Anxiety

I’m lying on a sun lounger mourning my lost youth

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It’s summer 2019 and I’m lying on a lounger staring at a Cretan sea. Around me the beach life thrums. Fit boys and girls bop to a tinny pop tune. I’m pretending to read but tears pool behind my shades.

I should be HAPPY. We’re away, we’re together, others are less lucky… I berate myself between chugs of tepid water. An adonis comes for the sun bed fee – I mumble in Greek except he’s looking anywhere but here.

I am HOT – must be 90 degrees. Sweat pools at my back and belly. I’ve no patience for sunning and I need a wee. I’m trying to ignore the thought of strangers melting on this bed before me. I reach for the suncream.

Bronzed girls run past, a whirl of giggles, their barely there swimsuits struggling to hold onto curves. I suck my tummy in, hide myself beneath a bikini past it’s prime.

What is WRONG with me? I try to breathe it out. But I’m buttoned up tight; I feel invisible. I want to shout, at the top of my lungs, “I’m still here!!” Instead, I reread the same line.

Once I was an English rose. My fairness drew compliments like confetti, “Meryl Streep!” they’d fawn. But (oh the irony) I thought I was ‘ugly.’ They say “The youth is wasted on the young,” and they’d be right.

Only now, looking back at old snaps, I see my beauty. How I missed the chance to flaunt it – the nectar to bee pull of it. My firm, line-free skin taunts me from history – “Look how you shone!”

Is it true? Am I passed it? Or am I stewing in self pity. A midlife meltdown maybe? I’ll buy a sports car, dye my hair, surrender to the needle, anything to banish this creeping age.

And then she arrives, a goddess in green, grey hair piled high, movie star shades – smoothing a sarong over lounger. She is magnificent. The beach takes a breath, as she lays down.

Catlike she preens, people pause, lips loosening. But she gives no f*cks about onlookers. Instead, she eyes the ocean like a hungry mermaid. And then she stands. People sly peek over papers as she strides to the sea.

Then from nowhere, a singsong voice and water sprinkles, “Mummy! Come on!” And he’s pulling me out of my malaise. Tugging me free of thoughts, as we hot foot over stones to the waters edge.

And so we dive – the cool steals my breath. In that moment I am happy. I look for the lady in green but she is far away, powering towards horizon. I lie back in the water, my ears submerge and beach hum fades. Finally I’m at peace – at peace with myself.

The forest is my happy place

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As I walk through the forest I feel myself unfurl. The path is strewn with pine cones – I pick one up, press it to my palm.

Ahead, my son hollers as he spars invisible knights. The dog plods by my side, nosing the leaves for something edible. He’s always hungry, unfazed by old age spread.

I’m hungry too but not for food. It’s the green I crave. I synch my breath with my tread; my lungs fill with loamy air. It’s as if the forest heals. The trees reach to me, like the arms of a mother.

These days I’m tightly wound. I bid myself to relax. Yet the months that lie behind have taken their toll. I move with a coil inside me. My husband watches, he knows the signs – the anxious tick.

Rain falls through the forest leaves. We are in no rush. Instead we turn our faces upwards. My son opens his mouth to catch a taste: “God is crying mummy.” I’m not sure where this religion comes from. I am a heathen, still unchristened at 44.

We come to a clearing and standing stones – a Druid’s dell. We move in between granite columns and altar. It is a spiritual place. We sit a while, taking in the ancient view.

Then we discover the plaque – it is a folly built for wealthy men. Maybe the ‘sirs’ wore robes and prayed to the moon. We imagine them there, in the fading light.

No matter, it is still magical. We are happy that we found this place. Damp discoverers, we trudge back to the car. I still hold the pine cone in my hand. My lungs still full of forest air, my heart is happy.

Remembering to breathe

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It’s easy to forget to breathe. Too often, we plough through, riding the worry wave. This year has brought us to the crest more than once. The UK’s Office for National Statistics says that coronavirus has impacted on our wellbeing – no real surprise there.

Isolation, relationship strife, curbed freedoms – it’s unsurprising that we’ve felt tense. For those of us at high risk, disabled or living alone, lockdown can be endless. In 2020, a rise in mental health issues has been seen globally.

These days, we have become masked, antibac crusaders, twitching at a close-to cough. It’s no wonder our heads are in a spin. Learning how to manage our stress has become a daily necessity.

It makes sense that meditation and mindfulness app usage has surged this year. I am a convert to Insight Timer but the well-being market is full of options. Ten minutes a day has helped me through dark moments. Relearning to breathe has been a revelation.

I’ve been surprised at how often I forget to truly breathe. How I move, shallow breathed through my days. If only I’d learnt the art earlier; I could have skipped some teenage angst!

Mindfulness, coupled with yoga has given me new life tools. Adriene Mishler has been my guide here. Her warm and natural style has coaxed me through flows that have set me right.

It’s ironic that, out of a shitty year I have become better at looking after myself. Oddly, I have coronavirus to thank for that. At first, self care was about survival. Now, as I look to autumn, I face uncertainty with a little less fear. If anxiety builds, I can return to the rhythm of my breath.

“Breathing in. I calm my body and mind. Breathing out. I smile. Dwelling in the present moment. The only moment.”

Thich Nhat Hanh

Where did I go?

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I started this blog over 1000 days ago, yet I have been MIP (missing in posting).

So much has happened in the world, near and far. So many things to comment on – good and bad. How can I make up for this? How can I roll back the months, marking those moments? The world swells with beauty and pain – there’s so much to say.

The truth is, I was scared. I didn’t dare put my self out here. The cautious kid still lurking, wanting to be liked. The need to please, that yoke of insecurity that has held me back time and again.

It can be risky to tell your truth – in this age of fierce opinions, emoji judgements and cancellations. I can be thin-skinned sometimes and bruise deeper than you shall ever know.

I didn’t feel like Boudica. I felt like a mouse with a squeak in my throat. I was a younger me, standing at the waters edge, watching my friend diving down. Afraid to follow, I hung back, waist deep, until a wave toppled me. I surfaced spluttering, to find myself bathed in sun.

So, here I am, taking a step, finding my footing, raising my voice. I shall let the words fall from crossed fingers, into cyberspace. Some say, we are here once to make our mark, others believe we’ll come again. Whatever the truth, I am owning mine, from this day onwards.

Running away from myself

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Today, I completed my first running race. I faced down the heat in Lycra – from a time when my curves were in check. A time before babies, middle age and cookie love.

I had been halfheartedly training since January, pushing my lazy limbs to go further. Always horribly un-sporty, PE was my torment. I’d do anything to avoid it – fake notes and trimonthly periods – just to avoid being picked last.

I’d always longed to be lissom limbed, one of those ‘netball girls’ – flowing hair, pout and perky tits. However my self doubt, tragic perm and heavy thighs, left me on the sidelines.

I’ll never forget one sports day, circa 1990, trudging the field to the starters spot. Teenage eyes followed me, the chorus of “cauliflower head” filling the air. I’d go on to stumble in that sprint, skinning my knees in front of the chanters – kids can be shits sometimes.

Years of self loathing stretched out before me. Maudlin, patchouli scented, diary angst, with Indie ballads on repeat. Then came the diets, the overexercising, torturing myself by leafing through magazines. Comparing, always comparing – never thin enough, pretty enough, fun enough; it’s the curse of the perfectionist you see.

Fast forward a few decades and here I am, one June day getting ready for the Hull 10k. With a husband, a pre-schooler and a career of sorts, you could say I’ve come along way. Yet as I board the bus and pin on my race number, I swell with doubt. Should I be here? Am I good enough? Can I do this?

At the start line, the surging crowd pushes me forward. The sun burns as the music booms and runners jockey for position. Then we’re off! My feet find their rhythm, the muscle memory, the release. I feel invincible for a moment, the river breeze lifts me. Then, as we round the bend, the heat strikes, the thirst, the leaden legs; I’m back on the sports field with a stitch.

But a miracle happens – out of nowhere I dig a little deeper, dragging myself around the marina. Hitting the town centre, I feel I might actually do this. As sweat pours, I imagine laughing in the face of that gym teacher, who smirked as I fell.

I stumbled on jelly legs, as I passed 7k, 8k and 9k markers. The bystanders thronged, cheering us – the weary and wasted. Every inch of me ached, my lungs were on fire. Unexpectedly, a sob rose in me, nearly throwing me off course. Just then, I remembered the girl that hated herself, that denied the body that was powering me now.

Suddenly, the last yards were upon me, I saw the finish line ahead. Like some bizarre, ‘Chariots of Fire’ moment the elation kicked in and I began to run. I ran and I ran and then, just like that, I had done it!

As I hung my medal round my neck, I felt exhausted but elated. I returned home a little lighter, leaving a past self on the kerbside, where city streets meet. A sadder, teen self, in too baggy clothes and torn inside. In that moment, I felt strong, I felt proud of the body that had carried me through.