Hard

Sometimes I make some very dumb decisions. 

Recently my ex got in touch. Our break up happened over the same time as my first pleuritic collapse and I think I passed all my anxiety over my failing lungs and onto the breakup and, under that weight, my heart was crushed. I've fucked him a few times since the end of the relationship, usually in the vain hope that he'd realise what he was missing and that somehow, in some way, I would win. Ultimately he got laid and the deep-tissue bruises in my heart throbbed ruefully, as if my brain didn't know that I'd made a dumb decision without a physical cue from a metaphorical ailment. 

A few days ago he got in touch and asked if I wanted to "wreck a hotel room" with him. I turned him down. I felt a little stronger. My heart thumped like a war drum.

Last night I went 55 miles to meet a man I've been talking to on twitter for months. When I turned up I couldn't see him. Then some flabby, crooked-toothed bloke winked at me and approached me. 

Some people look better in pictures than in real life. 

I feel kind of disgusted with myself, on two counts. One for being so superficial. Two because I slept with him anyway. I feel like the air-punch rights I earned turning my ex down were all lost in one night with this man. All I could think about is how much I missed Galakse. We dated through two months of the summer only for him to say he couldn't handle his depression and seeing me. I miss him every single day. 

I don't know much. I mean, I have a brain full of facts and a tongue full of words and I can string them together like bunting on a ribbon but when it comes to the hurtful things, the secret things, I know nothing for sure. 

There's a band I love called The Weepies made up of a couple. Before they were together the woman released an album that I've been listening to on loop. It includes a song called How Will He Find Me? It sums up one of my greatest anxieties; to never have the kind of love we are conditioned to crave. I have some wonderful friends, and I am so glad of them, I swear. I'm not ungrateful. But even in the arms of a man who physically repulsed me I felt slightly comforted. I miss the skin on skin of affection. I feel so tortured inside. I'm so wounded. I'm working so hard to be beautiful, I'm striving at work to be valuable, I'm making so much effort to hold my family together and I am not handling all this pressure too well. 

I'm meant to be running with Eir today. I AM running with Eir today. Through the woods and through the rain. Maybe the rain will wash last night off my skin. Aching muscles are a good distraction for an aching heart. 

I miss Galakse so much. Fuck. 

If I don't stand out like a star among the moons

If I am always late and he always backs away too soon

I walk the world with a skin so thin

I can wear no adequate protection, everything comes crashing in. 

If I'm too wide open for this place

But too closed off for him to recognise my face...

How will he find me?

With noone's arms to gather me together

How will he find me?

Only held by gravity

Faded with uncertainty

No longer young and not that pretty

How will he ever find me?

It never seems to matter, the tears I cry

There's a well inside of me that never runs dry

From being born, I guess. And born in life until we die. 

The music and the hope for love keep me alive. 

Still I wonder, how will he find me?

And what shall I do with a drunken heart?

With goggle-eyes and the troubling hunger

Reaching forward to trick mirror-men 

Leaning out and in again

If love is a game how can it be creation? 

And if I'm wasting my time how will he find me?

I need to figure myself out before I get off this train. 

Trust

Eir and I had another training session yesterday. We went for a walk and did some boxing in the park. It was hard and, I swear this morning my eyelids ache. Yes, my eyelids. But I'm so proud of my self for going nearly three hours of exercise in two days when I'm still technically in rehab. Eir was proud too. 

When we got home my my said that I didn't look like I'd worked as hard as yesterday and Eir told her that I had, it was a different kind of work and that's why I wasn't puce and sweating as much. Then when we were stretching my brother started criticising and interfering and Eir told him that his input wasn't helpful or required and told him to go away. I think I love her. 

I think I mentioned that she was really badly injured when she was kicked by a horse and she's been wanting to start riding again but still doesn't have the confidence. I love riding but haven't been in years because most stables have a weight limit. We've set ourselves a goal as a pair: I'm going to get light enough to go riding and she's going to get in the right mindset and we're going to go riding together. I'm really excited. 

In other news I'm dating a colleague at the place I'm leaving and I saw him yesterday for the first time since I've been ill. He gave me a card and a gift as an "I'm glad you're doing better" gesture. It was some loose leaf tea and a personal-sized teapot which is a really thoughtful gift and something I'll definitely find useful. He's the nicest guy but I've learned that I don't really feel sparks with nice guys. But he's sweet and supportive and I don't feel threatened or insecure with him. Maybe I should just see where it goes. Maybe my masochism extends to being uncomfortable with emotional comfort. I don't know.

So, I'm seeing Eir again tonight. I ache. So bad. But it's the good kind. I know it is. 

Push

Today I had the hardest workout of my life. 

Partially I suppose it was hard because I'm, as previously discussed, in the worst shape of my life. The thing is I think even at my peak of fitness (which doesn't say a lot, believe me,) I'd have found that gruelling. My physio is ex-Army so she knows all about pushing people to their limits but leaving them with enough physical and emotional strength to come back again the next day. She's actually a pretty incredible person. She suffered really badly from PTSD after working in war zones and losing friends and colleagues and seeing them maimed in combat. As if that wasn't challenging enough she then got kicked by a horse and was, in her own words, "broken". She's been in emotional and physical recovery for a long time and didn't know I'd she'd ever be able to return to Army life after everything she's been through. She and my dad have known each other for years. She speaks to me freely about her weight struggles and everything else and it makes hear really easy to work with. I want to work had to please and impress her which is something I've never felt with a trainer of any kind. The trainers I've had have always been either muscle-bound beefcakes or tiny, peppy blonde girls who, while obviously qualified, I never felt comfortable with. I couldn't work with them when I felt they didn't understand me. With my physio feel safe and understood. I'm going to call her Eir here because Eir was the Norse goddess of healing and, for me, that is who she is. 

So Eir and I went for a run/walk in the woods and used the equipment the parachute regiment use. For those who don't know these guys are proper hardcore and so is their equipment. I climbed over huge nets and did press-ups on custom logs and pushed myself really fucking hard. I ache. I'm lying in my bed and I ache. But I'm proud of myself. I'm seeing Eir again tomorrow after work and going for another run and we're going to do some cardio and boxing. I'm really excited. I think it's going to hurt but in a great way. I can't wait. 

That's all I really have to say today. I ache with fatigue and pride.  

Spirit

It's a sign of how dilapidated my body is that only an hour after doing 11 minutes of a workout I'm already aching. I'm trying not to be frustrated, really I am. Baby steps. I'm learning to walk again, respiratorially speaking. I have to remember to give myself credit. Where it's due, I must give myself credit.

Well, while I'm redesigning my body I might as well rebuild myself emotionally, right?

I've been learning about Nichiren Buddhism from a really, really good friend from university. He used to have his own issues with food and things and used to have a lot of anger. He's now got this incredible approach to his mental health. It's not so much emotional control as emotional release. He feels his feelings, acknowledges them, respects them, then lets them go, having used them in some way. A big part of that is chanting in front of a shrine. The words he says basically translate as "I worship the Lotus Sutra" which is a Buddhist document. He also chants in his head when he's feeling a string negative emotion, like counting to ten in your head before biting back in an argument. I chanted with him and actually found it really cleansing but, for me, as a non-Buddhist, the words meant nothing to me and felt insincere. While the action was really cathartic and a good way to empty my brain it didn't feel right. I felt inhibited by them. So I had to find my own words.

My friend said that the reason he likes the words is because, while they have meaning, because they're a foreign language, they're just sounds. It means he doesn't have to concentrate on what he's saying. So I tried really carefully to find words that meant something in a language far enough removed from my own that it could be a meaningful set of sounds, pleasing to say, that would help me clean my mind. So I picked Latin, a language I understand but isn't my own, and the words are:

"Quae me quaeso, lupa ero."

It translates as "I pray that I become a she-wolf."

Also, in Nichiren Buddhism, there's a document called the "gohonzon" which you're supposed to look at while you chant. Again, for me, there's an insincerity about that, but the concept behind it (finding your own part of it to divine meaning from) works. So I created my own "chanting board" make up of squares of blues, whites and greys in waves of colour. The blue represents the cleansing of water, the white of a clean, fresh page and the grey of the grey wolf in residence in my spirit.

So, as of tonight, I will chant before I sleep and when I wake up. To remind myself at the beginning and end of every single day what I am doing to my body: making it the best it can be in every way so it can be a worthy home for my spirit. Because, man oh man, my spirit really is something.

Try

My mum and I got into an argument. Least said best, it was just a stupid domestic, but it meant I had energy that needed using. So, as a result, I went upstairs and did a bit of ballet. Only about 11 minutes and it was basic and it was a struggle but I did it. I set my laptop up in front of my mirror so I could watch the instructional tape and watch myself at the same time. I'm lumpy, ungraceful and weak but I tried.

Baby steps.

Tiny baby steps.

Barre

15.5

Today I told work I was coming back. It's my last week in the same job until I start my writing job elsewhere. I've spoken to my boss and he's letting me do shorter days. This means I am going to fit in more physio and rehab. I've also decided to actually do my ballet workouts. I bought a leo, leggings, and overwear to dance in so I feel more like I know what I'm doing. My trainer is happy to work out with me morning or evening so I'm going to figure out whether ballet in the morning and cardio in the evening or vice versa is better. I need to get myself into a rhythm. Having weekends off, adding some structure to my week, is going to be a real help. I haven't had weekends in... erm... four years. Crikey.

Whatever size I always had pretty great flexibility. My stamina and upper body strength have always been terrible but my legs have always been strong, pliable, mobile. Even when I was an athlete and throwing discus for my county my strength was always in my legs. But now, between getting fat, getting lazy and getting sick, I'm in more or less the worst condition I think I've ever been. Physio and rehab are going to help rebuild me. no... not rebuild. Redesign.

Earlier I was playing a game on my phone where, if you fail, you have to start again from scratch and for some reason it reminded me of being 8 years old in my grandmother's garden using a lawn-chair-cushion as a crash-mat, trying to teach myself to do a walkover. I'd manage the handstand, manage to crab and then never make it all the way back over onto my feet. That didn't stop me getting back up and going again and again until the sun went down. I actually never managed it. When summer ended I just stopped trying.

I am not giving up on this.

I know, I know, being fitter and thinner is always going to improve your quality of life but it's never felt this real and relevant to me as when I thought I was dying. People say near-death experiences change your outlook on the life you have. For me, being told I had a terminal illness was MY near-death experience. I may be taking baby steps but I'm taking baby steps with pointed toes.

Structure is going to be my friend.

Spick

15.3

Since doing this whole food diary malarkey I've lost 2lbs in under a week. So hooray for that.

Today I'm going to go and get a filter and a bucket and some fish. I asked my little brother if he'd like to choose a fish for the bowl and he got so excited, bless him. We're getting on so well at the moment, I really hope it lasts. People ask me what my relationships with my brothers are like and if I'm being hone I usually have to answer that I don't have one - we went to different boarding schools at different ends of the country so it was never really possible to maintain any real friendship. Now, though, I think things are changing and it's really, really positive. It's making me really happy.

So I'm going to get three little goldfish and maybe a snail or a minnow as company, I guess it depends who I find when I go to the pet store. First things first I need to fill the bowl with water and treat it so the bacteria can start making the water safe for my new fishy friends.

I know it's sad to be this excited about fish but I think fish are awesome so... there we are.

Glub

15.4

Today I went on an actual outing to help my mum at the garden centre. Aside form hospital visits it's only the second or third time I've ventured from my home town since I got ill. The garden centre is closing down so it's having a huge closing-down sale.

I made an unnecessary lust-purchase.

Every month I buy a non-food "lust purchase" - a little thing just for me, for no real reason, because I'm materialistic and "things" make me happy.

So I bought a fishbowl and pebbles and a little ornament and water conditioner and fish food and tomorrow I'm setting it all up ready for my fish. I've done my research and the bowl I have can only accommodate small goldfish breeds and maybe one or two companion fish and a snail so that's probably what I'll get. I also need a filter and a couple of plants for the fishies to hide in. I'm unreasonably excited about this.

Jaws

15.4

I'm keeping a food diary for my physio because I need to get myself into the best possible shape. That's the thing about being overweight; everyone's really desperate to help you get thinner. The thing is I know I'm eating differently because I need to give her an item-by-item breakdown of every single thing I eat. She's meant to be assessing the proportions of fat/protein/carbs and coming up with substitutions to make my diet healthier and to help me lose weight.

Though, actually, she's phrasing it as "fat percentage loss" and told me not to concentrate on weight loss. The thing is, after one day of keeping the food diary and not eating because I'd have to document it for someone else to see, I've actually lost a pound after months of plateau. Well, you know, whatever works.

I woke up hungry for the first time in ages which felt weirdly good.

I still feel like a total weakling which is pretty tiresome but I'm working on it, I really am. I'm even planning to go back to work next week. We'll see.

Rehab

15.5

Oh, thank goodness, finally some good news.

I got called into the hospital and told that I had been initially misdiagnosed. What they mistook for pulmonary fibrosis is actually just a particularly nasty set of pulmonary adhesions. The symptoms are very similar but pulmonary fibrosis is a degenerative, terminal disease. Pulmonary adhesions are crappy but are far less likely to kill me in the next five years.

So, in the long term, that's absolutely, breathtakingly (sorry, bad taste pun) wonderful news. I'm not going to die before I'm thirty. I'm not going to need a lung transplant. Probably. But in the short term, as far as recovery goes, nothing has really changed.

I'm still in "Pulmonary Rehabilitation". This basically means I'm doing physiotherapy to get my lungs up to par. It's like learning to walk all over again. I'm starting from scratch. I'm a newborn.

Instead of whining about it I'm going to just have to go ahead and embrace it. That is very much my intention, in any case. I am not going to treat this as a condemnation of one of my vital organs, I'm going to treat it as a rebirth of my entire body. Knowing that I am limited means I can push my limits, but gently and constructively. I don't have to lie down, bound by the indictment of my scars. Where before I've felt like I've had to push myself too hard now I have to listen to my body, to be intuitive, to do exactly as much as I can so that every day what I'm capable of is a little more than I was capable of yesterday. My limits will change. I will challenge them.

I have to treat my body as a clean slate, like a fixer-upper of a house. There are a few cracks in the walls and the paintwork is peeling and the roof has a few missing tiles. But the foundations are solid and, with a bit of work, I can make his house a home.

I can't remember the last time I let this bad and this incredible.

Ylva is howling with joy.