply enter long periods of remission. Relapses, as I have discovered, can and do occur.

The last relapse I experienced occurred last year, following a nasty dose of 'flu and during a period of intense stress, as the depression took hold of me. Fear of a prolonged return to illness really increased the stress and the depression and, although the symptoms faded after a few weeks, I really need to find a way to handle this current flare-up differently.

It is very tempting to simply curl up on the sofa, pretending to read but, in reality, zoning out into a state of half-sleep and half-daydream. This appeals to the fatigue and the lethargy but is unhelpful when it comes to avoiding the depression as what I need right now is some good old-fashioned fresh air. Exercise is hard when the fibromyalgia flares up as my muscles ache quite badly and tire very quickly. However, a little gentle exercise is helpful, so I took my boys and my camera to a riverside car park where there is a footbridge overlooking a picturesque weir and a nice level path for easy walking. Motivated by the desire to find artistic photo opportunities and signs of spring, maybe even a kingfisher or otter, I managed a half hour's walk. I returned home with the more satisfying tiredness of having achieved a little exercise rather than sitting at home weighed down by the leaden fatigue of having done nothing at all. I feel worn out in a good way and feel that sleep will come easily tonight.

Taking my own advice is never going to be easy but I feel better as a result of nagging myself into that walk and must make sure I continue to do a little exercise every day. Maintaining a positive outlook is going to take even more effort, especially when I'm feeling tired and am hurting. However, I am determined not to fall into the same downward spiral as last year; the feeling of bleakness and self-loathing was a most horrible experience. If I am restricted in what I can do for a little while then I will have to make sure I select only the best quality activities, the ones that really make me feel better. The things that have given me the most pleasure in recent weeks have been writing, baking and photography so I will make a point of spending time on each of those pursuits. My tai chi also helps me a great deal, both physically and mentally, so I must remind myself to go to the classes, however tired and lazy I feel. I will face this mini-relapse as positively as I can, armed with the knowledge that it doesn't have to last forever. Allowing myself to slip into another depression is not worth it and if I can cling to this taste of happiness I have found recently then I will get through.

Swan on the River Stour: putting in far more effort below the water than the appearance of serenity would suggest.

Judging Books by their Covers

I have never been one to spend much time on my appearance. As a child I always saw myself as "the academic one" and not "the pretty one" so my self-worth was connected with my performance at school rather than having anything to do with how I looked. I never saw myself as ugly, just average and nothing special. I didn't like how I looked in photos but didn't use that as any reason to put extra effort into my appearance, as I saw no reason to believe that make-up and hairstyling would work the miracle necessary to turn me into some kind of beauty. There was no Fairy Godmother to wave her magic wand for me. In any case, investing time in my appearance was not going to have any effect on my schoolwork or exam results.

There is some degree of confusion about the importance of spending time and effort on one's appearance. We are frequently told "beauty is only skin deep" and "never judge a book by its cover" and yet the media are full of criticism for any public figure who dares to be seen au naturel. A lack of makeup, scruffy hair and unflattering clothes are all strictly taboo. Heaven forbid that anyone should dare to let their wrinkles, grey hair or cellulite show. Surrounding us are images of beautiful and impossibly slender women; billboards and buses, magazines and television, all telling us how we are supposed to look. It is no wonder that young women and girls these days are so obsessed with glamour and the glamorous.

I didn't neglect my looks entirely; I dabbled with light makeup (which was always properly removed) and tried to maintain an approximately fashionable wardrobe. This was partly because I was insecure and felt a need to try to be popular; in my mind, I had to have friends in order to be happy and I had to be fashionable in order to make other girls want to be my friends. I was also reluctant to embrace the blue-stockinged geek-girl image of the plain academic, who pays no attention to her appearance whatsoever; the pressure of the media and public opinion were enough to make me feel that I had to make some kind of effort. I did, however, consider that there were better ways of spending my time than in hours of hair and make-up every day; preening just wasn't a high priority. Cleanliness of face, body, hair and clothes should suffice - adornment and decoration should be optional extras.

I don't think that we should all go around being ugly and I can certainly admire someone who puts in the effort to look their best but I do think that too much effort is made to maintain a prejudice towards the beautiful. What saddens me most is when girls have their self-esteem focused entirely on their image and neglect the rest of their potential. If their appearance is the only part of their selves that they work on then, when their looks deteriorate, they may have nothing left that they can value. Older women are made to feel less valued when the inevitable lines appear on their faces and their hands and necks start to reveal the march of time. A sprinkling of silver hair, so unremarkable on men of the same age, is hurriedly dyed away as if to pretend that age has changed nothing and all is still well. Their years of experience are disregarded, the fascinating life histories that have made them who they are are untold and they are encouraged to regret the loss of their youthful looks and spend fortunes trying to recapture them.

I have recently begun to like my face more as part of my process of self-acceptance. I am becoming more accepting of my features and am beginning to develop a fondness for the old girl in the mirror now. Maybe it is because I am being less critical with myself, but I really feel that my eyes are twinkling a little more and my smile is appearing more often. I don't want to be harsh and critical and to tell myself that I am getting old and  worthless. The lines on my face mean I have lived and laughed and shown expression. A layer of makeup won't tell you if I am honest, or capable. A tidy or fashionable hairstyle can't tell you about my loyalty, or whether I can be trusted. New clothes on a skinny body would say nothing about my personal integrity. I am  tired of the assumptions that are made about a person based on their looks and, even as my depression lifts and my diet starts to work on my figure, I don't think I will ever be the sort of person who will get up an hour earlier in the morning just to have more time for face and hair. I won't be found spending my money on fancy nails and costly hair treatments. That just isn't me; you will have to take me as you find me - and you can rest assured that, as I don't want you to judge me by my cover, I won't be doing that to you either.

The curse of Perfectionism

I have been a perfectionist all my life and it is very frustrating. I like to think that I am reasonably capable in my various endeavours but I yearn for better than reasonable. I want my work to be the best it can be and anything less, however acceptable it might be to the casual observer, just isn't good enough for my own satisfaction. Some people find that this attitude gives them the drive to give a near-superhuman effort and they achieve great things from that depth of motivation. Unfortunately for me, a need to be perfect can also be a paralysing influence, leading to crippling procrastination and a failure to finish almost everything that does get started. Even as a child it was said that my attitude was "If at first I don't succeed...why the hell did I bother in the first place?"

The problem is that perfect is rarely possible, let alone likely. I am frequently left with a feeling of dissatisfaction. I leave behind me a long trail of abandoned projects, hobbies begun in a flurry of enthusiasm and dropped as soon as I realised they were not going to be an immediate success. Other pastimes stay the course, provided I get sufficiently positive feedback. Even then, I will often put my creations aside for extended periods, worried that they are not progressing as well as I would like. I long ago lost count of the number of times that I took apart a piece of jewellery that didn't satisfy me, or discarded a greetings card that didn't meet my standards. Somewhere on my hard drive are long-forgotten files with paragraphs written, saved, closed and lost. So much time has been wasted in a fruitless attempt to achieve the best result, when the first, or even second draft, would have been perfectly adequate.

I know that I can't expect everything I do to be brilliant; after all, who am I to think that I am so talented that my work, my art, my creations can even be considered among the best? Where did I get this need to excel in all I do? I believe it is partly down to the way I feel when praised. It is as if praise for what I do is worth so much more than praise for what I am, which requires no effort on my part. Only the results of my efforts can earn the recognition that my soul requires and I crave that recognition with every part of my being.

The end result of this need to be the best is a sense of hollowness; as my efforts, however good they might actually be, fail to live up to the standard I set for myself. It is rare for me to be happy enough with a task that I am prepared to pronounce it "finished" so I leave much of my work incomplete. If it is not yet finished then it cannot be expected to be perfect. There is always the possibility that the required level will be reached in the final part of the job still left undone. Other tasks never even leave the drawing board as I am so reluctant to risk the "failure" of not doing my best.

Although I was long aware of my perfectionist trait, I was unable to see how damaging the result is until recently. My son has been unfortunate enough to inherit a streak of perfectionism from both his parents and it seems he is much like me in that he finds it hard to start anything and, if he does start, struggles to finish as he wrestles with corrections and rewrites, crossing out half of his homework as he tries to find a better word to use. I keep trying to persuade him that an imperfect sentence written on the page is worth many times more than a perfect sentence stuck in his head but I know that, unless I can change the way I do things myself, he will be unable to accept that message. For his sake, I must try to be more confident about what I have done, to be prepared to submit that which seems to me to be "not quite right". I should let others judge my work and trust what they say, instead of fearing their words and interpreting everything as negative criticism, refusing to submit anything for fear that it is inadequate. I will be brave and post my writing, even when I'm not quite sure it's right, because then I am following my advice to my son; an adequate sentence, written down, is worth far more than the best sentence still locked away.

Middle Age?

Like many teenagers, I was keen to reach the magical age of 18, when the state of adulthood would be awarded to me and the world would become my oyster. I had a wonderful time back then; leaving school, going to university, starting to take control of my own destiny. However, like everyone else, I discovered that time and ageing do not stop just because you have reached the age you wanted to be. Before long, I turned 19, then 20, 21, 22...I left education, started a job, got married. I turned 25 and passed my driving test; at 30 I had my first child. Suddenly I reached 40 and people started to mutter things about "Middle Age"; I had streaks of grey in my hair and lines on my face, children in school and parents in their sixties. I would look in the mirror and see the crepey texture of my skin and a weariness in my demeanour.

"For goodness' sake, you're 40, of course you're starting to look older", I told myself as I stood wondering what had happened to my fleeting, precious youth. No! No! No! This can't be!...I still feel 18 in my head, I'm not ready to be all grown up yet. My reluctance to accept the unavoidable ageing process was partly connected to the fact that, even at 40 years old, I still didn't know what I wanted to do "when I grow up". My get-out clause was to joke that, as I hadn't yet grown up, it didn't actually matter that I didn't know what I wanted to do. I also had this notion, fueled by modern media and urban myth, that Middle Age was somehow a Bad Thing, to be avoided, ignored and given the cold shoulder. I had this preconceived idea of middle age as being something of an affliction, suffered by my grandmothers, starting to affect my mother and to be avoided by me at all costs. It involved things like twin-sets, polyester slacks and going to the hairdresser for a weekly "set". I was never going to be middle-aged, I would avoid it altogether and cling onto youth as long as I could, growing old disgracefully. If I refused to accept Middle Age then maybe ageing could pass me by and I'd never quite get old.

Recently, however, things have changed for me, in the way I see things. I have finally realised the nature of my lifetime's ambition and hope that I have the time to act on it, so maybe it is time to let myself grow up. I have accepted that, at 42, I am not getting any younger and I am not going to stay where I am; I will continue to age as I have done all my life and it's about time I got used to the fact! I can't pretend to be young any more but I will never surrender to the type of middle age experienced by my grandmothers in the '60s and '70s. I will accept that it is that time in my life when I must admit to being Middle Aged. I do have one condition though: it is time to redefine Middle Age so that it becomes an accepted phase in life and not an unpleasant affliction.

I will admit to being Middle Aged if you accept that it does not mean that I am "past it", "over the hill" or in any other way "out of date". Middle Age means that I've passed the test of youth, I've survived all the stupidity of my younger days and reached the point at which I can be more discerning. I am less likely to embarrass myself on a night out with friends or be so routinely hungover the morning after. I have the benefit of my experience to guide me in decisions I make and have seen enough mistakes made by others that, if I've been smart enough, I've learnt from their mistakes without needing to make my own. I have memories galore to cherish, if I remember to do so and I know that wasting hours dreaming about the future is taking hours away from making it happen. Middle Age means being able to make sensible decisions without apologising for them, accepting that I am a Grown Up now; I am in control of my own life and I know what I want to do with it. I can still wear skinny jeans if I want to, or high heels, or short skirts. I have a better idea of what suits me now than I did when "vintage" was the latest fashion. I am more able to laugh at the photos from 20 years ago, the ones that would have made me cringe 10 years ago because back then I didn't have my new-found perspective. I am more confident, more self-aware and ready to accept myself as I am.

Yes, I have lines on my face. They are my autobiography. Every grey hair has a story to tell. But my life is not over yet, this is Middle Age, not Old Age and there's plenty more fun to be had. I'm just not going to waste any more time making it happen because I finally realise how precious my days are. I am just realising that Middle Age is, in fact, the best time of my life so far. Life really does begin at 40 and though I may be Middle Aged now, it's just a phase...

not The End.

Positive Thinking and Mood Control

A lot of people talk about positive thinking as if it is some kind of magic wand they can wave to make everything alright. The truth is, it is very hard to think positively when you are down, especially if you are suffering from serious depression. There is something perversely comforting about wrapping oneself up in misery and, whilst the feeling is loathsome, the mental energy required to break out of the negativity is just too much to consider as a valid option. At least, that is how it appears when viewed from the bottom  of the slope. In many cases a catalyst is all that is required to change the perspective and make the leap into action more accessible.
The mind is a very powerful tool, whether applied in a positive or negative sense. When depressed, I was aware that my thoughts were keeping my mood low but I didn't care enough to change my point of view. I was engaging in "Negative Thinking" and keeping myself in that state of misery which I hated so much. Once I found my catalyst, the desire to want to care about Christmas so that my boys wouldn't miss out, I was able to make that mental flip, to view things from a different angle and see a way to do things differently. Having decided that I needed to clear the depression I sought medical help and that simple action left me with a positive feeling that I had made the first step and had taken back control of my life.
Although we can't always control what happens to us, we are able to determine, to some extent, how we respond to the events that affect our lives. Our emotions are a choice. It is difficult to choose a positive emotional response when everything in our minds is fiercely negative but once a decision has been made to try see things in a positive light, the rewards are quite noticeable. By choosing to see something good in the events that happen in my life, I get a rewarding feeling that makes me feel happier and more inclined to look for the good in whatever else happens. If I choose to look at things in a more negative way I am left in a bad mood, souring the atmosphere and making me more likely to feel negative about life's next event. Once I was able to accept that I am the one in control of my moods, I was able to start directing my moods towards a happier state of mind.
Our daily lives are full of events and situations that are caused by someone or something else but that is no reason to let those external forces control our moods. I have decided to stop letting other people's problems become mine; unless I can fix a situation then I refuse to let it bother me, I just make the best of it and move on. I have been through some bad times and come through the other side relatively unscathed, so whatever life throws at me, however horrible, I know that in the end it will be alright, even if it takes a long time to reach that point. With that in mind I know I can get through the little annoyances, especially if I can focus on something pleasant. Waiting for bad stuff to happen just feels horrible, whereas anticipating good things to come has a much nicer feeling, which can give me strength when the situation would otherwise be stressful.
I used to hate the winter, January in particular, and have been trying to look at it differently to see if it is possible to feel happier during my traditional misery month. We have been lucky to have had mild weather and some lovely clear days too; inspired by seeing some friends' photographs I have been using the camera of my phone a lot more and have become fascinated by the artistry of the shapes of trees and bushes that I would have previously ignored. Suddenly I am captivated by my surroundings and have a collection of interesting photographs; instead of being obsessed by the misery of the winter I have been seeing art and beauty everywhere and have had the most rewarding January ever. I now have the challenge of February with an imminent cold snap. Instead of thinking "will this winter never end?" I am looking forward to the possibility of sledging with the kids, to stunning snowscape photos and to the first signs of spring just lurking around the corner. I have discovered that all my hours of thinking can be turned, with just a little action, into writing. I am excited by the prospect of the undiscovered treasures that the year ahead will bring and I don't intend to miss a moment of it - if my worst months of the year can be found to be full of joy and beauty then the "happier" months of the spring and summer will be amazing!

Coming out of Hibernation

Last winter was a long one...a very long winter indeed, because it lasted all year. It started with a very nasty dose of flu which hit me just before Christmas and lasted almost to New Year. It was entirely my own fault as I had neglected to get my flu jab when the surgery offered me one. After a week of fever, I appeared to recover fully and the boys went back to school as usual. I was in the final phase of a weight-loss programme that had seen me lose over 4 stone in weight and I was slimmer than I had been in years, feeling ready to learn how to eat normally and sensibly and planning a shopping trip to buy even smaller jeans.
Life is never quite as simple as we would like, however, and it was at this point that some unwelcome ghosts from my past paid a visit. First on the scene was Fibromyalgia; I had suffered from this for some years in the past  but thought it long gone. A week or so after believing I had recovered from the flu, I felt the familiar aching in my muscles, with the unshakeable tiredness that leaves the sufferer feeling unable to do anything. Testing for the characteristic tender points confirmed my fears and I was soon immersed in a fog of fearful lethargy, terrified that it was the start of a long-term relapse and afraid to do anything energetic in case it left me completely drained. This really only lasted a few weeks; long experience of pacing myself meant that I was not in any real danger of overdoing things and the bodywork techniques I had learnt at tai chi meant that I was able to perform pressure point therapy and strain-counter-strain healing. The problem was, that as the fibromyalgia slipped away, I found depression in its wake. I lost all interest in exercise and diet and slipped into hibernation mode, hiding away from the world.
Anyone who has never suffered from depression cannot fully comprehend the awfulness of the condition. I lost all the joy in my life and even the things I loved were no fun any more. I didn't want to talk to people, I just wanted to go home and hide away from everything. I ate too much, trying to find comfort in that old crutch, sugar, then felt sickened as I saw all the hard work of the diet slip away. Though aware of what I was doing to myself, I still felt unable to stop the runaway train, powerless to prevent the decline because I believed I had lost control.
I waited for spring, knowing that the emergence of new leaves and flowers makes me feel better. Spring came and went but I still felt down, as though I were entombed in a permanent winter mood, icebound and hidden from the sun's thawing rays. Summer arrived and gave me the occasional blue-sky mood but they were fleeting. I had allowed the rot of depression to seep into my soul and nothing was going to make me feel good while depression was controlling me. I stayed away from the tai chi classes, although I knew that they make me feel better. I ignored the gym and the swimming pool. By this point I knew I was suffering from a clinical depression but it is an insidious beast; I knew I should see the doctor but could not be bothered to make the call. I saw no value in anything, no reason to try to improve my situation. I wallowed in self pity and misery,wrapping myself in negative emotions because it was easier than taking action. I had Soul Flu and it had taken my vitality away. I became numb, unfeeling, lost. I realised that I cried nearly every day, not racking sobs or mournful wails; just hot salty tears rolling unhindered down uncaring cheeks.
By the autumn I felt a deep, deep loss, of a summer wasted to lethargy. I cursed myself for the mis-spent holidays, hoping that I had not caused my boys any harm by my emotional absence. I started to feel even more strongly that it was not just my summer that was wasted but my whole life. My education, lost to time, forgotten and out of date, no longer of value. My career, not so much interrupted by a maternity break as smashed to pieces by an enforced early retirement, in a coma and waiting for me to switch off the life support. I felt worthless; I needed to be working but I was unable to consider myself even remotely employable, not knowing what I could do or where to start. Every day was emotionally agonising, the weight of perceived expectation pressing down on me, the fear of an uncertain future looming over me.
Watching Christmas decorations go up in town  provided a turning point for me. I realised two things; I did not care that Christmas was approaching and I wanted to care about it. I was not prepared to let my children miss Christmas just because I was uninterested.
I had had enough of being depressed and was ready to try to get better but knew I couldn't do it without help. I called the surgery, poured my heart out to the nurse practitioner and collected a prescription on the way home. Within days I was feeling hopeful; the tears had stopped flowing and I was ready to think about what I needed to do. I have had these antidepressants before and they helped me for a while but I know that they will not fix me completely without a significant change in my own attitude and actions. The medication has provided me with the space and the light to tidy up my mind, so that when I am ready to let go of the pills I can manage on my own with a clear, uncluttered head.
I feel as if I have woken up from a long sleep and am ready for a new beginning. By the time the longest night came around I was ready to see it as the moment at which the days start to lengthen, when the dark starts to recede. I have started to look for beauty and joy in what I see around me and I am finding it everywhere. I know I have work to do to if I want to improve my life; no-one else will fix my life for me, it is my job alone and I am ready to do it now.
Being depressed can be a horrible experience but it can also lead to a lot of soul-searching. I spent a lot of time feeling miserable about my situation, my experiences and what I perceived to be my faults and failings. I also realised a lot of things about myself and, with this new feeling of optimism, I feel ready to start the rest of my life. I know now that I have qualities that can be developed and improved, I have a better idea of what I want to do, who I want to be. I am starting to get to know who I am. Like a forest after a fire I have been through a hard time and am now ready to grow again, letting the residue of the experience feed me. I will not hide the depression; it is part of my history, part of my soul. I will share what I have experienced, what I have learnt and I hope that the sharing will help me to emerge fully into the light of a new spring, ready to enjoy the years ahead.
It has been a long winter but it is over now. The sun is rising, the air is fresh and I am ready to live.

January

This is a hard time of year; the days are still cold and dark, the weather frequently grey and drizzly. Starting out with optimism at New Year’s Eve, the soon-broken promises of resolutions quickly turn the mood sour.  

This year seems different to me. Instead of seeing the bare trees as naked and shivering, waiting desperately for their spring clothes, I see the unadorned beauty of their natural form. I see crisp lines backlit by beautiful skies on those cold clear days. Frost becomes fairy dust, sprinkled like glitter to decorate the morning. The trees don’t bow their heads in shame at their nakedness; nor do they feel impatient with the slow pace of the winter, willing the spring to hurry up and dress them in their fresh green leaves. They stand proud; they are themselves and always will be, immune to critical opinions. They wait for spring but they wait patiently and so will I, content at last to enjoy each day in its proper context instead of wishing the year away.

This year there are no January Blues...just January Blue Sky.

(first shared on facebook)

Learning to like myself

It is very common, particularly at this time of year, for people to resolve to make changes in their lives, hoping to improve those aspects that they believe should be improved. I am as guilty of this as anyone else, wanting to lose weight, get fit and do more with my time. Unfortunately my self-improvement attempts are frequently short lived and when I do manage to make changes I have rarely been able to make them into habits that stick. One whiff of trouble and all the good work is undone.

The problem seems to be that I am always making changes for the wrong reasons. I need to lose weight because other people say I’m too fat. I need to do more exercise because I’m told I’m supposed to be fit. Reasons for changing seem to involve other people’s ideas and opinions and have never really had anything to do with what I want for myself. Even when I have thought I was doing it “for me” I have been doing it so that other people would think better of me and not because I wanted to do it.

When I really thought about why I give up I realised that it was probably because success, in those particular endeavours, just wasn’t important enough to me. It didn’t really matter to me whether I got bigger again as I can always wear bigger clothes. Losing weight around my middle just highlighted my bust and losing weight from my bust just exaggerated the effects of gravity and poor skin tone. I really didn’t feel, having lost 4 stone and reached a “normal” weight for my height, that I looked any better.

Ultimately, I realised that I didn’t actually care about how I looked. I could blame all my feelings of misery on being a “fat blob” until I was no longer fat. I felt good while I was losing weight because I was achieving something and getting positive feedback from other people but I was getting no positive feedback from myself and that meant that my “slimmer’s high” faded once the weight was gone. The same disregard for my appearance is also behind my slack approach to a beauty routine. Who wants to put in the time and effort to look beautiful if they don’t appreciate the finished result?

I found it wasn’t just my appearance that I didn’t like. When I started thinking deeply about what felt wrong in my depression it seemed to be everything about me that was wrong. My career break for illness, extended because of children and then out-dated skills, has left me feeling like an unemployable failure with a completely wasted education. The gradual appearance of more wrinkles and the long-term streak of grey hair have made me feel that  age is not just creeping up on me but already has me in a stranglehold. I would never talk about a friend like that so why am I so harsh to myself?

I am sick and tired of feeling like this and I have finally accepted that it is time to be a little kinder to myself. I should respect my friends and family when they tell me that I am worth something. I should stop being so harsh and treating myself so badly. If I can like who I am then I will want to do what is right for me. I am going to befriend myself and discover who I really am, find the girl behind the mask and stop being such a harsh critic. A friend would help me find solutions when I have a problem instead of just finding more problems and more excuses. I am going to become my friend!

It is not going to be easy as I have over forty years of self-deprecation to overturn. I will start to accept my appearance; no more hiding behind cartoons on my profile picture, I will dare to post real up-to-date photos of myself and I will try to identify with that face as the face of someone I like instead of being critical and mean about it in a way I would never do with a friend. I hope that, as I start to become fond of the face I have seen in the mirror every day, I will start to want to look after it a little better. As I start to like the person behind the face I will want to look after her a little better. Feed her good food, treat her to a healthy lifestyle and respect her. I am feeling positive about this as I finally feel that I want to do this for myself. I owe it to myself to learn to love who I am. One day soon, I will be able to say “This is ME!” and be proud of the fact.

(first published as a facebook note)

Who Am I? Introducing Caite:

Answering the question "Who Am I?" is a tricky one for me because I am not entirely sure what the answer should be. I am many things, some in relation to other people and some entirely for myself. I am a wife, lucky enough to feel I married the right person as we have been married for 20 years and still say "I love you" to each other every day. I am a mother, with two boys aged 11 and 7, who make me laugh, smile, curse and cry but above all make me so proud I could burst. I am a daughter, a sister (eldest of five), a niece, a cousin and an auntie.
However, these are all relationships with other people; what about the part of me that is just "me"? I am a scientist, having studied chemistry at university. I am an artist, in that I like to create beautiful things, even though I rarely give myself the opportunity to do so. I am a reader, happy to lose myself in books for hours and I would like to be a writer, if I can find the discipline I need to put my thoughts into words that I can share. Most of all I am a thinker; I can spend hours daydreaming, musing on whatever thoughts have entered my head. I look after my children, my husband and, after a fashion, my home; practically minded when it comes to putting up shelves or wiring a plug but not one of the world's natural housewives! I don't like to cook but I do like to bake; I can't run but I practise tai chi. I don't watch much television but I waste hours on the internet. I have had problems with weight and depression and I gave up work when glandular fever left me with M.E. and I was so tired for eight years I could hardly do anything.
Now I am trying to bring myself back out the misery of  a bad year and find a way to turn my life into the best of adventures. I feel very strongly that everyone is good at something and the key to happiness is in finding our gifts and being able to use them, every day. I love to think, I love to write. I like to think that what I write may amuse, inspire or even help others to find a little bit of sunshine in their own lives. This blog is partly a record of my journey out of depression and partly the vehicle in which I plan to make that journey. If you can be patient with my ramblings then we can make that journey together.