In case you don't obsessively check in with the nuances of my life, a few months ago I wrote a post about my relationship with exercise and considered the prospect of giving it up. (Incidentally, it also became one of my most-ever viewed blog posts within 24 hours, because I mentioned on instagram that there could be possibly triggering photos on the post. Sigh.)
Anyway, since then I have given up exercise. It wasn't even a considered decision - one day, while I was still in China, I just didn't want to go for a run. So I didn't. And I didn't the next day, or the next, or the next, even though I had a rule in my head that I had to run at least once a week. I just had other things I'd rather do. And I suppose that's a sign of real recovery - when the recovery wins aren't even momentous official decision, but something you do without even thinking about it. Like how I'm at a cafe now, sipping sugary, milky coffee with an unknown number of calories, because it's what I felt like doing when I woke up.
So yeah, I haven't done any exercise besides walking (which I don't really count as exercise) for at least 6 months. Well, actually, I went for one run in like September, which really highlighted how much my fitness has plummeted. And I haven't really missed it. I haven't ballooned, like I thought I would, in fact I'm currently a little more underweight than I usually am. I don't combust from an excess of anxious energy, either. And it's nice not to stress about when I'm going to fit in my run for that week. I said in my other post that to really recover from exercise addiction I have to stop exercising a long, long time, until I no longer feel guilt about being sedentary, and I've done that now. So is it time for me to resume exercise?
The thing is, I'm perfectly happy in this new norm of not exercising. I wouldn't even considering exercising again, except for the face that I'm being pressured by my parents and doctors, on account of the depression. It's a well-known fact that exercise is meant to help with mental illness, particularly depression, because of endorphins and mood regulation and all that. The depression has been especially bad lately, as probably evidenced by my little trip to the hospital. And the mental health lady at the hospital, my mum, my dad, my psychologist, my GP, have all asked me about whether I'm getting regular exercise. Depending on whether they know about my ED or not, I say no, or no, because of my ED. Some of the medical professionals accept my daily walks as adequate exercise, some don't, but either way, everyone's encouraging me to start running again.
I do miss it a little. I miss the long periods of time to myself, where I can listen to music and daydream based on the song playing. I still do that on my walks, but the lack of intensity means the music doesn't quite hit the same.
At the psychologist's the other day, she made me visualise waking up in the morning, putting on my runners, and going for a run. She made me imagine the pleasant languor afterwards, which I had told her was my favourite part of cross-country training back when I was like 15 and functional (albeit with a raging ED). And while I, in my mind, dreaded the out-of-breathness, the dawning realisation when you wake up that you're about to be in a lot of pain, it also excited me.
We set the goal that, before I see her next, I will try to go for one run. I next see her on the 5th of February. I'll let you know how I go.
Anyway, since then I have given up exercise. It wasn't even a considered decision - one day, while I was still in China, I just didn't want to go for a run. So I didn't. And I didn't the next day, or the next, or the next, even though I had a rule in my head that I had to run at least once a week. I just had other things I'd rather do. And I suppose that's a sign of real recovery - when the recovery wins aren't even momentous official decision, but something you do without even thinking about it. Like how I'm at a cafe now, sipping sugary, milky coffee with an unknown number of calories, because it's what I felt like doing when I woke up.
So yeah, I haven't done any exercise besides walking (which I don't really count as exercise) for at least 6 months. Well, actually, I went for one run in like September, which really highlighted how much my fitness has plummeted. And I haven't really missed it. I haven't ballooned, like I thought I would, in fact I'm currently a little more underweight than I usually am. I don't combust from an excess of anxious energy, either. And it's nice not to stress about when I'm going to fit in my run for that week. I said in my other post that to really recover from exercise addiction I have to stop exercising a long, long time, until I no longer feel guilt about being sedentary, and I've done that now. So is it time for me to resume exercise?
The thing is, I'm perfectly happy in this new norm of not exercising. I wouldn't even considering exercising again, except for the face that I'm being pressured by my parents and doctors, on account of the depression. It's a well-known fact that exercise is meant to help with mental illness, particularly depression, because of endorphins and mood regulation and all that. The depression has been especially bad lately, as probably evidenced by my little trip to the hospital. And the mental health lady at the hospital, my mum, my dad, my psychologist, my GP, have all asked me about whether I'm getting regular exercise. Depending on whether they know about my ED or not, I say no, or no, because of my ED. Some of the medical professionals accept my daily walks as adequate exercise, some don't, but either way, everyone's encouraging me to start running again.
I do miss it a little. I miss the long periods of time to myself, where I can listen to music and daydream based on the song playing. I still do that on my walks, but the lack of intensity means the music doesn't quite hit the same.
At the psychologist's the other day, she made me visualise waking up in the morning, putting on my runners, and going for a run. She made me imagine the pleasant languor afterwards, which I had told her was my favourite part of cross-country training back when I was like 15 and functional (albeit with a raging ED). And while I, in my mind, dreaded the out-of-breathness, the dawning realisation when you wake up that you're about to be in a lot of pain, it also excited me.
We set the goal that, before I see her next, I will try to go for one run. I next see her on the 5th of February. I'll let you know how I go.
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