Life is full of ups and downs, highs and lows, peaks and troughs. At times I feel like a lost little Lemming; forever digging myself in and out of ruts, doing my best to navigate life’s terrain. There are weeks when I eat well, exercise and feel like Kayla-fucking-Itsines, but I always fall off the wagon into the gluttonous abyss.
My ruts are characterised by copious amounts of wine, reluctance to shower and all kinds of high-calorie treats. I shut myself off to the world, and welcome wallowing and self-pity.
I try to justify my behaviour in several ways; argue I’m just being kind to myself, giving myself a little break. Or I’m just having a YOLO moment; I’m only here once, why eat salad when I really want pizza. I can also imagine I’m performing some sort of heroic protest; a firm fuck you to fitspo and unrealistic beauty standards. Yeah! I like my oily hair and cellulite. But whatever which way I spin it, I inevitably end up feeling like shit. It’s as though I’m living on borrowed time, reality always catches up to me.
Surprise, surprise exercise and eating well actually makes me happy.
And though I’m aware of this, I know what I need to do to stay on track, I still get stuck in ruts. For me, they’ve become just a normal part of life. Thus, I’ve developed some hammer and pick techniques that help me climb out of the dark and dirt-filled holes.
Preening. After days of avoiding myself (and mirrors) I’ve usually conjured up some monstrous image of myself. A repulsive recluse, in the ilk of Gilbert Grape’s Mum. It’s difficult, but I force myself into some personal grooming. I pick an activity that makes me feel good, and helps me appreciate my body; fake tanning, hair dying, nail painting or leg shaving. Sometimes I put on a full face of make-up, for no one to see except myself. By the time I’ve finished my eyeliner, I start to feel better; you’re eyes aren’t that small.
Walking. Fresh air and sunlight does wonders, and getting out of the house gives the lounge a chance to lose my indent. I don’t walk far, just far enough to get some exercise induced endorphins, that natural high. Also seeing nature, the sheer magnitude of the world, puts shit into perspective – you’re just one little blip honey.
Talking it out. Socialising is usually the last thing I want to do. But I call on a friend. A good one. One that doesn’t mind my sweat pant/wife-beater combo, and musky scent. And I talk it out. 99% of the time their response is I feel shit too, or I had a week like that last week – it’s comforting to know that other people struggle just like you. Good friends will Hey, come on you, snap you out of it, bring you up, and help you see you’re wonderful.
Treat yo’ self. I buy myself something nice (no, not wine or chocolate). I usually opt for an accessory in case my week of wallowing has expanded my waist size. Realising I’ve jumped a dress size will only add to my depression. Earrings are my go to – they’re cheap, cheerful and can elevate your mood along with your outfit. So, if you spot me at Lovisa, bleary eyed and braless, you know I’ve had a bad week.
To all the lemmings, deep in digging, I hope this has helped. I’ll leave you with a quote from the great wordsmith, David Brent:
"Life is just a series of peaks and troughs, and you don't know whether you're in a trough until you're climbing out, or on a peak until you're coming down. And that's it you never know what's round the corner. But it's all good, "if you want the rainbow you've got to put up with the rain". Do you know which "philosopher" said that? Dolly Parton. And people say she's just a big pair of tits."