Walking Back to Happiness

At last, here it is: Number two. That appropriately I have been straining away to produce.

I made several attempts at this, and abandoned all mid-paragraph. Apart from anything else, they were incredibly dull and it is not my desire to inject boredom into the world. I can't imagine who would want to read this twaddle.

And yet I have been encouraged by several folk asking where the next bit was, and reassuring me that they found it interesting. (Fools!) It's also really good for me to write it, so here it is. I still can't imagine who would want to read this twaddle, but as the twaddler, I am going to pretend I don't care.

The first entry to this blog was created in despair and misery. The day after I uploaded it, I awoke with a spark of excitement instead of the usual sucking chest-wound panic: I was blogging again! The two main things I had hoped that I would achieve by that, I managed in spades. Every positive comment made was like a burst of air into my tyres. I picked up. Of course then it was summertime, and the optimism was easy. The soggy greyness of impending autumn does no-one any favours. Look at it out there this morning! It's like a pair of underpants that are one wash away from the bin.

I started on the movement-not-medication plan with my favourite exercise: Walking. I got onto Google and plotted routes, then went out and executed them. That was wonderful. To boldly go where I'd never gone before, if I may split an infinitive so early in the day. I felt like an adventurer! The countryside is beautiful. Trees, hills, fields - so much green. Sky, clouds, birds. It changes every day and I have the privilege of marching through it, getting fitter in mind and body. It's true - exercise against depression bloody works. It doesn't just ease it, it smashes it into the middle of next Christmas and doesn't pause to clean up the pine needles.

The area where I live is very, shall we say, undulating. Most of the walking is on some sort of incline. Even my house is on a slope on a hill. It makes it more interesting, but fairly tough on the old knee joints. My routes took me past Cam Peak - a treeless lump on the landscape that you can see from almost everywhere in the area. With each new journey, I got closer and closer, knowing that one day I would scale it. So one day I did. I bunged The Lark Ascending on my 'Pod, and had a lark ascending said lump. (It was the fact that I had lined that very joke up to use thusly which motivated my climb. See, blogging helps!) Since then I've wandered up there a few times, but nothing compared to that maiden trip: A gorgeous, sunny day; a determined Lizzie (who had to keep stopping to breathe - no shame in that) and the music, reaching an apex just as I did. I couldn't have planned it better. I stood in the sunshine with my arms open wide a la Julie Andrews, proud of my achievement and absorbing nature, all to a Vaughan Williams soundtrack.

Reaching my peak.

An eyeful of that, with an earful of this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR2JlDnT2l8

The downside of all this is that it's quite time-consuming. Not only to do, but to recover from afterwards. The personal trainer, who I did go to see, reminded me that I spent a good six months pouring poison into my bod - proper poison, designed to kill living cells. Of course it's going to be difficult to get back to how I was before, maybe even impossible. It has been hell on toast, with each slice getting tougher to chew as my bod rebels against what I am making it do. Things that I haven't made it do for well over a decade, maybe longer.

Yes, the personal trainer - Nicki. A lovely lady, full of life and bounce, as you'd expect from someone who exercises for a living. It took guts, but I managed to keep the appointment that I'd arranged. Having been walking and yoga-ing (Yogging? Yogueing?) for a while, she was surprised that I needed her help. I was a lot fitter than most of her GP-referred clients. (In fact, I was a lot fitter than even I realised.) She took me through all the classes that my prescription discount was applicable to. They reeked of Things That Lizzie Loathes: swimming pools; other people; other people's taste in music; having to be at a certain place at a certain time, and being stuck there. In the name of sanity, I made up my mind at least to try.

Monday was Aqua Zumba. I cried. 

It wasn't the fact that I was wearing a swimming costume in public, exposing bits of me that I keep strictly under wraps (or support tights) unless I am at home, alone. Nor was it that, in said state of exposure, I was thrust into a situation that I was unfamiliar with. Or that, while mostly naked and on strange ground, I was forced to talk to people when all I wanted to do was curl up and whimper. It was all of those things. Combined with trying to dance to music I hated and doing moves that I could neither understand nor keep up with, while in five and a bit feet of water. I think it would have been more surprising if I hadn't cried. The instructor was very good, reassuring me when she saw my face all squished up with snivel, but she was on dry land and she knew where the music was going. I was a knot of frustration, getting more and more tangled. When it was over, I went straight into the toilets and blubbed my heart out.

I had to get the tears out of my system, because the next class was a Nicki-recommended Healthy Lifestyle thingy. This was more like it. Peace. My own pace. I donned a waistcoat-shaped float and "aqua-jogged" my way around the deep end, feeling like I was drifting free, letting my worries slip away. There were fewer people, some a lot larger than the previous class; some a lot more frail. We took positions at the edges of the pool, and then the work began. Small bursts of crossing and re-crossing ankles, ballerina style, while clinging on to the poolside for dear life. The instructor said: "Go for eighty in 30 seconds!", which I did, though it was hard. I tried to celebrate with the people either side of me, but they were less than impressed. It occurred to me that maybe they were here as a result of physical injury, and didn't need somebody rubbing in to them what they were struggling to do. Their cold non-replies forced me to complete the class in silence, and race to get changed and out of this hell-hole.

I tried twice more: Aqua stretch on Tuesday, actually with Nicki this time. This was a little less unpleasant, being not so fast and with music I recognised. OK, one song. But none of the chaotic South American stuff that had so disturbed me. I even felt the benefits of my exertions, which I believe was the point. I made a couple of new friends too. Thursday was another Healthy Lifestyle jobbie. Only this time the shallow end was full of mums and babies. Cue much screaming (I think it was just the kids) which made it very hard to relax. My float was digging into my diaphragm the whole time too, leaving a bruise which made breathing uncomfortable for a while afterwards.

Menstruation kept me pool-free for the following seven days, and that made me happy. Yes, I would rather have had the pain and inconvenience of a period than any of these water-based sessions! Come week three, I was like a stubborn oyster, clinging to its shell. I had to prise myself out of the house to go to Aqua Zumba. One of my new chums had been very kind, encouraging me to try again as it takes a while to get used to it. I summoned up everything I had. Bravery, motivation, everything. I drained all my reserves. Still wary, I plodded back to the hellpit and timidly asked the receptionist:
"One for Aqua Zumba please."

"Sorry, no classes today," she replied, gesturing to the pool that was crammed with children, splashing and shouting and butterfly-stroking, "School swimming gala."

Really? Really? (Think Sally Field in Mrs Doubtfire: "The WHOLE time???")

I haven't been back to the leisure centre since, other than when I strut past it on one of my walks. My walks. Dry, clothed, alone. At the speed I choose, with music I love. All mine.

Something that strikes me since my last literal outpouring is that things have changed. I feel less despair. I am more settled in my new house. The fleas have gone, the shower is working (boy, is it working!), and one by one I am purchasing the things I need to make the house a home. There may be another reason for the change too, and that, I'm sheepish to report is medication.

Yes, I succumbed, and while half of me is saying: "Ugh, you pussy!" the sensible half is replying: "Not pussy. Lion. So button it." It was a decision made after I finally bought a washing machine, and got X to hook it up for me. Excited, I bunged the first load of washing in and pressed play, ignoring the bit in the instructions where it said "run an empty load first, just to make sure it's all working." So far, so good, until the bit where it had to drain. The device made interesting sucky noises, and then downright refused to go on. Cue red light on dashboard and Lizzie frantically leafing through the "troubleshooting" section of the manual while having what can only be described as a paddy.

38 years' worth of woman turned into a blubbery, shaking mess in seconds. Why won't it work? Is it a dud? Have I got to go through the hassle of sending it back and getting a new one? What am I going to do with my washing now? How the fabric softener do I get the water out? Will I EVER HAVE CLEAN CLOTHES AGAIN??? (See Duvet Incident, previous blog.) A few panicky texts to X and I felt myself split into two. Child Lizzie was sitting on the floor, crying and helpless; Adult Lizzie was saying: Right. First you fix the machine. Second, you fix you. This cannot and WILL NOT go on.  

Suddenly, I was calmer, though still crying. I deployed grown-up mode, and followed the instructions to manually drain the thing, which I did, trying not to worry about the soapy water all over the floor. It was a lot easier than I realised. I took my sopping clothes out and slopped them into a crate. One step at a time. 

The only thing spinning was my head.

I ran the empty programme, which repeated the trick. More tears and self-parenting followed. (I don't need kids. I have ME.) Another manual drain, more water everywhere, and a very sensible decision to reconnect the waste pipe so that it was happy to allow stuff out of it. The result was successful drainage, clean pants, and an appointment with the doctor.

I knew what I had to ask her. I told her the whole exercise tale, and that it worked very well, but it was not enough. Please Doc, could I have the minimum dose of the weakest tablet, just to erase this sadness, because I think it's getting in the way of my life. Through tears, I declared that what I really want is to love and be loved, and I don't have that right now. Furthermore, I don't think I'll be finding it while I'm this pathetic dribble of a girl. Yes, I know I haven't mentioned it so far in this blog, but it's true. To love and to be loved. What else is there? 

She was very sweet. She said that she wished she could write me a prescription for a kind man to take care of, who would take care of me in return. Sadly, the NHS doesn't stretch to such things. (Pah! Call yourself a healthcare provider?) What they do stretch to is sertraline hydrochloride in 50mg lumps, confusingly branded "Lustral", though a side-effect is reduced libido. (Not that that is likely to be an issue!)

So on Thursday 17th July I popped my first anti-depressant for over a decade. I was gutted. I felt like I'd given in. Yet the voice of reason persisted: You were not doing well. Try this. See if it makes a difference. I know that it isn't forever. I hope it isn't for long. Everyone will get depressed at some point in their lives. Whether or not they recognise it is another thing. Contrary to what you may think, I'm not a fan of putting strange things into my body. Especially if I can't be sure of what they are going to do. I know that the reason I was taking the tabs wouldn't kick in for a few weeks. What did kick in, almost immediately was a touch of anxiety. This was rife in my life anyway, but something turned it up to eleven for a bit. My senses were heightened to the point of discomfort, and I found it trickier than usual to be around people. It also reinforced the numbness of feeling.

This was all illustrated in the memorial service I attended at Clifton Cathedral the following weekend. The guy whose life was being celebrated was Trevor Fry, a BBC Radio Bristol DJ who had had some links to the musical theatre group that I am Vicely Chairing. I went as a representative of the committee, piling on the eyeliner as I was determined I would not be crying. I had shed plenty of tears when I had heard the news of his demise, particularly when I thought of his widow. To finally find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with (which to me, seems an impossibility), then to have them taken from you so suddenly? Life is cruel. (Or you can look at it that at least they had that chance to be together at all: Better to have loved and lost, etc - a topic of discussion for another day...) The point was that I intended to keep myself blub-free that evening.

The service was incredible. Person after person spoke so highly of Mr Fry, and so eloquently too, most being radio presenters. He sounded like a top bloke, and I was definitely sorry that I hadn't known him better, or even heard his shows. Interspersed with the speaking were musical performances of the highest calibre. A folk song had my colleagues in floods, causing me to be moved for them. Yet still no tears. Even at the end, with the Salvation Army brass band playing Elgar's Nimrod - an emotion-stirring tune, if ever there was one. Instead of sorrow, I let my spirit soar with the music, higher and higher, to the ceiling of the concrete-clad cathedral. It was a tremendous sensation. What followed was surreal to say the least. Suddenly, the air was filled with the voice of the deceased, bidding us all farewell. It turns out that it was an excerpt from the final broadcast of his Sunday show, which ended its run long before he had. Trevor, being a keen poet, had penned a verse to read on the airwaves, full of goodbyes and gratitude, to all his friends. It was uncanny. When it was over, I looked about me. The only dry eyes in the whole building were mine. I was like a rock.

How had I done this? My theory is that I know when I start blubbage, it's hard to stop. In public, that is just plain embarrassing. I don't like to expose myself to the pain either, so I've shut everything down. My heart is as a shrivelled-up prune. I can forbid it to feel what I so dearly would like it to, because it hurts so much. I think the drugs make it even easier, which is another good reason to get off them as soon as possible. Not feeling, not expressing feelings, that's not Lizzie.

As well as the above, lots more has been happening to me. I shall do this in the style of the "boo/hooray" game that the late, great, Great Auntie Grace taught me. You alternate your responses so:

Making cakes (Hooray!);

Eating cakes (Boo!);

And not a smidge of gluten in sight, cake fans. Until... 

Krispy Kreme. (Other knicker-shrinking foods are available.) 

Parties (Hooray!);

Turning down an invitation to coffee with a nice man (Boo! - get the picture?);

Two gigs with two bands, that made me fly (I need more!);

Not being required for further gigs with one of the bands;

Making dresses and wearing them;

Making a dress...

...and wearing it. At a party. 

Pulling out of Crazy For You;

Rapunzel (a panto that I wrote and directed) being nominated for an award;

Visiting Margate;

Visiting Margate; (It's a matter of opinion)

Margate. The Marmite of the South East.

Food Fair flop;

Another nice chap giving me his number;

Me not calling it (what is WRONG with me??);

Oh and a birthday. 

Not quite faulty, but pretty close. 

Thirty-nine, hitting me like a pavement in the face. That's right on the boo/hooray cusp, that one.

Maybe you'll get to hear about these things at some point. They sound a lot more interesting than what I have banged on about here.

What concerns me most at present is that I feel like time is passing me by, and that I'm unable to do anything other than let it. There is so much I want to do - work-based, music-based. Nice surprises for nice people; more parties (a housewarming bash is long overdue...) I have a head full of ideas, always, but that's where it ends. The link between thinking of a thing and actually doing the thing is eluding me, even though I want to do the thing so much. Why is this? I can see the girl I want to be. She's jumping up and down, screaming at me to get up off the sofa/bed/sofa bed and be. What the hell is stopping me? Why can't I hear her?

Is it fear? If so, that's ridiculous, because I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings obliteration. (And yes, the reason I know those words is because Pete the Puppy said them repeatedly to Earthworm Jim, all right? It's still valid.) What am I scared of? Shouldn't I be more scared of a life not lived?

Is it the tablets? No. It would be very easy to blame them, but I don't think so. I've been here before, sans medication.

Is it fatigue? Or is it laziness? The tools I need are laid out in front of me, literally in some cases - why can't I pick them up and use them? I feel like I've been fighting this all my life. This "Oh, I'll just lay down for two seconds", which turns into two hours, then you get up thinking "I'd better do something" and the strain of making the decision forces you to have a nice sit down and a cup of tea, oh and a bit of YouTube and Spider Solitaire and there go another two hours, and before you know it, you are an old lady who can't do anything more than Spider Solitaire and YouTube and aaaarghhhh WHY???? One of the reasons I was so bummed at my cancer diagnosis was the fact that I felt at the time I was doing a good job of conquering this lethargy. It had taken years, but there I was - writing and directing a pantomime, with a business that was starting to take off and lots of plans for its ascent. I was gathering momentum, until Mr Hodgkin Splodgkin peed all over it. I used everything I had to rip his stupid tits off, and it has left me drained. Is that it? Is that the reason I waste whole days, stuck behind the closed curtains of my bedroom, unable to reply to text messages or execute plans for my future?

This is why I'm writing today. I am fed up of this rut, and with autumn around the corner, wrestling with winter to see who can get here first, I can't see it getting better unless I do something.

If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got.

Henry Ford said that. He was definitely a switch-off-the-TV-set-and-go-out-and-do-something-less-boring-instead kinda guy. Why don't you, Lizzie? I want to be that person. I am sick of excuses. I have the very real threat that, if I cannot earn enough money, I won't be able to pay my rent and bills, and I shall have to leave this house and this part of the country, both of which I have grown to love. What is that, if not motivation? The arse I need to be kicking now, is my own.