The restorative properties of swimming
On the back of my good
friend and Hispanic studies scholar Fiona Noble’s blog post
about going walking to get the writing juices flowing, I thought I’d chip in
with my recent experience of swimming and walking in helping my writing process
in tandem with recovering from debilitating mental health issues.
Swimming is an
activity I’ve avoided for many years due to poor eyesight, not being terribly
good at breathing, and body shame. Now that I’m an old has-been of 32 (a dig at
my last lot of students who practically said as much), I give less of a damn.
Firstly, I’ve had the
contact lenses/prescriptions goggles conversation too many times than is
acceptable for anyone’s sanity, so spare me. I’m not an athlete, nor a rich
person. I never could do head-under-water stuff anyway, largely due to point
two, so wearing old glasses isn’t an issue. But the embarrassment of bumping
into people was.
Secondly, I’m an odd
shape. I’m a long, gangly sort of person, but my torso is short, and my
internal organs are small relative to my full size. My little lungs can’t breathe
as deeply as they ought to. I also live with anxiety, which has been severe in
recent months, and tends to give me asthma-like symptoms. Let’s face it, I’m
also a horrific klutz, and often go by the alter ego of Captain Disaster.
Finally, I was
overweight when I was younger. In my early twenties, I lost six stone in weight
(c. 84lb or 38kg) – over a third of
my body mass. No matter how much I worked out at the gym (I went obsessively
during my PhD), the loose skin and silvery lines that used to be stretch marks
never went away. My fat, unhealthy body transformed into a healthy but flabby,
saggy mess. At least at the gym you can cover up, but not so much in the pool. I’ve
learned to embrace my body, though, and feel proud of my achievement. In fact,
I’m fascinated by bodies that bear the traces of lives lived. Bodies and the
things that mark them should not be sources of shame.
The struggles I’ve had
lately with the physical effects of mental ill-health have led me to consider
the experiences of differently-abled bodies. Going for a stroll isn’t that simple
for everyone. Like Fiona, I find walking ideal for getting the mind working. For
example, I thought out much of this post while walking to and from the pool
today. I also had the privilege of working close to the stunning Botanic
Gardens in Belfast, nestled between the main Queen’s University campus and the
Ulster Museum, and frequently made a point of dandering round them or having
lunch there in good weather throughout my doctoral studies.
Lately, though, the severity
of the bout of anxiety attacks I’ve had over the past five months have caused
faintness, dizziness, imbalance, breathlessness, general pain, and heaviness in
my limbs. I’ve had blackouts before caused by sudden drops in blood pressure
while running about like a numpty trying to do all the things because in
academia anything less than that is viewed as weakness. I think the wonderful
NHS staff of Belfast and England could do without me bothering them further in
their overstretched A&E departments. Best to avoid walking when it risks
exertion. As well as such physical barriers, motivation is difficult when at
loggerheads with depression.
Upon reconnecting
with certain friends in North East England I increasingly considered the benefits of swimming as a
kind of rehabilitation. A friend living in the area to which I’ve moved spoke
highly of the local community library and swimming pool, conveniently sat side
by side. She assured me of the warmth of the welcome, and how good it felt to
support them. The library’s brief opening hours have been great for structuring
protected writing time and gets me out of the house. I battled with fatigue for
three weeks this month, and it took that much time to build myself up
to trying the pool. I had fallen into a rut of needing to sleep in the
afternoon, so overwhelming was the sleepiness. Determined to combat it and
regain energy (I’ve got work to do!) I pushed myself last Thursday and, not
only did I make it, I had a great time and broke the cycle. I’ve reached more manageable
levels of tiredness since, and feel fine for it. I am pleased that I did quite a
few lengths, and swam naturally on my back, which is something I could never do before. I chatted with friendly
strangers, and left feeling tired, but energized in a way I hadn’t felt in a
long time.
I went back again today
and managed to do even more. I mean, I think I inhaled half the pool and people more than twice my age put me to shame, but the atmosphere is lovely.
I apologize every time my flailing arms bump somebody a little, and they laugh
and smile and tell me, ‘it’s fine, we just go round each other’. The kindness
and friendliness of these short exchanges – even just the lifeguard recognizing
me from last week and saying hello, looking pleased to see me back – is a huge
boost after months spent in a working environment where I dreaded going into my
office and checking email, never knowing what torture or insult was next. Kindness,
honesty and transparency are treasures to me.
It was just over a year ago that I began to consider
more seriously the silent, hidden struggles of differently-abled bodies. I’ve always tried to be mindful but perhaps in an under-informed
way. In February 2016, a bad fall resulted in some broken ribs, and a week of
teaching and speaking at public engagement events while off my face on codeine.
My commute to work involved overcrowded buses. I looked perfectly ‘able’, so
was never offered a seat. Mind you, these were students who didn’t give space
to people getting on with small children or walking frames either. Gripping on
for dear life brought tears to my eyes from the searing pain for weeks. I’d
have walked, but this was the winter of the many alphabetical floody storms (reaching
all the way to Katie for flip sake) and I lived over two miles from the campus.
I felt much more empathy and anger for those who endure physical difficulty in
navigating spaces which privilege the ‘fully’ able. Invisibleness and the silencing
of suffering happen to dovetail with my research interests in affectivity and post-conflict
traumatic recall, so perhaps I was drawing that out more into other kinds of situations.
Recently, I’ve been
shocked at how physically disabling mental illness can be. I had no idea it was
this bad. I never doubted anyone’s pain when I heard or read about it, but I
wonder now if I bought into the idea that it wasn’t as ‘authentic’ or ‘bad’ as
physical injury or illness of the visually undeniable variety. Mental pain is
very real and suffered by people who often feel unpermitted rather than unable
to admit it, given the stigma of projected weakness and failure. On the
contrary, it takes a special kind of strength to battle through mental torment
and despair while exuding a surface image of ‘normality’. The strengths and
abilities we do possess ought
to be celebrated.
If I leave any readers
with anything, it’s to consider the idea of re-framing what is generally regarded
as weakness or in-/dis-ability. Differently-abled people have different
skill-sets to the averagely-abled; they are not lesser. Bodies and minds in
pain are not lesser. Engage with what you cannot see as well as with what you
can. If you are in pain, there is no fit-all solution, and all solutions are
only ever temporary; find what works healthily and positively for you. If something
doesn’t work, rather than seeing it as failure, understand that ruling stuff
out is good and move on to the next thing. Be kind, because there is an awful
lot of quiet, invisible pain being suffered. Reach out, because you are not
alone.
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