SANDRA

Sandra shares her inspirational story of discovering strength, fitness and a whole new outlook on life at 56.

Dad was in the military when I grew up, and was away for at least three months at a time, so Mum became a hard-working single mother. She ran the house alone, sewing, cooking, knitting, paying bills, raising three kids, and fixing everything. She absolutely knew her tools. Dad was a mechanic so we all learned, and he taught us to never be reliant on a man.

I thought my role in life was to do everything and look after everyone – that’s how we grew up and I didn’t know any different. I ran the home, raised kids, and worked full-time. We fell into the routine and that’s just what happened.

It’s three years since I started swimming and strength training, and not only am I fitter and stronger than I’ve ever been, I’ve gained confidence to change my life.

I’ve realised my family can survive a couple of hours without me. My husband never cooked before in his life, while my daughter at home is a former chef. I go to gym three nights a week and instead of racing around preparing a meal after a full day at work followed by gym, they now cook one night each and we have leftovers the third night. I enjoy cooking more now I don’t do it every night.

It’s made a huge difference to all of us. They feel empowered in the house because they have a role and I feel freer. Watching them cook and clean their way, I’ve found an acceptance that my approach to stuff is different to others and realised that’s okay.

I learned to swim three years ago.

I’d done six years of compulsory swimming lessons in primary school but never graduated from the water orientation group because I had such a fear of drowning.

When I was 16 we were on a family holiday in Queensland. My cousin’s were really strong swimmers and would jump off my uncle’s dory into the Mooloolaba Canal, letting the swift current drag them along, then grab a rope and haul themselves up. It looked like great fun so I thought, Why not? I’ll join in!

For reasons I can’t remember, I jumped in with my beach towel. I was dragged out and under and started drowning. My uncle looked out the window of his big Queenslander and raced down to fish me out. I can’t remember much – just the really echoey noise, then my uncle reviving me and pumping the water out.

Later that same trip we were in the water skylarking around when a helicopter came over with a big loud speaker telling everyone to get out because of a shark sighting. I didn’t go in the water again that summer and developed a lifelong fear of swimming and the water.

In April 2016 – after two years of being nagged encouraged by my friend to go swimming, I rocked up at the Clarence Aquatic Centre. I was so inspired by my friend who’s a real go-getter and nothing holds her back. She’s really driven and if you hang around long enough some of it rubs off.

Just getting fitted for bathers was traumatic. I thought everyone at the pool would look young and fit, but when I went into the change rooms and saw all sorts of women wearing bikinis and stripping off, I realised age wearies all bodies. They said hi and I wondered what I’d been so worried about.

Things changed from that moment.

Once I realised there’s no point stressing about how I look when I can’t do anything about it, I got over it. Having a teenage body in my fifties is not a reality and I’m never gonna be Bridget Bardot. I keep feeding off that and getting better and better.

I got in the water, hugging the gutter. Those first weeks (months?) it would take an hour to do six half-laps of the 50 meter pool.

I didn’t take swimming lessons. My girlfriend helped when my style slipped into, prepare to panic I’m about to drown. I still remembered those childhood water orientation classes in the toddler pool – blow bubbles, turn head, breathe. Repeat. I watched YouTube videos on how to swim and replays of the commonwealth games, studying technique and mimicking. Two minute swimming lessons pop up in my Facebook feed and they’re really helpful too. I still watch them.

For the past three years I’ve gone at least once – if not twice – a week, for an hour. From managing only six half laps in an hour, I now do 34 laps of the 50 meter pool in 40-44 minutes and still do kickboard work – strengthening my legs and glutes. I feel really good in the water and have confidence I could swim to shore if I fell off my kayak.

In October 2017 I joined Spice Health & Fitness and strength training – especially strong shoulders and core – really helps. I was terrified that first time – I’d read the website but didn’t know what to expect. I felt fittish from walking and swimming but was surprised at how weak I’d become.

I couldn’t do much that first class and needed a lot of help. Classes vary every week, but the first one was a circuit – TRX, medicine balls, resistance bands, kettle bells etc. I’d never, ever done any of these things before and had to learn all the names of equipment and exercises. It took months to learn them and know what to do when the coach says turkish getups next!

I was using muscles I didn’t know I had and could barely walk the following day. I went back because I was determined to get strong and I’d found a talented strength trainer and a group of empowering women who were all really nice and supportive to me.

I empathise with new members and any woman who thinks she can’t get fit, or it’s too late. I still have moments of doubt myself, but everyone can do it – just take baby steps.

I started doing fun runs not long after I first went swimming.

I’m more of a Jalker really – jogging and walking. I used to do five or six a year, but now I just do the fun ones on long weekends with friends, where we celebrate with a gin and tonic or two at the end of the day.

On a Sunday in April 2017, I was painting at home and fell off a ladder. With my short arms and legs I reached too far and fell off, resulting in two vertical ankle fractures and a broken bone on the outstep of my foot. I missed the Tuesday class but was back Thursday. I was in a full leg plaster cast for six weeks, and a moon boot another six weeks.

It never occurred to me to stop though – strength training is a commitment so I couldn’t stop. I did find it challenging emotionally when I became the center of attention, but there was very little I couldn’t do.

All the upper body exercises I did as normal – sitting on a chair or the floor. And all the leg work was done on my right leg. It took about 18 months for my legs to feel like they were back to equal strength, and I still have little niggles.

I feel like I’m the same person I used to be but obviously I’m not – I couldn’t do these things before. I continue to get stronger and have the confidence to take on new challenges. I have a new paddle board and my next goal is to stand up longer than 30 seconds without falling off. Lots of core work needed – more turkish getups coming my way!

If anyone said ten years ago I’d be nearing sixty and loving the gym, swimming pool, and kayaking in the ocean, I would have just laughed. Now I’m a changed woman – I’m a warrior. Hear me roar.

A JOURNEY NOT A DESTINATION

When life falls apart, and everything shatters into a million pieces, and you’re not the person you thought, and have no idea how to rebuild yourself, or what a rebuilt life will look like, it’s impossible to picture a future.

As the recovery process begins – be it through pharmacological, psychological, psychiatric or personal support and therapies – it’s easy to fall into the trap of believing “recovery” is a place you find yourself in one day. That by taking medication, doing exercises, and believing in friends, the familiar world of “before” will be restored and life will be just as it used to be. It’s impossible.

The longer I traverse the recovery road, the more clear it becomes, there is no destination.

My life is being pieced back together. The million pieces are rearranging themselves in a different manner, and I’m slowly learning who I am, who I want to be, and how I might fill my days. I’m developing a new identity.

The road to recovery is just a road. We’re all traversing a path in life – some are destructive, some constructive, and some are complete enigmas. Choosing recovery is about making a conscious choice to move from a known destructive path to the assumption of constructive travel into the future. It takes a lot of courage and a lot of guidance – there are a lot of roads out there. So it becomes necessary to trust in others to help navigate the potholes and detours and forks in the road.

When I struggle with a physical ailment like a virus or sprained wrist, there comes a time when I know, I’m recovered. I feel better – the virus has run it’s course or the wrist has healed itself. I don’t know if it’s ever possible to say the same about mental health struggles. While I don’t have major maladies like schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, I have been brought to my knees with major depression and anxiety since 2015, and lifted the lid on disordered eating that plagued me for five decades. For a long time in therapy, I felt I was seeking a magical place. That if I kept taking medications, doing exercises, finding self-belief, then one day I’d wake up and be the same girl I was five years ago. But life doesn’t work like that – it doesn’t go backwards.

We all grow and learn and change over the years. Recovery is just part of that process. Perhaps depression and anxiety will be aspects of my life forever – I just need to implement the myriad of tools at my disposal when I struggle. Maybe food and body image will always be problematic and I’ll need to trust my trusty confidantes to help me make good choices. It’s possible I’ll always have suicidal ideation, a desire for self-harm, a natural tendency to do more harm than good to myself. I can ponder the whys but it makes no difference. The difference I need to make is what to do with destructive thought processes – do I concede defeat and go with the path of least resistance? Or do I listen to the urges, but choose not to act? Obviously most people would consider the latter option the preferred choice.

It’s really hard work you know.

I’m 53 years old now. For 53 years I’ve navigated all sorts of paths in life. I’ve made choices that led me to become a musician and a teacher. A wife and a mother. A bulimic and a self-harmer. Every choice is a path. Where that path leads to depends on the choice.

Sometimes roads are rocky, sweaty, god-forsaken and just bloody hard work. The desire to sit down and give up is strong. Some days the roads are paved with rainbows and unicorns and all manner of beautiful things. These are the same roads we all traverse, and the destination is the same for all of us in the end – death. The path I travel is my life – however I choose to live it. Which begs the question, how do I want to arrive at the end? Which path do I take to get there?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

It’s my 53rd birthday today – I’m ten years older than I used to be. And potentially ten years younger than I’m going to be. I don’t know if that makes me young or old – I think it just makes me 53.

After my recent rough week, I’m feeling better. My most cathartic tool is writing things out and by sharing the angst and lows, I can claw myself back out. So I’ve dug my claws in and started climbing.

I feel manic – sleep deprivation pushes me into excessive energy (how does that make sense?!) I meet my new psychiatrist for the first time tomorrow so we can discuss my recent roller coaster week. I have mixed feelings about my current medications but will be as open as possible and see where that leads me.

Recent birthdays have been difficult events, but this year was a delight. My family shared a meal with me last night. I spent time with a good friend yesterday, and had champagne, lunch and an afternoon swim with another friend today. The sun shone. I have new silk pyjamas. And I’m once again focused on getting my writing on track and book ready for the workshop in a few weeks.

Birthdays are interesting – they’ve always been a big deal to me. A time to reflect on all life has been and might one day be. And all it has not been and can never become. Fifty-three is a very uninteresting number. I look at where I’ve been – particularly recent years – and struggle to reconcile all the amazing memories and opportunities from the past, with all the dreams that passed me by, and all the damage I’ve done to myself in a misdirected attempt to control overwhelming emotions.

I don’t struggle with the amazing people in my life – they hold me together and save my life. Without these connections I wouldn’t be who I am. There’s just no other word aside from blessed – I am truly blessed with the beautiful friendships that have supported me for 30 years. Amazing women who’ve taught me more about myself and how to navigate life than anyone could wish for. I’m married to an intensely loyal man who stands by me through thick and thin. And I have three and half adult children who’ve gifted me unconditional love and life purpose as often as they’ve driven me up the proverbial garden wall and made question my sanity.

This birthday is not one I planned to see and yet here I am. It’s a reminder on shit days that better ones come along. And as always, a reminder to never make permanent decisions while experiencing temporary emotions.

My day of champagne and swimming, cake and gin, old friends and new, has been absolutely delightful. It began and ended with a kiss and good wishes from my husband. Life is full of swings and roundabouts. As I try and get my playground equipment under control, I will endeavour to focus as much on all that is good, as all that drags me down.

THE SLIPPERY SLOPE

Relapse. For those of us in recovery from one mental health issue or another, it’s a filthy word. Who wants to relapse? There’s a classic meme showing the difference between reality and expectations when it comes to mental health recovery – expectation is a nice straight line on a consistent upward trajectory. Reality looks like a ball of wool under siege from a horde of rabid kittens.

My ball of wool is kind of scrunched up now.

It’s not that anything terribly terrible is happening. It’s just my energy levels plummeted and my mood went along for the ride. I was physically unwell with a bit of a flu for about seven weeks. That sucked. It wasn’t serious, but like most home-grown maladies, it was a bit miserable and quite exhausting. The virus has left the building but the fatigue has hung around. Now I can’t tell if I’m clinging to the last remnants of illness and should rest for fear I push it over the edge again. Or if physical fatigue has morphed into depression fatigue. Or if I’m just bone idle lazy. Whichever it is, me and my nightie are now best friends.

Many moons ago I shared the difference between being fatigued and being tired. The differences are still the same and I’m definitely fatigued, not tired. (Actually – both…) The problem with fatigue – regardless of the underlying cause – is it can easily slip into depression, not just an I’m-feeling-sorry-for-myself kind of misery. My doctor suggested I may have post-viral fatigue when I complained – which is a fancy way of saying there’s nothing wrong except I’m tired. She also said not to overdo things or I could end up with chronic fatigue. Which would definitely be depressing. Literally.

There are little warning signs on the slippery slope to clinical depression.

Much as it’s comforting to cover my eyes, block my ears, and snuggle into my favourite floral nightie, I’ve spent enough time in clinical therapy to know I should at least make an attempt to stop the free fall.

The first thing I lose is common sense. The little voice of wisdom in my head that says eat this, or don’t do that, is tossed out like a bag of rotten tomatoes and in its place is a trickster, conning me into all sorts of deceit. I have no energy or will to cook, clean, look for work, visit friends, write, study, read, answer emails, pay bills, or even have a shower. But I’ll jump in the car to stock up on unneeded medication – just in case.

Visions of a future featuring hope, happiness or good health are obscured by the perception of poverty, relentless unemployment, the deaths of everyone near and dear, and my ballooning waistline. I can’t tell how, when, why or what to eat. I become utterly consumed with the horror I see in the mirror and despair at knowing I’ll never be slim or pretty.

The little trickster whispers every good reason to relapse, reminding me of the inevitability of failure, while the very real and tangible progress I’ve made is dismissed as nothing but a blip on the radar.

But the biggest warning sign of all is suicidal ideation. It’s relentless. Nothing stops the thoughts and the more I think, the more alluring it is. The only reprieve is sleep – which is more easily found in the day than the night, unless I heavily medicate myself which the little voice begs me to do.

I spend all my time worrying about things that need doing, and no time actually doing anything. I see the high beam headlights of approaching deadlines approaching and stagger under the burden of responsibility I can’t carry. Then reproach myself for neither resting nor working – just lazing around in the land of I-really-ought-to-be-doing-something-but-I-can’t-be-fucked. These are my warning signs that a dark cloud is descending and I need to get my act together or nobody will ever talk to me again – constant relapse is boring.

The first step is distraction – anything that’s not destructive. Podcasts. Gym. Answering text messages. (I could talk to real humans but to be brutally honest, I wouldn’t have the words.)

Then I need to lower my standards. When the to-do list looks like an encylopedia of how-to-keep-yourself-busy, it’s probably best to tone down the to-do list. Pare it back to basics – get out of bed, have a shower, change out of nightie. That’s an excellent start.

Then food – my eternal nemesis. We all know the importance of good nutrition for good cognition, and four bowls of cereal a day doesn’t cut it. Even if it’s home made muesli full of cacao powder and pepita seeds.

When I feel stronger I might write (eg, a blog post about the ease of relapse), or start talking to someone (not yet – the someones will probably read the blog post. That’s the least anxiety-inducing way of sharing).

My phone is packed full of apps to support aspects of my recovery, and all I have to do is shut down the brain-deadening games, and open up the mindful apps. Sometimes the simplest things are the most pertinent.

I can’t speak for other people’s experiences of coming in and out of depression, struggling with anxiety, or facing the black pit of relapse, but I know for me, it’s easy to see the warning signs, and easier still to ignore them.

Tomorrow is a new day, and with every new day comes a new dawn – even when it’s hidden behind clouds. There’s no time like the present to turn things around and start clawing my way back to better mental health. I’ll start by washing my nightie – tomorrow.

GIVING & RECEIVING

THE EATING DISORDER VOICE

People with eating disorders often talk about the eating disorder voice that natters away, telling us what to do. Or not. Undermining recovery. Making us doubt ourselves. But I wonder what that means to someone without an eating disorder voice? Or even what it means to other eating disordered people – I doubt we’re all the same.

For me the voice isn’t distinctive from my normal thoughts. It sounds no different to the thought processes I have when deciding which movie to see at the cinema. But it feels different. It’s intrusive, insistent and unreasonable. It’s an internal argument that leaves me confused and disoriented in a way that doesn’t happen when trying to decide between seeing How to Train Your Dragon or Ralph Breaks the Internet. There’s no right or wrong, but once a decision is made, I don’t fret. I just go to the movie.

My eating disorder voice has a distinctive underlying tone of cynicism, judgment and despair.

The choice is wrong – no matter what. There are whispers of my mother and grandmother in the voice, but I’ve fine-tuned it over the decades to be so much more than their criticism and chastisement ever was. I’ve absorbed their insecurities and amplified them into a monster that’s never appeased.

It’s also cunning. I can’t distinguish common sense when it comes to gastronomic decisions. I can apply common sense to almost every other area of my life, and to the eating choices other people make. But when faced with a decision about lunch, a flurry of possibilities rain down and they all become simultaneously acceptable and distasteful. I hear the internal monologue and can’t tell on which side the angels and demons sit – or if indeed they’re on both sides together or none at all. When asked a simple question like, “Do you want lunch?” I don’t know the answer. Do I? How can I tell? Should I? I have no idea.

The eating disorder voice convinces me to binge, purge or restrict and insists no other option is acceptable. It rushes me before something comes along to change my mind. The eating disorder voice is determined to undermine recovery. I have to ignore it, but as it sounds no different than the voice of reason and common sense, ignoring it isn’t as simple as it may seem.

When decision making is taken away the voice is quieter.

Still there – making judgments and inducing anxiety – but there’s no argument over what to do so it’s a quieter battle. But I can’t have my eating monitored 24/7 so learning to manage the doubt and insecurity is part of recovery.

During my hospital stays I chose to trust the team in charge of my eating. The voices would challenge me, but I allowed myself to trust the professionals – if I didn’t, why bother going through the stress of an inpatient stay? When I was discharged I had to trust my husband and friends to help me with indecision. It’s not easy – sometimes I disregard their logic and suggestions. Sometimes I listen. But I learned, particularly in the early days after my hospital stay, routine was my best friend. Routine didn’t shut the dialogue up – I doubt anything ever will – but it gave me something external to trust and that was a saving grace.

It’s over a year since I was admitted to the eating disorder clinic and gradually the incidence of binging, purging and restricting has dwindled away almost completely. It’s normal for me to eat every day. Extremely rare for me to binge, purge or restrict. I’m still consumed with fear and anxiety around my weight and appearance. I still have an internal monologue about all my food decisions, but with regular eating the monologue is quieter. The urge to compensate for eating, less overwhelming.

My recovery is progressing. The eating disorder voice is just me – my normal thought processes. But twisted and corrupted by a lifetime of learned attitudes and behaviours, and now indistinguishable from common sense and healthy thinking. It’s an indistinct voice, with distinctive feelings fueled by destructive agendas.

Will I ever be rid of it? I doubt it. Can I learn to work around it? I’m getting there.