Emotion

In a desperate attempt to a) do some exercise and b) stop fretting, I asked for a yoga DVD* for Christmas.

Santa duly responded and I now have 90 minutes of beginners workouts which promise a healthier body and mind.

I have done them a couple of times so far and firstly, good lord I'm weedy if these are for beginners and secondly, I've realised what a gigantic bundle of stress and worry I really am.

To be fair, I think I was aware of both of these things, but I was astonished how it took just five minutes of a nice lady in lycra telling me it was okay if I couldn't do it all and it was okay to congratulate myself on what I could manage before it hit me.

I was even more astonished to find I shed a few tears.

Now, I am the first to admit that I am hugely emotional and apt to weep at anything even vaguely approaching sadness/joy/achievement/bravery/sacrifice/betrayal. Or, in fact, particularly touching adverts.

Set any of these to a soundtrack of stirring music and there's no hope.

But generally the waterworks are on someone else's behalf.

However, a few words from someone telling me that actually it's okay to just be gentle with myself was all it took for a few tears.

Not loads, not enough to drench the towel masquerading as a yoga mat, not enough to drip on the cat unhelpfully trying to get in the way of the downward dog.

But enough to make me realise I really need to look after myself. And that maybe I am worth a few minutes of kindness. 

But most importantly that kindness has to come from me. With or without lycra.

:: Emotion by Helen Reddy

* Yes, we still have a DVD player. We still have some cassette tapes too. Although admittedly nothing to play them on. A sentimental case full of them is in the loft.

Waterfall

We spent our half term at Butlin’s.

Ooh, it’s technicolour mayhem, but we love it. For my daughter, it’s great, it feels safe and is full-on entertainment with a week of mummy and daddy agreeing to pretty much everything she wants to do.

For my husband it’s great as he gets to eat huge breakfasts every day and see Billy Bear on a regular basis. He’s a big fan of cuddly toys that speak – we have quite a few in the house. As I suspect our daughter starts to become too old to be the excuse for his cast of voice characters, Billy gives him an outlet.*

For me Butlin’s is great as we’ve been a few times so the whole process is massively familiar thereby lessening cog fog worries and if I’m well enough, I can swim at any time I want to.

I’m at my happiest in the water. Alright, I can’t feel the temperature until the water hits my chest, but this is a plus because even the cold local pool feels like Barbados from bra level down.

So we swam every day and did, indeed, have a splashing time.

I even had the energy to go on the slides including the slightly insane Space Bowl which shoots you down an enclosed green tube and into what can best be described as a gigantic goldfish bowl which you circle in an ungainly fashion before being ejected at frighteningly high speed into a plunge pool.

Fortunately, being short sighted, I had to take my glasses off to go on the ride and therefore avoided seeing the faces of the spectators when I pitched half-laughing, half-shrieking sideways into the blue. I was a lycra-clad chlorine triumph.

But it took me the whole four days of swimming pool going to pluck up the courage to go on the Space Bowl.

It wasn’t the inability to see things clearly (myopia + optic neuritis have made me used to that), nor was it the warning signs stating “this ride is not recommended for people with medical conditions.”

It was more the belief that I could still be the person that could do that kind of thing; that I didn’t have to be limited – for the time being at least – by my physical or emotional state.

It was also a nod to my own longed-for signs of recovery, a weird little waterfall feeling in my head.

The first time it happened I was petrified, my entire head felt like cold water was coursing endlessly through it and I was sure another relapse was happening.

I was told once that the feeling signifies nerve pathways coming back to life. I don’t know if this is true, but my head waterfall only tends to happen during recovery so I might continue to believe it.

So cheers to the Space Bowl for making me happy. And cheers to the waterfall, long may it run.

:: Waterfall by The Stone Roses

*Although he has started to refer to Billy Bear as Champagne Billy for reasons best known to himself. It’s entirely possible that in my husband’s head, Billy Bear has a trust fund and plays polo.