AN UNFORGETTABLE DAY

January 28 will forever be a memorable day in my life. It is the day my mother was born. And it is the day my father died.

Today, my mother should be celebrating her 80th birthday. Instead she died 15 years ago after living with cancer for the nine years prior to that. I can’t picture my mother at 80. In my mind she is eternally somewhere in her 40s and 50s – a time of life that seemed ancient when I was young, but now that I’m becoming more ancient I realise how young it is.

I HAVE A VERY PRECIOUS PHOTO OF HER AS A TEENAGER, HUGGING A KOALA

Her face is glowing with joy and optimism, she looks filled with hope for the future. It’s just a couple of years until she falls in love with a tall handsome man and starts a family. And a few more years after that when she would lose her second baby and a lifetime of sadness would settle softly on her shoulders. And she did have a sad life – for so many reasons. Her journey on this earth was not an easy one.

My mother was creative and extremely house-proud. She was kind, energetic and tireless in her endeavours. Her smile was radiant. She was also very anxious and highly critical. She didn’t always know how to cope with the difficult hands that life had dealt her. But despite the fractious relationship we so often had, I know she adored my children and was a wonderful grandmother. She would have been immensely proud to see them grow into the wonderful young men that they are, to meet their life partners and to be introduced to the most precious new person in our lives, her beautiful great-granddaughter.

While I was relieved when her suffering ended, I am always sad that she is no longer here with us.

MY FATHER HAD A WICKED SENSE OF HUMOUR

I am sure he would have considered it quite funny to die on her birthday. Despite being divorced for more than 20 years, they are now eternally tied together.

While my father also experienced the tragedy of losing not one, but two children, sadness did not define his life. He was the eternal optimist, always looking at the bright side and seeking goodness and happiness. He was fortunate to live until almost 88 years of age, most of his years spent in excellent health. His last two years were marred by cancer and treatments and much like my mother, it was a release and a blessing when he finally passed from this mortal plane.

My father was fortunate to see my children grow into young men and step out into the world as adults. He would have been tickled pink to have seen my son’s Indonesian wedding and to have met his first great-grandchild. But he was always a man who was grateful for the blessings he had and not sorrowful about those he did not have.

Not only was he tall, dark and handsome but he was also kind, generous, passionate, artistic, talented, dedicated and loving. I was enormously bonded to my father long before I can remember.

MUSIC BECAME MY PASSION BECAUSE OF HIS CARE AND GUIDANCE

I am so grateful to have had so many years with such a wonderful man. As he lay dying in a palliative care ward I kept talking to him and playing music. Somewhere along the way, I mentioned my mother’s birthday was soon. He slipped into a coma and held on until the wee hours of the 28th. I will always believe he stayed just long enough to make the day one of the most memorable all year around for me.

Wherever they both are now, I hope they’re smiling and enjoying the day.

BYPASSED

So folks . . . I did a thing. On Tuesday 30 May 2023, I had a gastric bypass done. A mini gastric bypass because I’m a mini fat person.

EVERYONE HAS A STRONG OPINION ABOUT THIS

I want to share my experience with the hope that perhaps you will judge and condemn me a little less. Because despite appearances, this was a long and difficult decision and one I hope in the long term will turn out to be a good idea. Of course, there is no way of knowing for sure without having a crystal ball, as long-term change can only be assessed after a long period of time has passed and seven months does not constitute long. Unless you’re miserable as fuck – in which case it feels like a lifetime. But I am not miserable so that’s a starting point for gratitude.

When I was young I was a particular weight (I will not be sharing numbers). And when I look back at that weight I see a healthy young woman who nobody should consider either overweight or underweight. I was just a weight. Of course, I didn’t appreciate this at the time. Mostly because so many people commented so often that I was a big girl. Which I translated into the word fat but perhaps they meant tall. Or not skinny. I have a long history of body image issues and eating disorder behaviours. So being at a normal, healthy, socially acceptable weight did not register as okay for me at the time. But that is a whole other story. At the end of the day, I was in a good weight range for my body and my pre-determined genetics. I believe wholeheartedly that if I had not starved and binged and obsessed about myself for decades, that is the weight I was always intended to be.

BUT DIETING – EVENTUALLY – MAKES YOU FAT

This I also wholeheartedly believe and I am anecdotal evidence that consistently messing around with natural body hunger cues will teach your body to store every ounce of fat. Once the dieting period is over, weight will stabilise at a higher number because the body fears periods of starvation again.

Have you heard of set weight point? It is the weight that your body will fight to return to when you lower your food intake. Sure, in the short term, every diet is successful. Because most of us can force ourselves into a period of hunger or emotional deprivation for a while. But sustaining it for a lifetime is rarely achievable and psychologically your body fights to return to what it has determined is the safest place for it to be. The set weight point. Chronic dieting can, and frequently does, increase set weight point. This is why so many people regain weight after dieting and add a couple of extra pounds that feel impossible to shake.

When I look at my history, I see my set weight point creeping higher and higher over the years. I fought nature hard with long periods of restrict-binge-purge-restrict cycles (aka dieting) but when I finally entered into eating disorder recovery and started eating regular meals, my weight settled into a comfortable range that became very stable for three years. And that weight was significantly higher than my body was genetically destined to be had I not messed around with it.

I WAS CAUGHT IN A DILEMMA

I could stay in recovery and maintain the same weight for the rest of my years. That would be called radical acceptance. Which is not a bad thing. I was still relatively healthy and active, eating regular healthy meals and experiencing little to no psychological distress at my food intake. I was working hard at body acceptance and neutrality, trying to appreciate the strong, healthy body I am blessed with. On bad body image days, I practiced gratitude for the things that were good about me and tried to dismiss the images reflected back at me. Rarely easy to do . . . I followed fat-positive social media accounts that spread the importance of accepting all bodies regardless of shape, size and functionality – because the basic human experience requires love and respect regardless of how it is aesthetically packaged. And of course I embraced the really strong message that the relationship between health and weight is complex. Good health comes in all shapes and sizes, as does poor health. Losing weight and becoming thinner does not mean someone is healthier. And vice versa.

HEALTH IS ABOUT BEHAVIOURS NOT APPEARANCES

My behaviours were healthy but my body remained fat. Some days I could accept this, others I could not. I had developed some mild health issues – my cholesterol was a little higher than it should be. My blood pressure consistently creeping up. Neither of those things were medically significant but were evidence of an internal struggle my body was fighting. When I looked at photos of myself I was always horrified. My son’s spectacular wedding was a well-photographed event and I could not fight the shame that overcame me with the constant stream of happy snaps that were taken. It had been years since I’d been able to wear my wedding ring and in a moment of radical acceptance I went to the jeweller’s to enquire about having all my rings modified to fit. The humiliation I felt when the girl at the counter laughed and said it was impossible, became the tipping point for me in making the decision.

But by far and away the strongest indicator that my weight was not the right one for my body, was my physical fitness. I attend the gym three times a week for strength training and have done so for 11 years. I bushwalk regularly and leading up to the climbing of Mount Kinabalu, I was climbing a mountain every weekend. Nothing shifted my weight, and part of me was okay with that. I climb mountains and soak in the essence of nature because I love it – at every size. But there is one thing I know for sure – it is much fucking harder to climb a mountain when you’re carrying extra weight. I needed a lot more stops, my heart rate consistently raced uncomfortably high and I was puffing on the asthma puffer a lot more frequently in a vague attempt to help my lungs breathe more easily.

BASICALLY, MY WEIGHT NEGATIVELY IMPACTED MY ENJOYMENT OF LIFE

And despite being told (by someone who’s never been fat), there are better ways, I know for me, there are not. Any form of consciously reducing food intake by fasting, eliminating food groups, reducing portions or following any type of diet would lead straight back to an eating disorder with potential short-term weight loss and long-term gain. And I have to confess, I never want to go there again. In fact, left with a choice between being overweight and unable to climb mountains for the rest of my life, or having an eating disorder and climbing easily, I would choose overweight. But I was in the fortunate position of not being forced to choose.

I spent eight months researching weight loss surgeries. In 2012 I had a gastric lap band, lost a lot of weight, developed surgical bulimia and then had it removed in 2019. I would never return to the band – I don’t know a single person who doesn’t vomit up half their meals with it. I am done with bulimia. With all my research I concluded that for me, the gastric bypass was going to be the gold standard. If I was going to consider a surgical route, that became the only sensible option. I spent a lot of time researching worst-case scenarios, disaster stories, deaths, disabilities, the need to reverse the surgery. I wanted to know all the risks and complications. Because surgically modifying the digestive system is not a magic trick – it is life-altering and has long-lasting impacts.

After all my research, and a lot of saving, I decided it was the best option for me. I discussed it with my husband and four of my friends for months before finalising the decision. Some people expressed concern. One called me a hypocrite for publically promoting body acceptance while secretly not accepting my own body. That was a harsh slap in the face but holds a level of truth I had questioned myself.

CAN I BELIEVE IN BODY ACCEPTANCE AND STILL WANT TO CHANGE MY OWN?

Some people would say yes. Some people would say no. One thing I want to make extremely clear is that when I feel a need to change my body it is no reflection on other people’s bodies. I’m not in a competition, trying to look thinner than some other person. There is no judgment at all about how other people look. I feel like this is a truth for a lot of older people in eating disorder recovery. We have little judgment on the appearance of others and a huge amount of our own worth placed on how our bodies feel.

I am acutely aware that having a gastric bypass simply to look more appealing in my reflection would be a terrible idea because that reflection will never look good to me. Ever. That is part and parcel of who I am. That is something I have accepted. No matter the result of this surgery I will never feel attractive. The work I have done over the years has been to detach my value as a human from the aesthetic appeal my body may or may not have. I am worthy regardless of health and weight.

My desire to have surgery has very little to do with my physical appearance. But it has everything to do with how I feel in my skin. Being in a body that sits at a higher weight than it was ever designed to be is uncomfortable. Physically and psychologically. Some people are born into fat healthy bodies. Some are born into slim builds. I was born into a body that was meant to be tall and curvy. But I was never meant to be really fat and eventually my desire to live in a body that felt more natural overcame my desire to please other people by staying the way I was.

SO I HAD THE SURGERY

That was seven months ago and if weight was ever considered a measure of success, then it has been successful. I have lost weight. That was basically a guarantee and I try not to feel excited about it. Anyone who has weight loss surgery expects to lose weight. That is the whole point of it. I’m trying hard not to focus on numbers. I can now wear my wedding rings. This is such a symbolic thing for me. I have been married 31 years now and losing that physical reminder was a hard loss. Wearing them again makes me happy and happiness isn’t necessarily a bad goal. On our recent wedding anniversary, I did a 12.87km walk up and down mountains and I did it fairly easily. Loving every moment of the spectacular summit views but not loving the tight calf muscles so much. And yes, my clothes fit more comfortably. I feel a lot easier in my body now than I did before.

The surgery itself went well and I recovered pretty quickly. Nausea was my unwanted companion for many weeks but it eventually subsided. I learned the hard way that a piece of chocolate early in the recovery process brings on several days of gastro. It is surprising how uninteresting chocolate becomes when you know the pretty immediate consequences that await. For the first four months, food was an exploration of what will work and what won’t work. For me, I have hit the seven-month mark and can usually eat almost anything. Even chocolate. Although some days I have surprising reactions. I know other people have different experiences and anyone contemplating a bypass should definitely research the long-term effects.

There have been blips. I had three instances fairly early on where I ate too much, too quickly which brought on dumping syndrome bad enough for me to vomit. That was not fun and I try not to repeat it. If I’m not careful I still get dumping but I haven’t vomited in a while. I hope to never again. My bloods at the last check-up showed me mildly deficient in protein, calcium and vitamin D. Nothing clinically significant but something to keep an eye on. Also potentially the cause of my hair thinning out drastically since the surgery. Something I hope to reverse. Maintaining adequate protein intake is my most difficult task and I have succumbed to the need for supplements. I now regularly drink protein water which my friend described as, tastes like ass. Without enough protein, my body will eat muscle before it chews through my fat stores. And I have worked hard for eleven years to maintain my muscle. I don’t want to lose it now.

My surgeon wanted me to track protein intake and while that may sound like a great idea for a normal person, for someone in eating disorder recovery tracking is a terrible idea. There is no way to track protein without tracking everything. So for a week, I was back in a mindset of recording everything I ate and trying to push calorie intake as low as possible. It took me a week to come to my senses but I deleted the app. I’ll just have to wing it with the protein now.

MY ONE BIG CONFESSION . . . I HAVE BOUGHT SCALES

This is a no-no for most people and the reason I ended up with scales in my house is complex and not related to me. But they’re here now. I was weighing myself every day for several months and I am conscious that is an eating disorder behaviour and not something to be celebrated. After forking out thousands of dollars for weight loss surgery I admit, there is a desire for weight loss and to see the physical evidence of that. I no longer weigh daily and I am currently monitoring my responses. If weighing myself has any impact whatsoever on what, when and how I choose to eat each day then they will be out the window. For now, that has not happened. I know intellectually that there are much greater indicators of my health and well-being than a number on the scales.

Now that my cholesterol and blood pressure are back in the excellent range, and I can exercise with relative ease, I know all my health and well-being indicators are now excellent. I physically feel more comfortable in my skin now. After seven months I can say, goal achieved. My surgeon anticipates I’ll lose quite a few more kilos and I will always be secretly happy if that happens, but I’m not expecting it or working towards it. My weight will stabilise where it will and I can only but hope to teach myself to be content with it. Because there are now no other options available for weight management.

I have told a few more people about the surgery but now I’m prepared to spread the word and let the judgments fall as they may. Some people may read this post as a list of excuses from someone deluding themselves into wanting something. I don’t believe that is true but I have no control over what other people think. That is their burden to wear.

I HAVE NEVER HAD SUCH A HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP WITH FOOD

I eat very small amounts of food but quite frequently. Sometimes I eat more than others. I have stronger hunger signals than I’ve ever had in my entire life. My fullness signals are stronger than ever. I practice the ten principles of intuitive eating and honouring my body’s newly revised cues while being aware of gentle nutrition and joyful movement principles. I feel so incredibly free and liberated with food. A lot of the time – most of my day in fact – I have little interest in food. It does not rule my thoughts as it has done for most of my life. I get hungry, then eat. When I feel full, Istop. I do try and prioritise the protein on my plate but if I feel like cake for lunch I’ll do that too. Anything that doesn’t make me feel sick afterwards is fair game.

My current physical and psychological health is excellent and I am very grateful. I am also aware that the long-term success of this surgery will not be witnessed for another ten years. But with the research I’ve done, there is some evidence that the surgery can reset set weight point – something dieting cannot do – and I am secretly holding onto the hope that my weight will settle into the little niche it was always designed to be in.

I do not ever want to be an inspiration for someone to consider weight loss surgery. Nor do I want to be a deterrent. I am simply someone who made the decision to have weight loss surgery for myself after extensive research. Only time will tell if it was a wise decision, but for today I can say it was good decision for me. Your mileage may vary.

WHERE’S MY MOTIVATION?

For much of my life, I was driven and busy and energetic and doing shit all the time. I didn’t sleep. I ate a lot. All my spare time filled up with mothering or wifeing or friending or working or volunteering. It was a fairly typical life for someone in their thirties and forties.

THEN I IMPLODED AND EVERYTHING CHANGED

By the time I was 50, I was a different person. I was diagnosed with major depression, generalised anxiety disorder and bulimia nervosa. A few years later I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder. I also had chronic and debilitating Restless Legs Syndrome and insomnia. I was just a patchwork of labels.

Depression in particular is a great motivation killer. When the world is dark and hidden behind a veil it is so incredibly difficult to want to do anything. At its worst depression makes it almost impossible to brush your teeth, take a shower, get out of bed or leave the house. It makes you want to stop existing altogether because life is just too difficult. The world becomes very, very small and there is no energy left to feel motivated with anything other than sheer survival. Depression is being in constant survival mode.

I struggled with severe depression for five years before I succumbed to a suicide attempt. That was a very dark time in my life but it was also a turning point. It was during my nine-week hospital stay that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and treated for insomnia. The combination of mood-stabilising medications and regular sleep became a life changer. Over the course of twelve months, I became more and more well.

I REMAIN EXTREMELY MENTALLY WELL AND STABLE TO THIS DAY

But one of the prices I have paid for such a dark period of my life is a complete lack of motivation. Someone asked me yesterday what I feel passionate about and I can answer with absolute sincerity, I don’t feel passionate about anything at all.

There are things I like to do. There are people I adore. I have projects and wishlists. But I’m not passionate about anything. I feel like I’m marking time.

I have of course googled extensively on the subjects of procrastination and motivation, but I have no answers. I do have some theories though.

Having spent the first fifty years of my life in a state of heightened arousal with high energy levels, then spectacularly crashed through the floor to the exact opposite, I feel I am now doing all the resting I should have been doing for all those decades. I can sit in a chair and read now. Nanna naps are a thing in my life. I have learned to say no quite readily and very frequently. My world is smaller but only because I choose for it to be that way. I am doing all the quiet time that I didn’t do for my entire life.

Then there is also the reality of medications. Mood stabilisers do exactly what they say – they stabilise moods. So while I have occasional lows they are mild. And while I have bursts of bounciness I never dissolve into hypomania. I am fairly stable, which may sound like a good thing, but I also feel fairly flat as a result of all that stableness. I have tried going off my medications but in all honesty, that did not go swimmingly well. I am however on a greatly reduced dose. Pharmaceutically I also take two RLS medications every night plus a dedicated sleeping pill. Both my mood stabilisers have a slightly sedating effect. I believe the overall sum total of my medications is that I’m more chilled than I used to be. Which is nice and all that jazz, but not motivating. Combine that with nightly sleep of around five hours (give or take a few here and there) I do not have much in the way of energy levels. I am incredibly easily fatigued.

THE FINAL NAIL IN MY MOTIVATION COFFIN IS AGE

I am 57 years old now. To some of you that may be ancient. To others, I’m a spring chicken. It doesn’t really matter, age is age and there’s no arguing with it. There’s also no doubting that by the time 50 comes around and slaps us in the arse, we are starting to notice the passage of time. I feel like 50 is definitely middle age – not old. But with that aging middle age comes deteriorating eyesight, creaky knees, middle-age spread, an awful lot of farting and decreasing energy levels. It is quite simply a fact of life.

It is true that aging is a privilege not everyone gets to experience. And a great many positives come with age as well. We take less shit from people. There’s increasing confidence and acceptance in who we intrinsically are. There is more clarity about what we want from life. And for a great many of us, there is more material comfort than there was 25 years ago. But for me at least, motivation decreases as the years pass by.

Each day I lie in bed thinking about the things it would be good to get done and then on the days I’m not working (which is five out of seven) I lie in bed a bit longer and dream about sleeping and feel the shadows of guilt overcoming me for not being productive. Being productive was always a massive motivating factor when I was young – I felt shameful if I wasn’t contributing something to somebody somewhere. Now I just let the guilt settle around me then toddle around thinking about things I should do, but don’t do them.

I CONFESS, I DO NOT LIKE LOW MOTIVATION

Accomplishing things brings satisfaction and if at the end of the day all I have done is have a shower and unstack the dishwasher I don’t feel any great sense of being a purposeful person. I have spent the past couple of years sitting around waiting for motivation to hit me but I think a little reality check would suggest that isn’t going to happen soon. For all the reasons I mentioned before. The most motivating thing in my life is other people. If someone suggests a coffee, I’ll probably go. If someone will meet me at the gym, I’ll turn up and do a workout. I have joined writing groups and created a walking group. But in the spirit of full disclosure I will admit, my days are fairly lazy. Over time I hope to start building some small, simple routines, but for now my life is quiet and not very productive but peaceful and very contented.

Maybe one day I’ll have great swathes of motivation crash into me and I’ll fulfill all my wishlist desires. But maybe not. And that is okay. Maybe I’ll be like this for the rest of my days and I won’t get much done but I’ll be peaceful and content. And that is okay. I am practising, as always, my DBT radical acceptance of where I am now, but putting in place little nuggets that may change things for the better in the future. Stay tuned. I will let you know what happens.

BOUNDARIES

Over the weeks and months and years of my healing journey, I have heard the word ‘boundaries’ whispered in my ear countless times. Although, sometimes it’s less of a whisper and more of a fish wife’s guttural screech, echoing around the chambers of my people-pleasing brain.

BOUNDARIES ARE NOT SOMETHING THAT COME NATURALLY TO ME

When you grow up in an environment where you are never good enough and endlessly criticised, you spend your life trying to please people. Making people happy becomes a love currency – in the eyes of a child, if the people around me aren’t happy with me, they mustn’t love me. Those learned behaviours flow into adulthood. Now, that may not be a fact, but it is definitely a feeling. A feeling that I have worked very hard to acknowledge, accept and overcome.

Constantly people-pleasing, feeling never good enough and allowing my innate sense of worth to be dictated by others has led me to struggle with codependency. I have spent a lifetime sacrificing my own needs and desires in order to make others happy. Sometimes these tendencies have struggled against my innate nature which is highly independent and slightly rebellious. My nature does not always sit well with my nurture.

The first rule of boundary setting is learning to say the word “No”. My husband has no trouble with “no”. In fact, he’ll often embellish and emphasise with a, “Fuck no,” or, “No. Fuck off.” Or maybe, “You’ve got to be fucking joking.” (Just to clarify, he doesn’t actually speak to me like that. If he did our marriage might have been short and not so sweet.) But he does have the ability to recognise his needs and desires and speak his truth. It also means when he says yes to something, I know he is genuinely okay with his decision.

I have quietly observed this skill over the past thirty years and with some encouragement from my psychologists and psychiatrists, I have started to put this philosophy into practice. I am allowed to, in fact, say no. The trick is to work out when I want to say no. Because as a people-pleaser there is always a certain amount of satisfaction in saying yes. It is not an all-bad thing.

THE QUESTION IS, HOW MUCH OF MYSELF IS SACRIFICED IN THE YES

For the vast majority of my relationships with friends and family, I have not needed to set boundaries. They are naturally respectful people who do not use and abuse my time and love. As I have said on numerous occasions, I am truly blessed with the friends I have gathered around me in life. In fact, they have been the first to point out that perhaps I could learn to say no on occasion.

Organisations and businesses and committees love people-pleasers. We say yes to all the things that nobody else wants to do. I spent many years volunteering my time in various roles. Often volunteering more hours than my paid work ever generated. I am now very circumspect with my time and energy. I have learned to say no to committees. Volunteering an hour or two here and there on an ad hoc basis is fine but becoming the glue that holds something together is no longer on my to-do list. I do not want that responsibility – ever again. I confess I am quite burned out from past volunteering.

SAYING NO TO FRIENDS AND FAMILY HAS BEEN A MUCH SLOWER LEARNING CURVE

Boundary setting has crept up on me in small increments. I needed constant reinforcement and permission to learn the skills. It has taken six years of therapy and encouragement. But I have made changes.

• I have learned to make time for myself without feeling guilty
• I no longer respond instantly to every message and demand that comes my way
• I often don’t answer the phone (in fact if I didn’t give birth to you or marry you I really don’t want to answer at all)
• I don’t say yes or no until I’ve decided what I really want
• I am learning to ask for what I want for myself (a work in progress)
• I won’t subject myself to emotional abuse or manipulation
• I try and speak up for my own needs and desires – which is a fine line between self-advocacy and feeling selfish

And boundary setting has cost me a friendship. That is a very hard thing to acknowledge. I have wonderful friends who I have regular contact with. And I have beautiful friends who I barely stay in touch with, but when we reconnect it’s like we were just talking yesterday. I love and value all these amazing women and none of them need any introduction to the concept of boundaries.

But I also spent many a wonderful year with a very close friend who (for whatever reasons have manifested in her own past) could not recognise boundaries. We had a lot of fun and fantastic adventures together, but my inability to say no led us into a very unhealthy situation. When I exited the psychiatric clinic in May 2020 with the word “boundaries” ringing in my ears, I started to practice “no”. Over time it has eroded our friendship and the fun and laughter just washed away. We had a very respectful conversation together where we acknowledged our friendship had run its course and our trips away together had come to an end.

THE LOSS EMPHASISES TO ME THAT SAYING NO HAS UNCOMFORTABLE CONSEQUENCES

There is a reason that people-pleasers say yes all the time – it’s because it’s comfortable. It is a learned coping mechanism. And like any coping mechanism, when it is gone you are left feeling uncomfortable and become vulnerable to other perhaps equally unhealthy coping mechanisms. But I am learning to sit with squirmy feelings – I have been practising this since I first started therapy in 2015 – but it is uncomfortable and nobody likes sitting with discomfort.

I have learned however, that practice does make perfect. When I first said no to something I would lie awake for days on end worrying about the flow-on effect. Now I am practising my DBT skill of radical acceptance and acknowledging I cannot control how others perceive me. And if my relationships disappear when I stand up for myself, then maybe they weren’t built on solid ground to begin with.

As I get older I am becoming very comfortable with aloneness. In fact, if I didn’t go to work or the gym I might choose to never leave my house again. I am very happy here in my little nest. I don’t need other people to validate me anymore. I’m not sure if this is an age and wisdom thing, a therapy thing, or a combination of the two, but it is a peaceful place to be.

Boundary setting may seem logical and common sense to some people, but to some of us, it is a fear-inducing response. Never judge or criticise a people-pleaser, we are merely doing what we must to feel safe and secure. Overcoming the need to say yes all the time feels more honest and in fact, really peaceful. I am very grateful for the comfortable place I now find myself in. If I ever say no to you, please recognise that this has been a difficult journey for me. And if I say yes, trust me – I thought about it and I’m happy with the decision.

TAKING UP SPACE

I take up space in this world and I don’t like it. I am wired to the core of my being to feel regretful and guilty for taking up space. Physical space. Mental space. Emotional space.

IT IS NOT A COMFORTABLE SPACE TO SIT IN

When I was a little girl I experienced childhood emotional neglect. It is hard to write that down and have it made public. My parents were lovely people and in the best way they knew how, they loved and provided for us. We were not abused. We grew up in comfort. But emotionally it was a challenging space. Extremely difficult. And with much learning and research in my later years, I recognise we were emotionally neglected and that has flow-on consequences.

As a child, I felt a need to be active – in mind and body. I could have a cheeky mouth. Rebellious tendencies. None of these things fit in with the way my mother viewed children. We needed to be seen and not heard. I was shut down, put back in my box, humiliated and routinely criticised every day of my life. So I learned to be quiet. I learned that what I had to say was not appreciated. And I learned I was better off not being there in the first place.

My first thoughts of wishing I was dead were when I was nine years old. I have since learned in life that’s probably not normal. Most people don’t ever wish they were dead. Is that really true? I can’t imagine living a life that I didn’t want to end.

I AM NOT SUICIDAL

Not even a little bit. I have written before about the different stages of suicidality. I am at the healthiest end of all that these days. I have no suicidal thoughts. But if I got hit by a bus this afternoon I wouldn’t care. A careless disregard for the value of my life has always been with me. And will probably always be with me. I learned as a child that I take up too much space and the less of me there is, the less space I take up.

This impacts me physically. As a fat person (at the moment) I feel like I physically take up too much space. When I sit tucked into an airplane seat I am taking up space. When I’m standing in the queue at the supermarket I am taking up space. In cars, on seats, walking down the footpath, sitting in cafes, working out at the gym. Everywhere I go I take up space. The only place I relax in my space is at home. At home, I usually feel okay being a space filler. A desperate desire to always be physically smaller is partly rooted in the fact I physically take up a lot of space.

It impacts me mentally. I have relationships with people. Beautiful close relationships with friends and family. More distant relationships with colleagues and acquaintances. But at every level, I feel I’m in the way. I take up space in people’s lives. Probably a lot less space than I worry about, but never the less, I take up space. People think about me and interact with me and that takes up mental space. And I feel guilty about that. Even if I am trying to value add to their lives, sometimes I make mistakes. Sometimes I moan on and on about my own pitiful woes. I take up space and it’s exhausting. Mentally it wears me out to be constantly second-guessing the impact I’m having on people’s lives.

BUT THE BIGGEST SPACE I TAKE UP, IS EMOTIONAL

I have big feelings. I have learned about hypersensitivity and I fit all the criteria. My emotions are big. But growing up in an environment that couldn’t handle emotions, I learned to contain them. To put a lid on and push everything down and away. I am very contained. Most of the time. On the outside. On the inside I’m a pressure cooker. I kept that pressure cooker tightly sealed for 50 years and then the shit hit the fan. My emotions began to take up a lot of space – inside and outside me. I was taught to think about emotions. To recognise them and feel them. And fuck me – they take up a lot of space. I feel other people’s emotions and now I feel my own. They all stack up on top of each other. Big emotions are exhausting. I get fatigued. Today I’m having a fatigued day. I needed a nap after taking a shower this morning. And then I have guilt for not being productive but it all comes back to big emotions taking up space in my head and my heart. And that overflows into my life. The real physical things that I do are impacted by the emotional space I take up.

I have spent a lot of time in therapy and I have worked hard on radical acceptance – a dialectical behaviour therapy skill. I have come to accept that a lot of the thought processes that are automated into my being are neither healthy nor normal. I can’t eliminate thoughts and feelings but I can choose what I do with them. I can challenge them. So I have come to radically accept I will never place a high value on my own life. It is what it is. I am not suicidal and I do not plan on ending it early. I also do not want to suffer. But my life is of no value to me. I accept it is of value to other people. For reasons I cannot fathom, some people want me to take up space in their worlds. I am grateful to have these people in my life. They challenge me to think differently. They make me feel valuable when I feel I have no value.

I HAVE VERY LITTLE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT IN LIFE THESE DAYS

I am very blessed and for that, I am very grateful. I have learned to practice gratitude along with acceptance. I will always take up space, but I don’t always have to feel guilty about that. I can accept that we all take up space and that – apparently – my space is no more, and no less, valuable than other people.

LIFE LESSONS LEARNED ON KINABALU

I did a hard thing. Well… It was hard for me. Perhaps you would find it easy. Or impossible. Perhaps like me you’d give it a go and maybe you’d succeed. Or not. Who knows? Whatever the case, I did a hard thing.

I CLIMBED MOUNT KINABALU

So while it is not quite Mount Everest (less than half in fact) it is a lot more than Hobart’s iconic Mount Wellington (more than three times). And let’s face it, when it comes to hard things, life is not a competition.

Before I go in further I should just clarify – I attempted to climb Mount Kinabalu and I got ever so close but I didn’t quite succeed. I will always be terribly disappointed that I didn’t get to the summit and it is a very humbling thing to have to admit I tried and failed.

People tell me it’s not failure. But it feels like that regardless. And that’s where the life lessons begin.

I ALWAYS KNEW I WAS PUSHING SHIT UPHILL TO EVEN TRY IT

I am not as fit as I once was. I am a lot heavier. And I am carrying injuries. So I was starting behind the eight ball.

I had the enormous privilege of climbing Mount Kinabalu with my youngest and oldest sons – both of who were enormously patient and encouraging. As I climbed those endless, endless, rocky, uneven stairs I was constantly reminded of my recent years in recovery from eating disorder and mental health issues.

I started with vulnerabilities that other people don’t necessarily have – I have a genetic predisposition to anxiety and depression and was exposed to lived experiences that were always going to make me vulnerable to being unwell.

But I am nothing if not determined and I was fucked if I was going to start and not at least achieve something. So I put one tired foot in front of the other step after painful step for seven hours and eventually I came out at Palaban where the Laban Rata Hostel was.

Through all my recovery journey since 2015 every step felt laboured and impossible and after every steep rocky set of stairs I would round a corner to see yet another steep rocky set of stairs. So it is on Kinabalu. Muddy, uneven, rocky, narrow, steep steps – many of them an enormous step up. Again and again and again. Each one pulling on torn tired muscles.

THE AVERAGE WALKER TAKES FIVE HOURS – I TOOK SEVEN

I knew from the get go I would be slow. My eating disorder recovery was also slow. Some people recover in a couple of years. It has taken me seven years and it took me seven hours to get from Timpohon Gate to Laban Rata Hostel. But you know what? I got there anyway. I was slow. So slow. Everyone walks slowly on Kinabalu – if for no other reason than to acclimatise to the altitude. But I was slower than most (but not all).

At no point did I consider quitting. I was getting to that hostel if it killed me. There was no turning around. Although we did see two people being piggy backed down (at 35 ringgit per kilometre). That was not going to be me – I would crawl on hands and knees to the hostel if needs be.

The air was thick and humid. The air temperature not too hot. The rainforest thick and overgrown with vines and ferns and pitcher plants. Every kilometre there was a hut to rest in. At every hut were hungry squirrels ready to steal food. I lost my little shiny yellow packet of oat biscuits very kindly provided by the mountain guide to a particularly cheeky squirrel that grabbed the little packet in its tiny little hands and disappeared into the bush before I could stop it.

On the flat at home, when life is going easy, a kilometre is nothing. On a steep mountain a kilometre is a long, long way. There are only six kilometres between Timpohon Gate and Laban Rata Hostel – the longest six kilometres of my life.

IT RAINED FOR TWO HOURS

We were miserable in the rain. We always knew to expect rain – it’s a rainforest in wet season so hardly a surprise. But let’s face it, there’s not much joy in slogging through muddy, rocky tracks in the rain. But I had company – I was walking with my two sons who could have in all honesty skipped to the hostel in a mere four hours if I wasn’t slowing them down. But much like the cheer squad of friends and family who have stood by me since my terrible decline, they stood by and waited as I slowly clamoured over the rocks and when I wondered how to keep going they just said to keep going one step at a time. And lo and behold, one step at a time, the path unfolded before me until eventually we found ourselves walking through the mist to a sign that said Palaban.

The last kilometre to the hostel was the hardest of all. Every 100 metres the park rangers have posted a sign to encourage weary travellers. Every 100 metres sounds so simple and feels so hard. It’s like recovering from eating disorder behaviours – everyone else thinks it’s so easy (just eat food! It’s just 100 metres!) But it’s really fucking hard. You’re exhausted and you’ve done a gazillion of these steps already. Body wracked with pain and exhaustion. One step feels too hard. One hundred metres impossible. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life it’s that impossible things can become possible – one step at a time.

Laban Rata Hostel is a divine little haven. The three of us had a little room with two comfy bunk beds. Slippers and towels provided. Rails to hang up the wet soggy hiking gear. There was power during the busiest times and bathrooms with cold showers, toilets, mirrors and even shower gel and toilet paper. It may not be the Ritz Carlton but it was so much more comfortable than I’d imagined. The buffet meals were truly fantastic – especially considering every piece of food and equipment is lugged up the mountain by heroic porters.

In recovery I was so grateful for the reprieve of psychiatric hospitals. For me they were havens of respite where I knew I was safe and cared for for a period of time, while I readied myself for the next journey.

The hostel has a beautiful view looking up to the summit of Kinabalu. Our lovely guide explained we needed to be up at 1:30am for early breakfast and then head off to the summit at 2:30am. I said I didn’t think I could do it – I was too slow. He smiled that beautiful gentle Malaysian smile and said I should at least try and see how far I could get.

SO AT 2:30AM I STRAPPED ON MY HEAD TORCH AND STARTED FOR THE SUMMIT

While the boys walked with me on day one, I wanted them to go at their own pace on day two. I had made life slow and difficult for them to the hostel, I wanted them to make the summit in time for sunrise. So they took off and the guide stayed with me.

I am really enormously proud to share that they were first to the summit at 5am. The summit is 2.7km from the hostel. They are young and fit and strong and it still took them 2.5 hours. There is no easy way to the summit.

The summit trek begins with stairs. Bazillions of them. The park limits numbers to 150 people per day on the mountain. At the base everyone begins at different times but on summit day all the walkers start together. That’s 150 head torches all lined up as far as you can see – looking forward, looking back just head torches. Almost everyone just watches their feet, many struggling with the thinner air (quite a few didn’t start for the summit as they were struggling with the altitude).

More stairs. Thin wooden planks. Wet, slippery rocks. Rope handrails. More stairs. Look up and see head torches as far as the eye can see. A spidery gossamer trail of people all putting one foot in front of the other.

I was slow. I knew I was slow but I also know I can keep putting one foot in front of the other for the rest of my natural life if needs be. The torn calf muscle I’d been rehabilitating for six weeks giving me very little grief. I was filled with cortisone and anti-inflammatories and pain killers just in case. I could feel the muscles pulling but they weren’t tearing. I wasn’t making it worse. I was pretty happy with that.

I WALKED TOWARDS THE SUMMIT FOR NINETY MINUTES

And then the great slabs of steep, slippery granite began. Where there is a rope on the ground to haul yourself hand over fist and it’s slippery. It’s really slippery. I was scared. I slipped several times, people guiding me before I hit the ground.

I knew at this point that I could make the summit but not in time. There was no way I could get to the summit before sunrise and what goes up must come down. If clambouring over granite is scary on the way up I had no confidence in my ability to get down.

I completed the first stretch of granite then said to the guide I wanted to return. He was surprised. I was 200 meters from the checkpoint but the line of head torches in front of me was lighting up all the stairs and I knew there was a lot more granite to come.

It was a really painful decision – to turn around and go down. Perhaps if I didn’t have an entire mountain to descend on that day I would have made a different decision. Perhaps if there was no time pressure I would have kept going. Perhaps if I didn’t feel like the slowest one I wouldn’t have felt like it was the end. I am not usually one to quit but Kinabalu was teaching me that everyone has a limit and just because I’m prepared to walk two hours down a mountain on a broken leg, it doesn’t mean everything is possible.

I WAS NOT GOING TO MAKE THE SUMMIT

Once I made the decision it was easy, turn around get past everyone who was still behind me (there were a lot of people coming up, I was the only going down). I slipped and fell three times on the way back to the hostel. Slippery, slippery rocks. Bruises on my arms and legs for days as a gentle reminder that hard things often have a price.

I left the hostel at 2:30am and got back before 6am. I had walked 900 meters up and 900 meters back. I had failed something I had been working towards for months on end. But I had failed something some people didn’t believe I was ever going to achieve and I had done something many people would never start. It was not a competition. I had explored Kinabalu and fallen short but at least I tried.

I feel like it is a life lesson. I have worked on mental health recovery for seven years and I have tried really hard. I am really extremely well. I have no eating disorder behaviours. I do not struggle with depression or high levels of anxiety. I have found peace in my life. But it is not perfect. I still struggle with body image and I have come to accept this little thorn in my side will be there forever. Some things are stamped onto our infant psyche and no amount of talking ourselves out of it can overcome it. I doubt I will ever feel positively about my body but I can teach myself not to be negative – I can find neutrality. Acceptance. That is what I found on Kinabalu – a willingness to embrace success and surrender to those things that are not meant to be for me.

I live vicariously through my boys who made the summit. It was hard they said. When they got to those first slabs of granite that I climbed they told each other that I would turn around there – they knew it was not for me. I would be too nervous. And they were right – except I did the first section of granite.

IT ONLY GOT HARDER THEY TELL ME

The first section was most definitely not the worst section and the more they describe the summit the more grateful I am that I did not attempt to push through. Because I don’t know how I would have done the descent if I’d spent six hours doing the summit.

Because once back at the hostel we were treated to second breakfast and then we packed up our gear and got started for the descent. My knees are 57 years old (just like the rest of me) and I was concerned about knee pain on the steep continuous descent. But I was lucky – the cortisone was working.

I slipped quite a few more times and marvelled at each steep step down that I’d climbed up it in the first place. For five hours we did the descent – skipping most of the rest huts on the way down. So many of the steps are knee high or higher. Big stretches. Not so bad for my 6 foot 2 inch eldest son but for the rest of us it’s a strain. By the time we reached the bottom I was not the only one staggering and swaying. My youngest son who could have skipped to the top was struggling with the descent. His legs were clearly jelly. But none of us wanted a piggyback so we soldiered on.

From the hostel to the gate took five hours. The two boys had spent five hours doing the summit and then another five hour descent. It was a big day.

AT THE END OF THE STEEP DESCENT ARE 100 HUNDRED STAIRS GOING UP

I stared at those stairs with a fatal weariness. My eldest son let out a whoop of joy and ran them two at a time. My youngest soon willed his weary legs to move and ran them until he felt the burn. I took them one step at a time knowing full well that the end was in sight and nothing was going to stop me now. Standing at the top were my two boys cheering me on.

Climbing Mount Kinabalu is by far the most difficult physical challenge I have ever faced. I heard it described by many people as being a technically easy mountain (doesn’t require complex mountaineering skills) but extremely physically challenging. I saw people being carried down. I saw the faces of the people who did the summit as they returned to the hostel, many staggering before they even started the descent.

So I did a difficult thing. Some people would find the difficult thing easier. Some would find it harder. Some wouldn’t start it at all. Some like my boys could skip to the top and run to the end. But we’re all running our own race and for me, this was a challenge that I set myself. I will always, always, always be disappointed that I didn’t get to see the view from the summit – which I am reliably informed was spectacular.

But I have limitations and Mount Kinabalu was a lesson in majestic humility. I gave it a red hot try. I almost made the summit – but in the end, not quite. That’s sometimes how the dice rolls in life.