Goodbye 2018; Hello 2019

This is a slightly late year in review/New Year’s resolutions post. I spent Christmas away from my family for the first time – I was with my partner’s family in Canada – and the jet lag when we got back seemed to be multiplied by the general anxiety I’d felt around the whole trip, resulting in a week of nausea and acute anxiety about being able to sleep at the right times, or enough, or even at all.

In general I am glad to see the back of 2018. It was a stressful year. If 2016 was the arrival of various invitations for appalling future dinner parties, 2018 was the year of the dreaded events happening (or getting ever closer) and being just as bad if not worse than expected. I have barely followed UK news because every time someone mentions ‘Brexit’, I get a feeling somewhere between falling down with fatigue and being so angry I want to explode. I am still waiting for someone to give me a sound argument for why we’re doing it, or why they voted for it, or what they’re hoping to gain from it, but I haven’t seen one. Which is very disappointing. But then, the whole thing is intrinsically disappointing.

2018 for me personally was a year of change and anxiety. I realised early in the year that I’d put on some weight, and for the whole twelve months I seemed to be continually throwing out clothes that no longer fit, and attempting to find new things I liked and felt good in. It is still a work in progress. It’s very saddening that going up a size, for me, feels like such a tangible, fundamental failure. I try to rationalise the feeling but it is buried very deep. I need to try and take some pictures of myself soon that I’m happy to see and have around – I don’t think I have any that fit that description from last year.

I pushed myself quite a lot in 2018, to be happier and overcome various anxieties – driving, travelling, being alone while my partner travelled for a couple of months for work. I found I didn’t mind being alone as much as I expected, but the driving and the travelling didn’t seem to get much easier as time went on. We also moved house later in the year, and flat hunting in London was just as disastrously anxiety-inducing as I’d anticipated.

Of course, the year had many upsides and good moments as well. But I do find myself coming into 2019 wanting nothing more than to find a quieter and calmer place, within myself. I’ve recently read an article on millennial burnout which sums up very neatly how I’m feeling. We are a generation trained to work harder, faster, stronger; and to believe that failings are probably our own fault for not working hard enough. Self-care is an enormous industry ready and waiting to beat you up for not doing enough of it – of course you’re stressed! Haven’t you downloaded these sixteen apps and watched this programme and signed up for this course? The article described even relaxing as a list of tasks to accomplish, a notion which rings much, much too true for me. I used to think I found weekends exhausting because I had a long commute and didn’t get much done during the week, but that hasn’t changed since we moved. The weekends are shattering because I am trying to do so much within them: grocery shopping, yoga, gym, meet a friend for coffee, laundry, cook lunches for the week, have sex, read, catch up on whatever the latest show is on Netflix (no I am not going to watch Birdbox), clean the flat. Rearrange my clothes in the style of Marie Kondo. Shop for a new shower organiser thing as ours is rusting and keeps hitting my partner in the face, and the one I just bought for £11 keeps falling off the wall. Buy stamps, write thank you note to my boyfriend’s parents for our Christmas trip, text my Dad accepting gladly his offer of going on a holiday with them this year without making it sound like I’m only doing it because I’m broke and have an insane pipe dream of buying a flat in the next year or two (with his substantial help anyway). Figure out how to organise the living room and bedroom so there appears to be more space where there is none. Clean the shelves in the fridge door since my partner cleaned the rest of the fridge last week, water the plant, finish the book for work book club; set a date for the next work book club. Buy some matches so that I can light the half dozen candles scattered around the living room; berate myself for not buying matches earlier so that the Christmas candle decoration was never actually lit.

Too much stuff. But if it’s not done then the evenings are more stressful because I remember all the things I didn’t do at the weekend and don’t have the energy to do when I get home from work, or can’t because the shops are shut, or because the washing machine is so loud you really need to be out of the house when it’s on a spin cycle, lest your eardrums perforate. So yes. This year I am not particularly interested in pushing myself to overcome various anxieties. I don’t feel like booking holidays abroad because the cost and stress of hauling myself there doesn’t seem worth it, especially as even when I’m there I’m wondering if I should be taking more photos or am taking too many, and should I put them on facebook or does nobody actually care? I am aware that it sounds as if I’m allowing my world to get a little bit smaller, maybe I’m burying my head in the sand, maybe (certainly) I’m overthinking everything. But I’m so tired of trying to do it all and yet never reaching the end of the to-do list or actually getting to the things that really make me happy (I only just joined the local library, something which I really desperately wanted to do since we moved – in AUGUST. And now I’ve done it, and it’s a small but tangible improvement to my life). All I really want is to have some time when I’m not worried about everything, and not having to drink turmeric tea every day because my stomach is so unsettled, and not have to explain to my therapist every week that I’m tired and nothing seems to be improving.

I want to feel calmer, and more settled, and less guilty. I don’t know how that works as a New Year’s resolution, but it’s the only one I’m making. The hope is that focussing on the small picture will improve the big picture. Wish me luck.

(The article on burnout is here: https://bit.ly/2LWO140)

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What’s the etiquette if you use the last of your therapist’s tissues?

Everyone I know seems to be a little tired at the moment. Flaking on plans is the new normal; requests to postpone are met with welcome relief. Is it the change of seasons? Perhaps we are mentally setting out on a new year and a new beginning, a remnant from our childhood routines (or less of a remnant if you still work in education).

I am tired for more obvious reasons. We moved to London six weeks ago, and are still working things out. The admin of bills and old and new deposits is almost done- although we are still waiting for our old letting agent to give us back the scraps of our deposit left after their ludicrous demands (first time I’ve been charged for putting in picture hooks- £10 each, if you please). Everything is unpacked (although things are still missing) and we’re settling into our new routines. My new commute is only 15 minutes each way instead of over an hour and a half – everyone exclaims about how much my life must have changed, but so far all I’ve done with the extra time is sleep a little more, go to work early and watch more television in the evenings.

This move has been strange for me – it’s a moving forwards and a moving backwards at the same time. People ask how I’ve enjoyed exploring my new area, but I used to live twenty minutes from here and I’ve worked here for five years. I had a lot of plans for all the things I would start/finish/complete once we’d moved: start a new exercise regime, reconnect with dancing, see friends much more often, explore all London’s opportunities… the list was endless.

Of course, we’re only six weeks in so I shouldn’t really expect myself to have accomplished all those things at once. But as always I’ve been hard on myself and am disappointed in how little I’ve done- I haven’t joined a new gym, partly because of a prohibitively high joining fee; I haven’t gone back to dancing, because I’m scared I’ll be crap and that people will think I’ve put on lots of weight; and for the first five weeks I saw only one of my friends – all other plans were postponed by one or other of us because life kept getting in the way.

However, because of things falling in my lap or because I had priorities I didn’t realise were there, I have made a few changes. I get into work by half eight, which I like because it’s nice and quiet. I’ve become a regular attendee of a yoga class organised by a colleague. And I’ve started seeing a new therapist.

The decision to go back to therapy came about through lots of tiny steps. This therapist was recommended to me about a year ago by a friend – she urged me to look for someone who was trained in body psychotherapy after my car accident, as body psychotherapists are trained to notice how we hold tension in the body and help us to release it. I couldn’t find such a therapist in Canterbury, but I kept the idea in my mind, and was reminded of it often by my habits of tensing muscles in response to anxiety or frustration. I’ve clenched my jaw for about ten years, not grinding my teeth (thankfully), but tensing my jaw for so long I get headaches and my jaw clicks whenever I open my mouth fully. That tension has spread down the right side of my body, particularly since the car accident. I tense my right ankle as if my foot is on an accelerator, which tenses my hamstring and my hip, and you wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to get hip muscles to relax – especially when the tension is often unconscious.

I started seeing this therapist partly for those reasons but also because I am very tired of constantly doubting myself, putting myself down and not feeling good enough. Something my therapist has said more than once – in only two sessions so far – is that I’m very hard on myself, I don’t give myself much of a break. For the last ten months, since buying a full-length mirror for the first time in three years, I’ve felt deeply unhappy about the weight I’ve gained and consistently either feel disappointed when I see myself, or avoid looking at myself altogether. A friend finally suggested I speak to somebody about it, because while everyone has some worries about their appearance, mine have affected me very strongly and to the point where I’m using up far too much mental energy on what to eat and what to wear. Although my diet hasn’t changed very much – it’s pretty healthy in general – the amount of time I spend trying to decide if I should eat that Kit Kat or have cheese on my spaghetti Bolognese is simply exhausting. It has got too much for me and I can’t deal with it by myself. So for all those reasons together, I got the name of the therapist, and set up an appointment.

It’s an odd feeling, starting therapy. In many ways it’s so much easier not to go. Unlike many physical illnesses, when starting medication seems like an obvious choice, with mental health, you can always convince yourself you can beat it on your own. What good will just talking about it do? I can do that by myself. I can talk to my friends, or my partner, or my children. I can fix it, I don’t need to pay to go and sit with somebody for an hour. What a waste of money!

I understand that point of view. I’ve thought it myself, many times. I still think it to some degree. And seeing a therapist is tough – you are so vulnerable, and you have to be totally honest with yourself and them, and thoughts will come to mind that you’ve buried for years – and you have to express them to someone you hardly know. I have been very tired since I started, and have cried pretty much every day about something. I feel like a glass of liquid with some sediment at the bottom, and someone’s stirred the liquid very fast so all the sediment has flown up and is swimming round and round and round. A line from a book summed it up perfectly – “her mind plunged desperately for some hold upon slippery banks.” My first session with my therapist I started crying about two minutes in and barely stopped for an hour – for one horrible moment I thought I was going to finish his box of tissues.

At the same time as it’s difficult and tiring and I feel as if I’m three steps behind on life and running to catch up, everything is so unsettled and I’m so tired and I just want to sleep in a cave for a month, the therapy is worth it. It’s giving me some space to look some emotions in the face and square up to them. I’ve been more honest with my bosses at work about some things that aren’t going well for me, and received support in return. I’ve had wonderful conversations with friends, some of whom are also in therapy, and our bond has deepened through our shared experiences. I’m taking steps towards more self-care, making some plans for more exercise, and doing some yoga in the mornings to help stretch out all those muscles that get so tensed and strained from holding my anxiety and that of others.

Most of all, I feel like I’m helping myself. It’s a great (and expensive) gift I’m giving myself. It’s difficult not to feel sometimes that I’m a failure for doing it, especially as I’ve had some counselling before. But I remind myself that it’s because I’ve learned more about myself, and seen how much more I could be. And asking for some help to get there doesn’t feel like failure – it feels like strength.

Perfectionism

I haven’t been writing much lately. I have plenty of ideas in my head and still draft pieces as I’m walking around but haven’t found the time or the headspace to write anything down, and part of that is thanks to one of my biggest flaws: perfectionism.

I’ve often thought of it as being low self-esteem or anxiety, and I’m sure they’re contributing factors, but what it boils down to is that I am a perfectionist. I hate getting things wrong and hate feeling like I’ve made a bad job of something, or haven’t done as much as I could have done. In some ways this is useful and it makes me good at many parts of my job, but it is also self-destructive. I get far too upset about the little things and that lack of perspective is really unhelpful.

There are a couple of recent examples of this. One is the issue I’ve written a few blogs on this year, about body image. I am still struggling to view myself in a healthy and positive way since gaining some weight. I do not always recognise myself when I catch sight of my reflection, which I find unnerving, and I do not feel attractive at all. I think a lot of this problem is in my head: my body shape has not changed THAT much. But it is different. For most of my adult life I’ve been able to walk into shops, pick up the smallest size on the rack, and it will probably fit, or it will be a bit big. Now, I essentially have no idea what size I am. Clothes I’ve worn in the last few days have ranged in size from a 6 to a 12. I am throwing out a lot of clothes that no longer fit, but when it comes to buying new ones, as well as not knowing what size to choose, I don’t really know what will be flattering anymore. I can’t “get away with” some options I’ve worn in the past. High-waisted pencil skirts used to be sleek and slimming but now make me look squat and shorter than I am. T-shirts no longer sit neatly above my jeans but get a little stuck on a bit of tummy and make me look like I’ve had an over-generous lunch.

Or do they? I am aware that my own view of myself is not healthy and not necessarily grounded in reality. I’ve had other periods in my life when I’ve had half of my brain absolutely convinced of something, while the other half is fairly sure the first half has lost the plot. I had a brief period years ago when I was convinced I was pregnant. I wasn’t. I had nearly a year when I was certain that my hair was falling out. It stressed me out horribly, and I was forever checking my hairline in the mirror and trying to judge whether it had changed. My hair wasn’t falling out at all, or no more than is normal, and eventually the anxiety subsided and I forgot about it. I fear the same thing is happening with my view of my own body, that I see something that isn’t really there.

It is a certainty that my body has changed over the last few years, as I’ve hit 30 and been commuting and sitting down for an extra three hours a day. But I don’t know if the change is as drastic as I perceive it to be. I do have little stretch marks on my inner thighs, and I’ve never had stretch marks before so I’ve found that a little bewildering and upsetting. It’s on one leg more than the other, and they don’t seem to be fading, so I’m a bit worried that they’re not normal – even though really I know they probably are, it’s just new and I no longer have that “skinny” body I’ve had for so long.

The other ridiculous thing, as well as worrying about any of it unduly, is that even when I was very slim and had none of these issues with a tummy or stretch marks or anything else, I wasn’t happy. I thought I was TOO thin, a view backed up for me by various people at high school and all the media ever that tells you that “men like a bit of meat on your bones”, or “men only like big boobs”, etc etc. So I’m upset about losing something I didn’t particularly like. What a mess.

The other perfectionist example is from this week, when we had a pub quiz as part of a team building week. One of our founders is also a quiz master so once or twice a year, he puts together a quiz for us. In the first ever work quiz, I was on a team with the CEO and overruled him on a question about the bridge on the river Kwai. It turned out he was right, and although we won, he brought it up the following year, making me realise he hadn’t forgotten my mistake. (This is hell for a perfectionist, who hates being reminded of mistakes, even when they’re seemingly inconsequential quiz answers.) This week at the quiz, a question on the bridge on the river Kwai came up again. I completely lost my head (aided by some wine) and insisted I knew the answer – unfortunately, I once again put down the wrong thing (the bridge on the river Kwai is in Thailand, not, as I seem to be utterly convinced, in Myanmar). When I realised my mistake I felt like chucking myself off a bridge, and ever since whenever I think of it I cringe and inwardly berate myself for being such an idiot.

I bet you’re laughing though, aren’t you? To everybody else, it’s a very funny story about how fallible a person can be, insisting on making the same mistake twice instead of saying ‘bridge on the river Kwai? Count me out, I am not getting involved’ or thinking about it for two seconds and saying ‘I can’t believe it is Thailand, because they’re the only southeast Asian country not to be invaded in World War Two so I have no idea why anybody was doing anything with a bridge there, but it is Thailand’. I’m sure everyone’s lives are full of these silly moments which make you pull a rueful face, but to me they mean more than they should, and there seems to be a part of me which really feels like I’ve failed when I make any kind of mistake like that. Half the fun and potential for fallout from quizzes is that you have to make a decision as a team, some people will be ignored or overruled, some people will insist on certain answers, and everyone at some point will be wrong. It shouldn’t matter, but because I have an unrealistic idea of how perfect I can be if I only try hard enough, I feel like it does matter and everyone is sneering at me for being so stupid. Even though, really, I know they’re not, and it’s making mistakes like these that make people like you more because you are human and they can imagine the pain of realising what a goon you’ve been and empathise with that. (For the record, my team won the quiz anyway – and apparently the rest of the company have never seen me so ecstatic; I reacted as if I’d won the lottery and a gold medal at the Olympics and the World Cup all at the same time.)

Being a perfectionist is a real pain in the arse. I wish I had a more realistic and healthy view of myself and a more positive attitude towards my own failures. I waste a lot of time worrying about things I can’t change that nobody else thinks are problems anyway. I don’t really have a neat solution today – I’ve been this way for a long time and learning to be kinder to myself is not going to be quick or easy. It doesn’t help that most of what we read tells us how happy we’ll be once we’re a) thin and beautiful and b) wildly successful. And all that involves striving for perfection, being your “best self”, picking the best selfie for Instagram, never eating cake, always getting the promotion, never getting fired, always being in a relationship, never regretting a decision, and so on. I’m trying to take baby steps, giving myself permission to shop around for new clothes, and practising self-care when things don’t fit; and reminding myself that embracing imperfection makes you far more fun and likable than if you’re always pristine and never trip over your own feet or say something stupid. Nobody is ever going to be perfect, despite what social media may want us to believe. I will, however, learn something about the bridge on the river Kwai, other than the fact that it is – allegedly – in Thailand.

The Beauty Myth

A couple of months ago I wrote a blog about putting on a little weight. Although the blog ended on an upbeat note, I’ve been struggling to view myself positively. I tried to decide what I needed to do if I did want to lose the weight I’ve gained, and thought of some ideas – cutting out alcohol, no snacking on biscuits, more physical exercise. All these are easier said than done, especially the last couple of weeks as I’ve had a shin splint and even a little walking has been painful. The negativity around my appearance, compounded by a few other things happening in my life that made me feel a little inadequate, culminated in a few occurrences where I found myself thinking: I’m hungry. That’s good. I should stay hungry, because I want to lose weight. Immediately after I thought this I thought, uh oh. That’s not good at all. That’s the opposite of good. I need to tell somebody about that.

I’m part of a body positivity group on facebook so I wrote a little note about those thoughts, and said I was ordering a couple of books around self compassion and changing attitudes to food, but did anyone have any advice. A couple of people replied, and although they were very supportive, I felt so ashamed and silly that I took the post down. I thought people weren’t replying either because I’m too slim, and they were thinking, what does she know about it? Or thinking, Jesus, she needs to see a doctor, I’m staying well out of this one. I’ve found over the years that some of these groups on facebook are remarkably helpful for my self-esteem and general mood, so when you cry for help and are met with silence, it feels even more painful. Better to say nothing than to hear nothing in return.

I decided to try to tackle the problem myself, firstly by eating properly and trying not to worry about it. In general this went okay, although I did get a bemused and, to my overwrought brain, smirking glance from someone in Sainsbury’s when I wandered between the snacks and baked goods for some minutes trying to decide which, if any, to purchase. I always get hungry in the afternoon at work and as I leave work at 5 and get home at 7, eating something is imperative if I’m not to get home in the worst possible mood and be a complete pain to my poor partner. But everything I looked at that looked tasty had so many of those horrible red labels on, telling you it ALONE was 25% of this and 29% of the other, that I gave up. In the spirit of eating properly, though, I did go to a Portuguese café and get a custard tart. So I achieved 1) eating, but not really 2) not worrying about it.

Secondly, to help me, I bought several books. I bought Eat Up by Ruby Tandoh, who some may remember as a Bake Off finalist from a few years back. I’ve read some of her articles and she talks a lot of sense. As a former anorexic I thought her opinion on changing your attitude to food would be useful. I also bought Self Compassion by Kristin Neff – I suck at self compassion. I am extremely hard on myself. Lastly I bought Body Positive Power by Megan Jayne Crabbe, aka @bodyposipanda. I’ve loved her facebook page for some time, she always has something appropriate and encouraging to say. But having started her book, I realised that really, first I should read the bible: The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf. This book is simply essential reading.

I actually started The Beauty Myth a few months ago, but the statistics on rape and attitudes towards rape were so depressing I had to take a break. It was written in 1990, only two years after I was born, so sometimes when you’re reading it you think CHRIST this is horrific- but it’s nearly 30 years ago, things must be better now, right? But the fact that so much of it is so resonant to me, and is shocking and not shocking at the same time, suggests that not as much has changed as you might hope.

What her research does show is what a completely bullshit, half-baked, cruel, ludicrous thing the idea of the “ideal woman” is. It’s simply an invention. The ideal of women’s body shape has changed numerous times in the last hundred years alone, never mind the rest of history. Today, we are expected to be curvy in the right places, and toned all over. As someone says in the book, nature does not make women like this. For nearly all women, it’s simply impossible to achieve. Which makes it perfect as a tool for keeping women focussed on their appearance instead of breaking through glass ceilings.

Women in the 1960s and 1970s were working to change the status quo. They were no longer confined to the house, and amongst other things, were no longer so responsive to ads and articles about how to clean the oven perfectly. So advertisers needed something else to sell women, and they struck on our appearance. The number of articles on dieting increased by 60% between 1979 and 1980. Women’s dieting wasn’t a huge deal, and then suddenly, it was. Anti-aging products were flung into the marketplace despite not being properly tested and doing absolutely fuck all- something that was eventually noticed and the advertisers got a slap on the wrist, but judging by the number of anti-aging products my mum keeps buying, the slap wasn’t big enough. Cosmetic surgery became massive business, despite going against the fundamental Hippocratic oath of: first, do no harm. The very concept of cutting up healthy people, and overwhelmingly women, to “improve” some part of their appearance which is only wrong because the media wills it so, is enough to make my blood boil. When Wolf was writing, she tried to get statistics on death rates from cosmetic surgery, and was told no such records were being kept. Today I did a little googling, and there is now some information – but it’s not exactly easy to come by and some studies are hugely out of date (the most popular one for liposuction was from the 1990s, and the results showed a higher risk of death from liposuction than from ordinary surgery).

The Beauty Myth made me cry tears of frustration but in the end left me feeling powerful and motivated to change. Because what I see is that in the time since she wrote the book, not enough has changed. One of the things she said we needed was a third wave of feminism, and here we are, right in the middle of it. But we have a long way to go. She talks about breaking down the barriers of competition between women, saying we need to become advocates for each other and band together instead of seeing beauty as a finite resource – if she’s pretty, that must mean I am less so. Although I do have friends who I support and they are very supportive of me, that competitive element certainly hasn’t disappeared. I struggled to connect with a colleague very recently because I was so envious of her appearance – when I did finally talk to her properly, I found she was sweet and lovely and as happily touched by a compliment on her appearance as any woman.

Wolf wanted us to learn to roll our eyes at the adverts and the “beauty pornography” plastered all over magazines and television, but I haven’t managed to do that much. Magazine editors say girls are smart enough to tell when a picture is photoshopped, but I’m not. Or I assume that everything is photoshopped but I don’t know which parts or how much or what. And even if I try to rationalise an image like that, it’s too late. The instinctive judgement and comparison has already happened, and I have come up wanting.

But I am, as I said, determined to change this attitude to myself, and do my part to help overthrow this ridiculous set of impossible standards. I am tired of seeing all my female colleagues, regardless of size and shape, sit down to lunches of salads and carrot sticks. I am sick of hearing everyone say ‘oh, no, I’m trying to be good’ when birthday cake is offered round. Our attitude to food is MISERABLE. Of course we should eat healthily as much as possible, but if their thought processes on these occasions are anything like mine, it’s far from fucking healthy. When you think about it rationally it’s insane that we’re all trying as hard as we can to look the same – especially now, when the person we are aiming for is at best surgically altered, at worst a computer-generated image.

People struggle with the body positivity movement, and some mistake it for a rallying cry for all women to put on as much weight as possible. It’s not about that. The point is that no matter what size you are, you shouldn’t feel guilty about it. Your size should not be a “bad” thing. We are all “good” bodies. Maybe you want to lose weight, and that’s okay. But it shouldn’t be a source of pain and hatred towards yourself. Instead, our bodies should be sources of joy, pleasure and happiness. This is one of my favourite passages from the book, and one I may have to print out and put up somewhere: ‘The pleasure to be had from turning oneself into a living art object, the roaring in the ears and the fine jetspray of regard on the surface of the skin, is some kind of power, where power is in short supply. But it is not much compared to the pleasures of getting back forever inside the body; the pleasure of discovering sexual pride, a delight in a common female sexuality that overwhelms the divisions of “beauty”; the pleasure of shedding self-consciousness and narcissism and guilt like a chainmail gown; the pleasure of the freedom to forget all about it.’

We are all works in progress with this. I fully expect to have plenty of bad days. But I hope not to have that thought again that I should keep myself hungry, that feeling empty is “good” because the way I look and am is “bad”. I am well aware that that is the first step towards a couple of very destructive illnesses. With the help of Naomi Wolf, and the other books I’ve bought, as well as the confused but steadfast support of partner and friends and family, I want to feel beautiful and strong and capable regardless of whether my shape changes. Fingers crossed the world will change more too to make it all just a little easier for me, and everyone else, to achieve.

Change

This year, as I am entering my fourth decade, I’m thinking a lot about what I’ve learnt and achieved. How does it compare with where I thought I would be? Turning 30 is a manmade phenomenon, a landmark where none really exists, but just because something is all in our heads doesn’t mean it feels less real and tangible. I thought by now I would have learned to eat chocolate without getting it on my trousers, but I haven’t. I rather hoped I would have worked out what I want to be when I grow up, but it seems I’m still wondering.

It’s a strange feeling when we have a solid idea of who we are and what we’re about, and then suddenly find we’ve changed without our noticing. I was bemused the other day to realise something I’d known for a long time – that I work in the finance department of a technology company. That certainly wasn’t something I or probably anybody else would have predicted for me. It doesn’t mean it’s bad – far from it – but it’s unsettling when you realise something about you or your path has changed.

I’ve had another revelation this week. For the last two or three years, I haven’t owned a full-length mirror. I didn’t think it was particularly important, and in some ways it was rather nice – if I couldn’t see whether or not an outfit worked together, then I could just assume that it did and roll on with it. But at the same time I realised I wasn’t entirely sure what I looked like anymore. So I bought a mirror. And it turns out I’ve changed rather.

When I was younger I was very thin, so thin that people always accused me of being anorexic and called me names. I didn’t like it at all, but as I got older I changed a little and people started telling me I was slim in a nice way, rather than a mean one. When I was 24 my hips suddenly realised I was no longer prepubescent and they expanded somewhat, which I also rather liked. I’ve always been insecure about my breasts being too small but overall I thought I was rather a nice shape.

I’m still more or less the same shape, I think, but I’m certainly no longer the waif I was growing up. My hips have decided they didn’t do a good enough job when I was 24 and seem to have expanded again; I’ve grown a bit of a tummy – a pouch to hold my extra cookies, as Jess says to Nick on New Girl – and my thighs have changed shape too. The last may partly be muscle as I’ve been going to the gym and doing squats and deadlifts, which are bound to add on some muscle, but I’m not sure, maybe some of it is fat too. I’m aware that I’ve put on a bit of fat the last two years, mainly I think from having a commute which means I’m sitting down for an extra two hours a day, which makes quite a difference.

Anyway, rightly or wrongly, I was surprised by how I looked. It wasn’t the image I had of myself in my head, and it’s a very odd feeling to find that the body you’re walking around in doesn’t look the same as you thought it did. How can you possibly miss it, I thought, it’s there all the time! I wasn’t sure I trusted the mirror, and my friend said mirrors lie, so I decided to have a wardrobe clearout to see how much had changed.

Well, oh dear. Several dresses that used to be sleek and flattering now make me look like a sausage in a very tight casing. A pair of trousers I rather like and thought looked nice now look decidedly strained. A couple of skirts now no longer fit neatly round the hips but sit up round the waist in an extremely unflattering fashion. Determined not to be annoyed or shamed by these clothes that no longer serve me, I now have three large bags of clothes for the charity shop.

Well, who cares, you might ask. So I’ve changed shape a little – what does it matter? It’s an excuse to go shopping! New clothes! Hurrah! But unfortunately it isn’t quite that straightforward, at least not for me. There’s such a degrading feeling to having to throw out clothes because you’ve put on weight at the best of times, and for me it’s compounded by not really knowing how I fit into my own idea of myself as being very thin and slender. This may sound ridiculous to a lot of people who’ve seen me lately. I am still by most sane measures a very slim person. Some would say I’m now a “better” weight – for the first time in my life I’m designated at as a ‘healthy weight’ by the BMI index, whereas previously I’ve been classed as ‘underweight’ or even ‘emaciated’. But I’m still feeling a bit despondent, a bit unattractive, and, most strangely, a bit less worthy than I used to. In today’s society women are held up to an impossible list of physical ideals, but I do know that putting on weight is almost never seen as a Good Thing. It’s the butt of so many jokes on sitcoms and TV programmes: running into an ex when you’ve put on weight is about on a par with smacking someone over the head with a golf club. There is a definite feeling that you’ve lost, or failed, by changing shape in that direction.

Of course, the whole idea that who we are should be interpreted or judged by what we look like is absurd. It doesn’t make any difference. Or rather, it shouldn’t  make any difference. I’m no longer the super skinny girl who would get called Twiglet or gently asked by a doctor if she has any trouble eating. While that isn’t a huge part of my identity it is still a part, and one that I now need to adjust. Right now I’m in danger of adjusting too far the other way, so I’ll be careful of that. It’s good to have a realistic sense of what you look like, but also to hold that idea gently, and to try not to make it a focus of your thinking. Being a touch heavier doesn’t mean I’m less clever, or smart, or interesting as a person. And I need to keep reminding myself that seeming attractive to others is only partly to do with what you physically look like – it’s more about how you see yourself. If you feel good, people will respond to that.

So I’m going to buy some new clothes that make me feel pretty, and keep chucking out any old clothes I find that make me feel crap. And put in some practise at thinking of myself as a fairly slim, reasonably toned woman, with a bit of a tummy – and a great arse.

Working Out the Gym

Over the last few months, I’ve taken up going to the gym. I can hear the eyes roll and the bored sighs from here. People hate people going to the gym – until recently I was one of those people, and honestly I would also sigh and roll my eyes at a blog post about going to the gym. Stick with it, my friends. Hopefully it will be faintly informative, or at least faintly funny.

I started going because I have an ongoing issue with the nerve in my right elbow, due to the amount of time I spend sitting at a computer. Three physiotherapists have asked me if there’s anything I can do at my job that doesn’t involve a computer – the answer is no. Perhaps I need to retrain as a shepherd or a taxi driver to avoid the problem. But in the meantime, my solution is to go to the gym to try and release the tension that runs from neck to shoulder to wrist and back again.

The gym is a fascinating place to observe human behaviour. It is at the same time an intensely private and completely public place to be. People are frequently half-dressed, or in clothes so tight-fitting they may as well be half-dressed. Men with shoulders the size of their heads stride around calling to each other, obviously at home and at ease. Women run on the treadmills with their headphones in, making no eye contact. I am one of these – I avoid looking any other people in the eye, mainly for fear of judgement. I am blessed with a slight physique, so don’t have to worry about people thinking I’m too heavy to be in a gym (which is, by the way, a completely bizarre piece of logic) but I worry anyway about being judged on my appearance or abilities – and on being compared to other women.

There is one woman who goes to my local gym who is pretty, petite and blonde. She wears a crop top and leggings, showing off a lovely figure. She does do some exercise in the gym but she also spends a lot of time chatting to the guys with shoulders the size of their heads. It’s a proper flirt party in the middle of a gym. Once, she was doing some kind of squats while kneeling on the floor – fair enough – but was pausing for minutes at a time in between sets to chat to the guys while rocking back and forth on all fours. For heaven’s sake – just grab your favourite and take him home for a romp in the sack.

I feel bad for judging her. I shouldn’t really, and honestly she only really annoys me when she’s hogging some equipment I want while doing her flirting workout. Obviously, the main reason she makes me feel bad is because she makes me feel unattractive, with my unwashed hair (I’ll never understand people who shower BEFORE going to the gym) and my already modest chest squashed a little flatter thanks to sports crop tops. I act aloof among the men at the gym, rejecting them before they can reject me. I’m quite sure they don’t notice and don’t care even if they do notice, however. While I’m feeling insecure and worrying about people watching me, most of the people at the gym are entirely focussed on themselves.

I mostly do weights stuff at the gym, trying to strengthen my arms and back to take the pressure off my arm. The weights area is lined with mirrors, which are sometimes useful to make sure you’re straight and centred, but which personally I hate because it brings my attention back to my appearance instead of my performance. If I’m not in front of a mirror, I’m in front of screens playing music videos (without the sound, the music is something else) which infuriate and depress me in equal measure as the women bounce around and stretch and make sexy faces at the camera. Why on earth would anybody find me attractive, I think, after staring at them for five minutes, getting up to do something else, and trying to surreptitiously wipe sweat marks from my hands or back or arse off the equipment.

I’m really selling it, aren’t I. Of course the point of going to the gym isn’t to judge yourself and come out feeling like a bag of manure. It’s to take control of your body and push yourself and feel the difference, in fitness or strength. In the media, for women it’s always about losing weight or getting toned, which I hope is slowly beginning to change as the world and her mother push the benefits of exercise, quite apart from any weight loss. Even though I’m not really going to the gym to lose weight, I am still (clearly) thinking too much about how I look while I’m there. I read this article this week about taking exercise in a body positive way, which has some great tips. I went to the gym after reading it but tried to ignore everyone else, view myself with detachment instead of negativity, and focus on how my body felt and on whether I could push myself to do a little more. It worked, and I set some new personal bests.

For my partner, going to the gym is very useful for his mental health. It’s a pure, uncomplicated feeling for him. He enjoys going through motions, going through routines, and appreciating the complexity of simple exercises. Doing things properly requires focus, and practise. He says although our stereotypes are of meatheads in the gym, they are good at what they do and often I see them helping each other with exercises, making me think they are just nice normal guys even if seeing them in the gym I’m tempted to stereotype them as dull and narcissistic. In a way, the gym is an entirely judgement free zone, because whatever anyone thinks of you you’re unlikely ever to hear about it. You are all strangers. I see the same people, I’m sure, but I’ve realised how little attention I pay to them, because I can never remember whether I’ve seen them before or not. As much as you may think people are watching you and laughing behind their hands, it’s in your head. It’s a natural thing to think, because that’s how we’re wired – to think people are hyperaware of our mistakes and completely oblivious to our successes. For me, that’s how I think of myself, not how other people think of me, and I need to get out of the habit of projecting those negative thoughts into other people’s minds.

So gyms may be a bit strange and a bit intimidating and some might say a little dull, but they are also fascinating and interesting and fun places to find out what your body can do. There are people doing every type of workout, and it’s entirely up to you what you work on and why. I like that freedom, and at its best it feels like you’re a child again at one of those play centres – although without the ball pit, thank goodness, because as an adult they’re impossible to get out of. People might go there for different reasons, but remember that you don’t actually have to give any of them a moment’s thought. They are all there for themselves, and you’re there for yourself too.

Everyday Powerful Women – Appearance

For more than a year, I’ve had this definition of power saved on my phone: ‘Power: the ability to act or produce an effect’. Lately I’ve been thinking more about the word ‘power’, and in particular what it means to be a ‘powerful woman’ in today’s world. In this brilliant article on women in power throughout history, Mary Beard suggested that one of the main problems we still have is that we don’t really know what a powerful woman looks like. Most women we think of as ‘powerful’ are adopting the clothes and style of powerful men, rather than inventing a new way for women to appear powerful.

Where does power come from, and is it different for men and women? Historically men have been physically powerful – in terms of strength – and powerful in terms of intellect. When we read the history books, the politicians and the warriors and the philosophers and the scientists and the decision-makers are overwhelmingly male. There are examples of women, and they are often passed over or forgotten, but even so the men are primarily seen as the ones with this power. Women are powerful in terms of their beauty, and their ability to bear children. The latter is a never-ending political hot potato, as the life of an unborn child is frequently seen to be more important than the life of the woman carrying it. This is the paradoxical power of being able to carry a child: it overwhelms all other purposes or needs a woman may have.

Mary Beard also wrote that women may not want political power or to stand on a soapbox, they just want to be taken seriously. I caught my breath a little at that, because it struck right to the heart of what feminism means for me. I want to be taken seriously. I want people to meet me and listen to my ideas and take them seriously as ideas coming from a person, not a sex object. Unfortunately the week after I read this article I was reminded how little women are still taken seriously, even in the middle of London. I was cat-called by a man on a bicycle while I was on the phone to my mum. I was pointlessly challenged in a pub by some idiot propping up the bar, who thought it would be funny to say ‘no you can’t!’ when I asked if I could have a pint of some beer or other. And I was threatened with bodily violence by a stranger for passing comment on a horse he’d tied in the middle of a pavement (don’t even ask).

Our appearance and our ability to bear children both give us power in myriad ways, but as a primary source of feeling powerful, they often suck. To have your ‘ability to act or produce an effect’ determined by the way you look means that your brain and personality are frequently ignored in favour of being summed up instantly as a) a woman, and b) on a sliding scale of attractiveness. This is endlessly frustrating, and is applicable to all women everywhere. In some parts of the world, it means your own will and wishes are considered to be secondary to those of others. When you are only judged on the outside, you are essentially a doll, and considered to be a second class of citizen. And even in the UK, which is apparently enlightened, and even if you are running a country, some people still won’t take you seriously – and prefer to comment on the shape of your legs rather than your ideas and your actions.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to look good. I see women every day on the train putting on their make-up, and I don’t think this is a bad thing. The thing I hate is the system that makes women believe that they have to spend a lot of time and money on improving their appearance. All of it speaks to a notion that we are not enough as we are. We are not enough unless we spend hours removing hair and shaping brows and going on diets to get a ‘bikini body’. And this is all because the whole system still buys into the idea that women’s power, and worth, comes first and foremost from how they look.

This is made clear from childhood. I hated looking stupid or wrong or ugly from an extremely young age. I didn’t want to pull faces, or get dirty, because then I wouldn’t look pretty. My body was rarely praised or criticised for its abilities, only for the shape it made. I have grown up continuing to evaluate it in the same way. I hated playing sports at school because I didn’t think I could do it properly and I hated looking like a fool – I also hated wearing shorts for P.E. because I thought my legs were too skinny (this was enough of a problem that at age seven I feigned illness to get out of a school Sports Day).  It was all about how I looked doing things, and because I was so concerned with that, I was inevitably bad at things that required full concentration on, say, where the ball was, and whether I could swing a stick in time to hit it. I thought that if I tried to hit it hard, it would go a pathetic distance, so I put no effort in at all so at least it wouldn’t look as if I’d tried and failed. Clearly the only way to be good at any physical activity is to keep trying and failing until you stop failing so often, and begin to succeed, but nobody told me that. Sport seemed to me to be for boys, and I was no good at it. I didn’t take myself seriously, but did that start because nobody took me seriously? I don’t remember ever being really coached at sport, you just did the activity and then stopped. I sucked, and wasn’t told how I could get better. This creates problems throughout life because exercise is key to health and happiness.

When I was growing up, I was not popular with boys – which I shouldn’t have cared about as most of them were idiots. But somehow it seemed to be the most important thing. Getting a boyfriend seemed to be key to happiness (a problem which the media and society do nothing to assuage as you get older) and thus I needed to be more attractive to fulfil this goal. I was lucky that I had very supportive parents and I grew up before social media was really a thing, because I can’t imagine what it’s like without a good support network and with other people constantly pushing idealised images of people in your face. With Photoshop and filters used on every picture in the public eye, people judge themselves against CGI and even forget what they look like when they haven’t edited their own face. People like Kylie Jenner, who apparently had her face, boobs and arse remodelled at age 16, are truly terrifying examples of what can happen to young women who have one goal: to look perfect. When women in the news are judged on how they look every single day, young girls absorb the message from everywhere that how they look is of utmost importance.

Unfortunately, women frequently perpetuate this notion themselves. Women put down other women like pros: many magazines ‘for women’ make an industry out of criticising other women for being too fat/thin on a daily basis. We are so chronically insecure and tired from judging ourselves all the time that the only way to make ourselves feel better is to judge everyone else too. For example, many people have many issues with Lena Dunham, but the fact that people got upset because she started seeing a personal trainer and doing some exercise absolutely astounds me. This reaction proved a few things: a) that Lena is still extremely rare to be a woman in the public eye owning power in her less than “perfect” body; b) that people hate people who go to the gym; and c) that women have such serious insecurity issues that one woman taking some exercise is enough to make them very angry. It’s fairly obvious that Lena going to the gym on its own isn’t enough to annoy anybody, the problem is that she was “fat” and said she was happy being “fat,” so other women who are “fat” can also feel happy the way they are – but now Lena is betraying the tribe. She’s taking exercise because she wants to help herself with serious mental health issues and endometriosis, but she is attacked for apparently wanting to change the way she looks. Everyone thought that if she was happy the way she was, and achieved what she has looking that way, then she could be taken seriously without being thin and conventionally beautiful. And if she could do it, everyone else could stop worrying about how they looked too and think about something else. The ridiculous thing is that of course one woman doing some exercise doesn’t affect anybody else’s self-worth or power, and that there is nothing wrong with doing exercise anyway – even though many people hate it, exercise is always good for you. And it doesn’t have to be anything to do with weight loss, although infuriatingly exercise and weight loss are almost always connected for women. I would love to be able to change this. The negativity surrounding exercise for women is toxic.

All these perceptions of women and their power need to be taught differently from childhood. Being a girl should not be about being pretty and looking nice all the time, about never being awkward or doing something stupid or getting into trouble. Girls should do all those things, and be encouraged to move and exercise to enjoy it, as well as be good at it. Hopefully as more girls see female sports players, politicians, writers, scientists, and decision-makers on the television and elsewhere, they will see women showing power and strength through something other than their physical attractiveness. The outcry when the media and people in top positions treat women like dolls must be louder and longer until it’s no longer acceptable. Unfortunately America just voted in someone who speaks about women as if they are not just dolls, but sex dolls, provided for his amusement. But I am hopeful that the next four years will show him just how many powerful women there are around the world who are willing to show him he is wrong and repulsive, and needs to take women seriously. We can all do our own bit by taking ourselves seriously, every day, and taking the other women around us seriously. Only then can we link by link undo the chain that stops us from being judged – by ourselves and everyone else – on our internal worth.