I’ve been partially bed bound and working from home the last few days with awful flu-like symptoms. The ones that make you do those pathetic little moans in pain and remind you that bodies are useless skin bags of brittle bones. It topped off what has been a really tough few weeks.
Work has been difficult with yet another round of redundancies, and a career within the education sector is feeling increasingly untenable as the months roll by. Throw in starting a PhD, and suddenly the world starts to unravel around you.
It sometimes feels like five years wasted. Unable to catch a break. I’ve picked the absolute worst time to start a career in Higher Education and ignite my passion for educational research. And then I realise, the same thing happened as the world went into lockdown whilst I was merely 5 months into my PGCE.
It’s taught me a lesson: My timing is always off. Always.
With that comes an innate sense of urgency in everything I do. I power walk everywhere unable to gently stroll. I eat quickly as though I have somewhere else to be. My mind chatters, senses heightened and alert to spot the tiniest of changes.
So the music goes on to calm the internal monologue and I stomp with intention from point A to B. I power through four hours of admin in two hours. I speed read those articles and then I let my brain engage in autopilot to create critical links with all the other stuff it’s learnt. In short, I know how to harness the power of my brain on a good day.
But when it’s bad? My timing is still off. I keep stalling and start to roll backwards. Sometimes I can’t get myself to restart and I slip down the hill, hurtling with a similar momentum that I propel myself forward with on the better days. Some days, the emergency brakes work. Other days, I pray for a soft buffer at the bottom.
I’ve been forcing myself up this hill on fumes in a demented act of neoliberal survivalism. Where my mind doesn’t always want to admit defeat, my body has physically forced me to stop. I caught the flu. That’s the soft buffer.
Yesterday was a reprise from most of the aches. A friend invited me out over lunchtime. The beauty of flexitime and hybrid working. Best make the most of it whilst I still can. So, after packing a small bag and wearily dragging myself up and down the stairs to find all the things I’d misplaced, I took a short drive to a local reservoir.
I crawled through winding village roads whilst the sun burnt my retinas, my air con on full blast to dry the last of a feverish, hurried sweat. I was soon greeted by the picturesque postcard moment of old Glossop in all its sepia and greenery. The League of Gentlemen meets Last of the Summer Wine. Sublime.
My friend, in full mum-mode, had packed a flask of oat milk coffee, picnic blanket and spare paddling gear. With her support dog, Toastie, we made our way to the reservoir. My body still fizzing with decongestants and wobbly from bed rest, it was forced to stop and stroll. And this was completely okay.
We walked along a lane through private land. Some rich bloke with a gorgeous house where peacocks sunbathed on perfected lawns and hens dust bathed in the shade of the wood. I revelled in the novelty of it all and squealed with excitement snapping shots as though on safari. Further along the drystone wall, we reach a gate to hop over.
In the short walk from the car park to this point, I’d forgotten I was still actually unwell. In rather too much enthusiasm, I hoisted myself up and clambered over the gate narrowly avoiding injury. In my eagerness, I’d slipped and somehow suspended my body while scrambling to find my footing. The muscles winced as my palms sweatily clung onto the top bar. Another reminder: take it easy.
We stroll and stop as Toastie did some superb leaf inspection where we eventually reached a clearing at the top end of the reservoir. It was beautifully still. The sun wrapping her golden rays around my heavy arms. Silent, except for the distant bleeting of lambs and trickles of water. A quietness I hadn’t realised I’d been craving.
We set up a picnic spot and after a few throws of the ball with Toastie, we donned our wet shoes and went for a paddle. We eased our way down the embankment into cool, clean water, carefully stepping over tadpoles hugged against the edge in the shallows. I suddenly felt a shrill of relaxation wash over me – like when you get into the pool on holiday for the first time. I wanted to wade in deeper.
Feeling anxious, my pal had brought her inflatable used when wild swimming. After whipping my T-shirt off and to hell with the consequence, I tentatively edged forward in just a cotton sport bra and leggings. The cold shock stung. I steadied my breathing, refusing to let my warm shoulders fully submerge.
I clumsily held onto the inflatable despite being a strong swimmer. I wasn’t ready to fully commit to further spontaneity in all the wrong clothing choices. And so I floundered, scared of going too far out, wanting to keep my feet within reaching distance of the embankment. And I stared out into vast beauty, feeling alive for the first time in months.
After a quick dip, we wrung out our gear and dried them out on a makeshift clothes hook – a disused sign probably telling us NOT to swim. We sat, had our coffee and meandering deep and meaningfuls before a group of three middle aged women rocked up for their own wild swim. In serene honesty, I turned to my friend “you forget what real bodies look like.”
The second lesson: I’m too online. A habit I needed to break.
I was too immersed in the grind and it was moving too quickly to sustain. So it was in that moment that I decided I wanted to do what they were doing. Swimming in nature. Multiple acts of defiance against our oppressive system. A realistic and healthier alternative to careering out of control. Not without its risks, but the risks keep it novel and exciting. I was sold.
My friend spoke about the reservoir being her go-to happy place. Where she would float and watch the swallows swoop and nip insects off the surface. I didn’t realise I wanted that too. I didn’t realise how much I’d internalised my sense of adventure and curiosity.
Returning home, I felt renewed. Upon finishing off my working day, I itched for more. What was it? Dopamine? Actual proper dopamine? Not the instantaneous, lacklustre synthetic dopamine from phone scrolling and ranting into the void. Pure, unbridled zero stuffs given dopamine. Ignited by the sun, the fresh air, the cold water, nature.
I awoke the following morning feeling extremely fatigued. My eyes darkened, head pounding. I was STILL ill. As I picked my way through a slapdash breakfast quesadilla whilst watching the blur of Saturday Kitchen without my glasses on, I made an executive decision to go back to bed.
The body knows best. It knew I needed to inject life back into me yesterday. It also knew it needed to rest properly today. The foreboding shadow of more job application deadlines hanging over me, I decided that I didn’t care. It can wait until tomorrow. Today, you rest.
As I came to after a long afternoon nap, I wrote a letter to my feral inner child. The one who rode their bike through woodlands and created stories in their head. The one who defiantly embraced their uniqueness and simply did what felt best for them. The one who felt unburdened by trends, and the one who persevered when things got tough.
I owe it to that small one, with their long plaited strawberry blonde hair, listening to Bad Religion and watching skateboarding VHS tapes.
The one who often felt so misunderstood and hurt, still had adventure running through their veins.
Beth, you’re still actually ill you know. That’s why you’ve slept all day.
The fatigue isn’t your normal fatigue, it’s flu fatigue.
Take yourself on a gentle walk to the shop and get your 3 nice drinks for a relaxing evening. Order yourself a takeaway and do that silly application tomorrow. It can wait.
But please rest, little adventurer. Calm your curiosity and internal restlessness for a day.
I know you feel guilty when you’re not being productive and that’s amplified when it’s sunny outside. Especially when you’re in the middle of very unstable situations that force you to respond with immediate action. This is a symptom of your crisis response in a horrible unfair world, and not a deficit. But know when to ease off the accelerator before you burn off the fuel.
So please. The world doesn’t stop but sometimes you have to. Even if outside sounds more alive than ever.
It will be there for you when you’re better.