A Portion of Perspective

They are in the car park of the local gym, and what starts as banter veers into a lecture, it seems. What started out as a light-hearted jibe about vegan custard descended into a polemic about meal-planning and a perceived disorganisation on my part. Some euphoric ramblings about hashish make it clear that we are differently wired. I now associate the smell of skunk with my days of living in hell, but that is  not to say that I curl up in the foetal position and dine out about it; it just makes me grateful to be here. As I drove home, I felt uneasy because I felt judged.

I had used to plan every meal and count every calorie; I had used to look up restaurants on the internet and make my choices in advance. Then I had used to overeat and make myself sick when I got home. Then I had used to make myself sick because food, well – made me sick. It did my head in; I could never get my mind around it. But, over the years, it turns out that it was not the food that was causing me distress; it was me.

I comfort-ate as a child and then puberty knocked me neatly into anorexia, which was easy owing to my fast metabolism. It must be seven or eight years ago that I sought help for Bulimia, because I couldn’t be that damaged role model to my son; having my son woke me up to many things.

I dislike keeping food diaries because it reminds me of those days; when I would reward myself for starving with a fabulous dress, some make-up, a tighter pair of size zero jeans. My mind was focused, all the time, on size and shape and calorie and ratio, and I was always hungry. My mind operated from one To Do list to the next, and transferred all the tasks across to new ones, making me feel ‘efficient’. I was miserable. I remember, four years ago now, going to a wedding reception with the Old Ratbag, squeezed into Spanx (size: extra small) and my old size 8 Karen Millen dress, under which I could get a pair of Jigsaw jeans. I remember arriving at the Reception and sitting down next to a couple of female friends at a table upon which many petits-fours were arrayed on decorative plates. We chatted; I ate. I became aware of the need to use the toilet, and excused myself.

Once locked into the cubicle, I heaved at the knees of the jeans and the hem of the dress, freeing the zip and undoing the jeans, with a tiny sigh of relief. I pulled up the dress and sat down, needing to defecate. The outer door hinge creaked, and voices drifted in; two other guests had come to use the toilets that remained available. I clenched, anxious lest my body give me away, and waited for the incomers to leave, sweating profusely. I was now aware that I had been in here for several minutes, and Old Ratbag might be wondering where I was. Knowing my history, he had used to raise an eyebrow whenever I emerged from the toilet at home after more time than a wee wee ought to take, and I had used to chastise him because I had changed. But had I?

After an excruciating attempt to squeeze out as much as possible in as short a space of time as I could manage, I set about re-wrapping my body in these layers designed to hide ‘a multitude of sins’ and re-joined the guests at the table. The unpleasantness of that is unforgettable. I remember the counsellor at the Eating Disorders Unit telling me about something called “Big I Little I” and trying to explain that there were other things to focus on than belly size. I did not understand. As long as I was skinny, I was gorgeous.

After the breakup with the Old Ratbag brought me face to face with the sense of insufficiency that I had had since infancy, I hid in baggy clothes and over-ate for comfort. I remember feeling that I was a piece of shit, and I looked at my gym membership card to see how to cancel it. There were still eight months left of the first year, and cancellation was impossible. In a bid to distract myself and lose more weight, I took myself to classes such as Zumba and aerobics. The HIIT classes were an absolute ordeal, but I discovered that, if I made it through the first half hour or so, my tolerance for exercise increased, and the endorphins started to work their magic. One of the instructors, a Boxer, noticed this and said, “Do you want to go and let off steam on the punch bag?” Looking back, I don’t know why I didn’t find the idea appealing.

I was crossing Claygate Rec when a voice chimed out, “I’m impressed by your ink!” It was the fat boxing coach, whom I had seen on many occasions when I had taken Daniel to the Rec with the dogs for some fresh air. I thanked him, and continued on my way, as I was doing some shopping for Mum. On my way back, I saw him having a fag and said, “Thank goodness!” as I passed, “A fitness coach who smokes!” “Not when I’ve got a fight coming up,” He said. I asked, “What do you actually teach people to do?” When he said Boxing, I said, “Oh no, I’ve had a brain injury already.”

“I’ve got a metal plate in my head.” He said.

I retraced my steps; really? He rooted in a rucksack and produced a leaflet which proclaimed the benefits of Boxing training. Without ever fighting, you stood to make tremendous gains in mental and physical health, stimulate Growth Hormone and metabolic speed, and men and women did it. “Oh,” I said, “How much do you charge?” He would give me an hour for a tenner, he said, to see if I liked it.

My two buddies, my best male friend, and my AA sponsor, had reported seeing the Old Ratbag at one of my regular AA meetings. Having discovered by this time that Kettlebells are a tremendous resource, I joked that I would take an 8kg Bell to the meeting and wrap it round his head. However, Boxing training might spare me the extra luggage, I thought. Indeed, after half an hour of High Intensity Cardio training, I would be invited to slip on the trainer’s gloves (which he assured me jokingly that he had aired), a massive knuckle-dragger’s pair, and pummel away at the pads he held until I, frankly, ran out of steam. I saw that I needed to increase my endurance, and so a few more sessions took place. I can remember the positive mental attitude that I took into that AA meeting the next time I attended, thinking jab, cross, upper cut; knee him in the balls as I walked along the High Street. Sure enough, there was Old Ratbag in the tea queue, and he greeted me jovially enough. “This isn’t one of your meetings,” I said, “I think you had better fuck off.”

“I’m working nearby,” he replied, still jovial.

“I don’t care.” I said. He wandered outside with his cup of tea, to where people were having a cigarette at the front of the building. I emerged a short while later, with my own cup of tea, and announced loudly to everyone, “We need to talk about sex-addiction and gold-diggers; there are alcoholic men preying on women a great deal, you know.” I saw Tom and Adam and said hello; Tim (my friend) went inside. I chatted with Tom and Adam and then went in. I mounted the stairs and reached the room. Tim was seated in a chair at the back, near the door. “Where’s the sex pest?” I enquired loudly, noting a distinct absence of Old Ratbag. He had left, apparently.  This was one of the first fruits of Boxing training: being able to dismiss an undesirable without throwing a single punch.

As time progressed, the Boxing training was replaced when it became clear that Shrek (the fat coach) was flirting and, despite swearing off all men, it was too good to resist: though somewhat overinflated, this was an Action Man, ex-Army, ex-security, shaven-headed Boxing coach. I needed to chase away the remnants of Old Ratbag. It was successful, until it became clear that Shrek was a player. I was not the only lady to be entertained by him and, it stood to reason, I wasn’t feeding him, but he was ample enough to be getting taken care of elsewhere. It petered out quite naturally.

By this time, exercise was what I did every day: spinning classes, Kettlebell classes, Synergy (Interval training) classes; HIIT classes, and cycling on my trusty Beast. I met my Personal Trainer about three years ago, and she has seen me through some pretty large exigencies. During the year that my son was out of school I think it was the only thing that meant that I could function, and I was struggling enormously at that. A Muay Thai coach appeared at the gym, quite serendipitously, shortly after Xavier had remarked that I might like to learn some self-defence in case, when my son reaches puberty, aggression becomes an issue (Autistic people can struggle when it comes to puberty and I know; I am one). Muay Thai and strength training have not just kept me sane; they have enabled me, over time, to calibrate my body and my self-worth differently.

Having never really known my actual body size (dysmorphia affects what you see in the mirror), I had had to go on dress size for years, and I had stuck steadfastly to size 8-10 for a long time. It became somewhat unnerving when, during a Kettlebell class, I performed a Goblet Squat and my leggings ripped, accompanied by a loud tearing sound, all the way up the line between my buttocks. I had to dash to the reception area and grab some Medium sized leggings, which really worried me; I thought I was getting fat.

Having by now sworn off men entirely (after a brief interlude with 26-year-old AA member on the rebound from Shrek, and yes – another player), I could persevere, and gain weight. I could now eat with some impunity, and I realised that I had reached a milestone when someone said to me at the school, “You look lovely and skinny in that skirt.” Skinny? I replied, “Thank you, but I want to be strong.”

And so, over the past couple of years, has food regulated, and body shape redistributed. I can, and do, eat what I like. The change in focus from Skinny to Strong has worked wonders over the years. My son and I have fallen into a routine with meals, eating particular things on  certain days of the week but, over time, now that I do running on the Treadmill, I can mix it up a little. I have realised that, whereas there had used to be safe foods, there are now simply foods.

Perhaps a bit of meal-planning might be in order in terms of building muscle and shredding fat, and in terms of building endurance, but I don’t live in that pigeon-holed way anymore: it had used to be things like cod and hummus on a Monday, tomato basil pasta on a Tuesday (Rosemary Conley recipes are simple, and tasty, too), et cetera. Now I eat up to about my GDEE (General Daily Energy Expenditure) and, as I was a calorie-counter before, I have a good enough general idea how much of different foods I can eat.

The friend in the gym car park whose banter felt a bit too rough, and who accused me of disorganisation and laziness with food, is perhaps unaware of my journey. I’m fortunate to be able to say, “I’m bored of that; let’s have this” and buy what my son and I need. I have an App which counts the calories and macros for me and, great news, extra muscle increases metabolism, and glycogen can go into muscle and not always fat. It’s pretty nifty. The friend in the car park has lost a tremendous amount of weight over the last year and should feel proud; but not so proud as to accuse others of deficiencies they do not have.

As for the drugs, he proclaimed, “Everything I’ve done, even the bad stuff, has made me who I am today.” He sounded a little too self-satisfied, however; as though lecturing. As he walked away and I got into the car, thinking, “Gobby little shit”, I had to reflect on why. I had felt judged; but I realise that the shoes he thinks I’m wearing just don’t fit me anymore. I am so grateful for my circumstances today, and I am also incredibly pleased that I did not start to try to justify myself. I watched him as he blah-blah-blahed away and I noticed that, although my self-esteem was feeling smaller, I did not need another person’s judgement or projection.

He would probably judge me because I have a few quid spare and can live comfortably; he might well happily see me thrown aside in some bloody Revolution as a ‘posho’ or something. But what matters  most to me these days is not how others may perceive me; it’s how I feel about myself, and I am glad that, to some extent, I stood there and kept my mouth shut. As I drove away, I felt quite irritated at the gloating nature of his banter and considered turning right and heading in the direction in which I think I’ve seen him walk, and shout, “Okay Fucko; judge me all you like, but you don’t know me, and you can stuff your meal plans up your arse!” But I think that would have amounted to me wanting to have the last word, and there was enough Pride in the mix for today.