The secret life of the Muffin top

As my owner trudged along the path of slight madness, I worked hard at storing up her comfort food. I gave her sugar cravings and made her pop sweeties in her mouth when she was sad or bad. After some time, I became a soft, pastry dough type ring around her tummy. I was able to bounce and fold, I could pop above her trousers and give the world a peek of my magnificence. I became, "The Muffin Top."

I could bounce and sway, depending on her activity. The bike was fun as I could use her thighs like a ping pong bat, and jiggle to my hearts content. I tried to stop her reaching her toe nails to make them pretty. I made her enjoy adult fun in the dark. I masqueraded as a pregnancy, and I laughed when people asked if she was in the family way. I was soft and creamy, and she could balance her cup or plate on me whilst sitting on the sofa. I felt important, and hoped to keep growing. I could cast a shadow of my own, I was immense and dominating. All clothing had to give me priority as I grew and grew. I loved the new me.

She tried to keep me under control. She hid me under black, loose clothing to disguise me, and sometimes forced me into tight, Lycra pants to try and stop my hideous bulging. I kept telling her that a size 16 was average. I kept showing her other, larger muffin tops to try and encourage her to keep feeding me. I was in control.

But then, a healthy witch cast a spell. She introduced a new mantra for her life and repeated:

I will eat and I will claim,
that healthy eating is my aim,
The muffin top shall be no more,
I shall banish it out of my door,
No more wobbles, no more fat,
No cup or plate where I am sat,
My shadow will be long and thin,
Unhealthy foods go in the bin,
Goodbye to muffin the chocolate slut,
The door of fatness will now be shut.

I began to shrink, and felt myself losing my grip. She dissolved me with her activity and fruit. Instead of bouncing, I mildly jiggled and was pulled inward by abdominal muscles, my greatest enemy. Trousers began to laugh at me as they had room to play, and I was disappearing. My once unfit, overeating friend had turned on me, and I was soon to be no more. I was withering, fading , melting out of existence.

RIP muffin top

Exercise - the evil of the cross trainer

When you are so depressed that even breathing is an effort, the thought of actually going to the gym is abhorrent and ridiculous all at the same time. Why would a fat and verging on suicidal woman, want to go and run on a machine like a hamster? In front of people? In a silly outfit of Lycra from the 1980's? I know - it sounds like a bad idea, BUT, endorphins make you happy. Happy people don't want to kill themselves. That's the theory.

Part of my return to mental health is the whole "Healthy living" thing, so after a chat with my cpn I finally go to the gym to sign up for "GP referral" - exercise on the cheap, with anonymity thrown in if you want. No one needs to know why you are there. It doesn't involve going up to the front desk and saying, "Is there a special scheme for the fat mad people", but does involve being weighed (OMG), having my blood pressure taken and being shown around by a very muscular, thin, super fit women in her 50's. I bet I could bounce ping pong balls off her abbs.

Sadly she actually introduces me to some other gp referrals who are absolutely ancient, heart patients and stroke survivors. I immediately do not fit in and promise that I will not be going for coffee with them affter my session of torture. They are lovely but I'm afraid if I break the news to them that I am mentally ill in quite a serious way, they might keel over with the shock or something.

So I am led around the machines - its a masochists version of Alton Towers, and masquerades as "fun" and "good for you." I try my first effort on the cross trainer. Its the weirdest sensation and completely throws off my sense of balance - and yes I do look ridiculous. After 3 minutes I'm heaving for breath and my legs are burning and wobbly. I am the epitome of the unfit. Lord only knows how I'm going to try anything else. We do bike, treadmill, rower, arm presses and some weird leg weights thing. At the end I'm so exhausted I might not make it to the car. My legs are so unstable I might not be able to depress the pedals or focus. My face is as red as a radish and I hurt in places I never knew existed.

But hold the phone. I also have a mild feeling of exhilaration. And its not of the psychotic tendency either. ooh. Maybe this is what people get addicted to, the mild euphoria and lightness of step. I like it. Sadly it doesn't last long and the following day I think I have rigor mortise. I have to roll out of bed as i can't lift my legs up properly and shuffling is the best I can do. It takes about 3 days to pass, but, with leggings and water bottle in hand, I trudge back to the air conditioned yet sweaty room, and commit to a program of wellness. I decide that I should try it at least 3 times, not because I want to, but because CBT tells you too. And I want to be well, and I do as I'm told.

Bring on the butt cheeks of Iron. Mad woman's in the house.

Stepping back into normal living

Reintegration is a finely tuned event that requires planning, bravery and a desire to be as normal as possible. I find people hostile, dishonest or scary at best of times, so having a massive chunk of time off work and then going back into "The lions den" creates apprehension in copious amounts. Just before my return I yet again have to visit occupational health (more like occupational hazard) and discuss my recovery.

The doctor reminds me of a small, hunched over mouse. I cannot recall if I've told you about this man yet or not, but he covers his computer mouse with a tissue, and places his briefcase between us on the desk so he has to peer over it. I think he has a phobia about germs and people, to the extent that he has to have a physical barrier to protect him from the great unwashed. He's odd to say the least and always looks like he's ended up in this crappy job by accident. I'm sure he had high hopes for a career in Harley Street, but he's ended up being a second rate note taker at a local council. He sighs a lot and oozes disappointment throughout our discussion.

Half way through our chat I have to remind him that I'm not actually back at work as he hasn't realised.He flails a bit and gets all tetchy and then finds his thread again. The service really is ridiculous.

Anyway, in February I try my second phased return to work, following my bi-polar mental health sabbatical. My desk is dusty, my orchid is dead and there are stray papers, food crumbs and a large amounts of other peoples stuff scattered all over my workstation. I have no stationery and I feel utterly despondent. I think my work station has become the communal bin. When I try to turn my computer on its so slow I might have to come back the following day to give it time to boot up. I feel a bit giddy too and its very bright, very noisy and disconcertingly normal.

Everyone seems to be an over sized caricature of themselves and I can sense the energy floating about. Its a bit surreal after being cosseted in the safety of my living room for so long. I jump at everything, drop things and feel disorientated. I do what comes naturally, which is clean my desk and drink lots of coffee. Smiling makes my face hurt and by lunchtime I'm am more than exhausted and go home. Its going to take a while to get back in the swing of it. My colleagues are actually lovely and want me to be well. No one wants a psycho team mate, so they treat me gently at first whilst they judge whether or not I might have a total breakdown at any moment. I think everyone's a bit nervous.   Bless them all. The genuinely don't quite know what to say, so I tend to make it more comfortable for them by making quips about being bonkers and laughing about my OCD. It gives people permission to relax a bit and takes the fear away from putting your foot in it. I should make up light bulb jokes. How many Bi-polar depressed people does it take to change a light bulb? 1, but they have to keep going and down...Ha ha!Or Violets are blue, and roses are red, mania's a nightmare so I'll kill myself instead! Its not the best topic for humour and poetry now eh! But seriously I really have to make it less uncomfortable for everyone. Its not an easy topic to broach, and some people are intensely private about it. I'd rather be honest and open about it. Mental illness isn't something to be afraid of. Its not contagious and most of us are actually ok.

So I'll try to get back to work, and build up to the hours I did before. I'll try to be ok and do what is asked of me. I'll try not to freak out if things start to go wrong. Yeah right!

Fall out

From any situation that involves a degree of chaos, there is going to be some fall out. This can be practical, emotional or financial, and the problem is, it can cause stress and anxiety, which in turn, can trigger episodes of depression or mania or both. Its like weathering a very bad storm. You're overwhelmed with gladness that the storm has finished and you have survived, but you now need to do a massive tidying up operation, and learn to live in the place you have had to rebuild. Its fraught with broken glass and the odd sticking up nail, and although it looks like your house, it'll never be the same as it was. You can rebuild or move.

Its a difficult time. Trite phrases tend to be flung about in a casual manner. Life is what you make it. You're not the person you used to be. You're how much in debt? These issues are not the sole ownership of mentally ill people, but those commonal garden problems that "Normal" folk have can seem magnified and slightly more severe. There is also the risk that the now fragile recovering slightly less mad person, could tip over the edge at any point, so people tend to be overly polite, anxious and suspicious of any behaviour even slightly away from the norm. The accentuated, "How are you?" question happens a lot, and heaven forbid if there is a "Pregnant pause" after the initial questioning - fear and paranoia jump into the quiet place, and wild projections of a new phase of madness dance around the imagination.

Its funny as I don't want to be pitied or treated with kid gloves - I need to be understood, listened too and supported. Fear mongering makes me resentful and irritable. Its bad enough that I worry about a relapse, let along carrying everyone else's concern. It takes time for the community you live in to relax and return to the patterns of every day living.

Its easy to be self centred about what has happened, and behave as though noone else was involved or effected. Even if I have managed my condition with drugs, CBT, psychiatric and psychotherapy input, there will always be other people experiencing me and my behaviours.They will worry, they will challenge you, they do care. Sadly being completely unaffected is unavoidable. I wish sometimes that I could have done the whole thing by myself on a long mentally ill sabbatical of some sort, then return to the fold, well and equipped for the future.

So we are on the road to recovery, and things are almost slotting in to place. I wonder what else might happen, now that the chemical balance is better. Will I be able to settle for normal? I suppose I'm about to find out.

Character rebuilding

My level of serenity is directly proportional to the amount of acceptance I have in my life, apparently. It is so terribly easy to say, "I accept  it", but the process involved in this is a really long one. It takes mental, emotional, physical and spiritual practice to lever yourself in to the place where everything feels ok. Its a fine balancing act, and I have this internal seesaw that I have to add to, or take away things from, depending on how my mood is.

For example, work. Should I do a little bit, do loads of it, or do nothing at all. The implications of any of these decisions has fall out. Skint and mentally balanced but bored, or full of anxiety and stress, but having money and a career, or trying to find somewhere in the middle. I also have to balance up the practicalities and cost of childcare and try and fit in a relationship with my husband, parenting, healthy living and rest and relaxation. It's quite a big ask. Its when I see it in black and white like this, that I realise why my CPN asked me to consider giving up work until I was stable and well for a long period of time, before going back to the ring, leading with the chin!

Somebody once used the term, "Internal landscape" and I may have referred to it before, but this is what I am coming to terms with. I am no longer the sprightly, gamboling youth I once was. I'm a slightly older, slightly more mental woman of substance and I really need to adjust. But lets talk about  my character, and how that plays a part in all of this. Character traits either undermine my progress, or aid me in my new persona.

Pride and ego are my major downfall. I have an idea in my head of what I want to be, as a career woman, a, lover, parent. And when you move away from this projected image, it digs at my pride and sense of self. People want to believe they are infallible, or able to do whatever they choose, and I am one of them. Women in the 21st century feel that they can have it all. The media push this image of the alpha female doing everything, having everything and having no consequences. Its a life of heaven on earth. But in reality, for me, that is all very far from the truth. I cannot have it all, and there are always consequences to everything that I do.

In my mental health recovery I am in the process of ego deflation and a crash course in humility. I need to be more modest about myself, than an inflated image of "Have it all." And then I have to deal with envy, when I desire what other people have, and I wistfully reminisce about the way that I was and what I have lost. I have to constantly remind myself that life is not always greener on the other side. And I mustn't bow down to jealousy as I will become bitter and resentful of all of those other people who supposedly have a better life than me.

I also have a stubborn streak a mile wide, and without that, I would have never as got as far as I have in my rebirth into the mentally well person I am today (Well, slightly more mentally well anyway). Stubbornness is a double edged sword for me though,  in that I can dig my heels in and be truly bloody minded just for the sake of it or to be obstructive when I am angry.

I'm never quite sure how many people do this character inventory on a regular basis, but I am learning that others do not do the same things as me, whether mentally ill or not.  I practice being honest about myself in all situations in my life, and a lot of people view you as some kind of idiot for making yourself so vulnerable in a hostile world. Others see it as a gift, so they can use your "weakness" for their personal gain. And still others see it as a virtue, but in no way, shape or form would they ever consider following that path themselves. Its a lonely old path at times, and I can feel very isolated in company.

I wonder some times if it is all worth the hassle.

TRying to maintain balance is a full time job

Most people (I assume) roll out of bed in the morning, wash, dress, eat and go to work. Plod through the day, chat and do whatever is necessary, come home, eat, sleep and its all over. Not wishing to totally simplify the life of others, but I can be hugely resentful with the ease in which non-mentally ill people function. This may be a fallacy or folly, but I do actually know people for whom very little happens in the way of stress or trauma. This is what I aspire to be - the benchmark of serene mundanity. Stress for these people doesn't mean they might end up in the mental health unit. They are not boring, but just regular.

And for me this is so terribly difficult. I have to put so many things in place to maintain normality, that it feels as if  I'm doing a full time job just to reach the level most people function at with no effort at all. Sometimes I just want a rest. Or give up. Or scream at the top of my voice in the street in rage. These are the days when my cross to bear feels unfair.

What really bugs me is when people choose to disregard the severity of your illness, or dismiss how difficult it is to do the very simple things, when you try to have a transparent and honest conversation with them. I know the mass of the general populous cannot be empathetic or educated, but I hope that some of the people I work closely with, or know me quite well, would maybe give me that courtesy. I had a conversation with someone today, and without trying to be a victim or wanting special case status, I tried to explain why I was struggling. The response was one of exasperation and annoyance more than anything. All I wanted was  understanding about my humaness, but it seems that was a little too much to expect. It must get on people nerves when you can't deliver things to their expectations, or, you have a different way of doing things. I realised today that some people speak with the golden tongue of disability equality, but when push comes to shove, these people can't be arsed.

Today I felt like giving up.

I really sat and thought about the psychotherapy concept of "Mood contamination" and this does happen to me when people refuse to accept my limitations. I just become demoralised and angry. I either have to have a hide made of steel and be an ignorant git, grin and bear it, or, remove myself from the jousting arena and retire to the florist shop. Maybe I'm just really difficult to get on with and expect too much from others. But maybe the person I spoke to was a ........

Madness, self esteem and chocolate

Within a few weeks of taking my anti-psychotic medication, I begin to eat like an Olympic body builder. The ravenous never ending hunger I talked about - well it is a monster! I find myself quite regularly, buying family packs of Wispa bars, and pretending to myself that I'll eat one now and save the rest for later. Yeah right. Alcoholics try this behaviour with booze. I'll have a little bit now, then tomorrow I'll finish off the bottle. An hour later, they're back down the "offie" pretending they dropped the bottle on the concrete and need a new one.

Its not just chocolate either. I keep having 2 breakfasts - one when I get up, and then another one about 9am. Then I'm eating a huge lunch, snacking in between and feeling guilty as I know its going to land on my midriff and expose me. My body doesn't lie. But whilst I'm still depressed eating is the only thing I seem to enjoy. The trouble is, becoming Mrs Tiggiewinkle doesn't do much for my self esteem. Its a rotten cycle to be in - eating because you are depressed and hungry because of the medication -  then getting fat and feeling rubbish so you eat for comfort. And on it goes.

So when I was told about the healthy living group, I assumed it would be a bit like the CBT group, a large group of people and someone helping us with new techniques. When I arrive there are only 5 of us around a very small table, 2 mental health workers and a set of scales. Thankfully I am the slim Jim of the group - I know that sounds awful, but its a ray of hope for me as I feel that I am actually enormous. We all have to take our shoes off and stand on the scales. I want to cry as I experience yet another rock bottom. No-one really speaks and no-one discloses their illness. There is shame even amongst fellow sufferers. One person has been on the course before and is back for more inspiration. Lord knows how big he was before poor love.

After the weigh in we talk about food groups and portion sizes. I know its all common sense, but to own in within a group stops the denial and engages you with a desire to look after yourself a bit better. Staving off depression comes in many forms and diet is a great place to start. Resentfully I take a food diary sheet to fill in during the week. What this does is stops me eating crap and brings me up short. I really need to get to grips with it and nurture my body as well as my mind. We're going to be doing this for 6 weeks and then we'll see how we've all got on. The facilitator states very clearly that "This is not a diet group." We don't stop eating and starve, but we eat more intelligently, and learn what foods will give us energy, vitamins and won't damage our bodies. Apparently, it turns out, I've been eating about twice the sensible amount of calories every day. No wonder I'm chubby mummy.

I've met other depression sufferers and they can't eat at all when they are ill. They cannot swallow and everything tastes like cardboard. This is just as damaging for the body and mind. I wonder if there is a group for these people too?

On top of the healthy living group, I've been signed up to do exercise on GP referral. It means I pay a lot less but still run around like a mouse on a wheel, amongst svelte and tanned lovelies. In this environment I am the walrus. A lovely lady inducts me in to the hall of pain, and I hate the fact that after 3 minutes on a cross trainer, I think I'm going to throw up and my legs have gone wobbly. I'm glad that I didn't have to go to the gym on my own steam and sign up. I don't want to have the whole discussion of do you cater for mentally ill fat people? I get my own little program to do, and its suggested I go 2 or 3 times per week. This is really going to take huge effort. I detest the gym. I feel awkward, self conscious, old and fat. If my self esteem was low before, its now under the floor by ten feet. I'm surrounded by huffing weight lifters, and stick thin women sweating profusely. I am so far out of my comfort zone its not funny. This is where I realise that I am willing to go to any lengths to get well. I am doing so many things that go against the grain, I must want to recover.

I tell you this, if I do all of this and still feel rubbish, I may have to reassess my life in a totally different way. And Lord only knows what that might involve.