It’s Mental Health Awareness Week and Bipolar Bear is training for happiness. It’s the last training he’s done since taking the Tube in 2010, so wish him luck.
BE ACTIVE
Do what you can, enjoy what you do, be active and move your mood.
I’m moving, I’m moving. Wait a minute…walking to the fridge – getting the hang of this now – opening it…there it is. Just as the monkeys stare at the monolith with awe and amazement in 2001, so do I fix mine eyes upon this:
I rip the paper off and break off eight squares, the almonds and raisins and chocolate melting together in a frenzy of ecstatic taste. I’m doing what I can, and enjoying what I do.
It’s not going to work, is it?
I learnt this lesson in the latter half of last year, when my weight insidiously ballooned to the point where going out in public wearing jeans was akin to showing off an anatomic diagram. And they left flesh wounds when I peeled them off at night. To quote Billy Connolly, I’d find “Levi” written around my navel, although I’ve long forsaken name brand jeans for those $20 pairs at The Warehouse.
Child labour be damned, I need pants.
Sigh, I can’t procrastinate any longer, can I? It’s talking about exercise, isn’t it?
I have a long and difficult relationship with physical activity. It stretches back to school, where I didn’t excel at sport in an environment where boys were expected to be star athletes within a very limited range of team sporting codes: rugby, soccer or cricket.
One of my earliest PE memories is still burned into my brain: ten years old, the new kid at primary school, and being lined up with all my male classmates by the teacher to see how far we could throw a ball, with everyone’s results being measured and written down.
I was towards the back of the line, either because I was shying away from the task or out of random assignment, I can’t remember. But as each boy stepped up and launched that ball like a torpedo across the field with balletic precision, my stomach filled up with helium, the nausea inside creeping up my gullet as each set of numbers was called by the teacher and noted down:
28.4 metres.
26.7 metres.
23.2 metres.
Not much room for deviation here.
I finally reached the front, and held the ball in my hand. That furry, green, firm-but-spongy fuzz felt like a shotput.
The eyes of the whole class on me, as well as others who were beginning to gather round, having been let out early for afternoon break time, I breathed in and out and prepared to use every last vestige of energy to launch this stupid fucking ball into orbit.
I drew my right arm back and with a vicious and blind explosion thrust it forward, only to see it arc down into the grass, dirt flying everywhere, before a few spasmic bounces gave way to a gentle, mocking roll.
I heard the laughter before I saw it, coming from all around me, my eyes fixed on the tape measure as my bum throw was dealt the same scientific measurement that had been dealt to the other boys.
“3.4,” cried the teacher, looking up at me and laughing along with all the others.
I turned around and left the school grounds, walking at first but then breaking into a run so those ape-like, pathetic trolls couldn’t see my ape-like pathetic display of unmanly emotion as the tears started to run down my pale face.
I’d never had any great interest in sport, but it was from that day that I grew to resent it. And not just sport, but any physical activity. If I was going to be rejected, then I would get there first. I would exclude myself, and wear it as a badge of honour.
Throughout high school, I avoided sport whenever I could – nigh-on impossible – to avoid my shortcomings being revealed like a soft pink underbelly for a bunch of crocodiles to get their teeth into.
Of course, sport wasn’t the only part of being active – there was also the horror of gym. How many chin-ups can you do? In front of the class. Can you climb the rope up to the ceiling? And not just can you, but how fast can you do it? In front of the class.
That’s the funny thing about that PE – perhaps it was abbreviated to allow us to forget what the letters stood for: Physical Education. Education. That’s right, fucking teach me something.
When I’m in maths class, you teach me about algebra. When I’m in science class, you teach me about chemicals. When I’m in English, we studied Shakespeare. In religious education, some bollocks about a carpenter who did magic tricks – but at least the intent was there!
In PE, we were never taught anything about ball skills, or how to throw or kick. If you couldn’t even do one chin-up, we weren’t taught that strengthening our upper bodies would help us to do this. And we certainly weren’t taught about the positive brain chemicals that are released when we exercise.
No, there were only three principles of PE: compare, contrast, and laugh.
Luckily, I was a skinny rake throughout my twenties, so it wasn’t necessary for me to engage in physical activity for concerns such as staving off obesity or diabetes. But I was also missing out on something that would have had a profound impact on maintaining my mental wellbeing during a time when I was often treading water.
My school experiences left me completely disempowered around physical activity, with branded negative self-belief about my co-ordination, fitness and strength. I didn’t consider for years – not until my late twenties – that I had the power to be able to change the shape of my body if I was unhappy with it.
I started to go to the gym and lift weights, and slowly learned to ignore the people around me, even though I thought they were looking at me. They were phantoms from the past, and my brain was just tricking me. There was a thirty-year-old man with a good decade’s worth of accomplishments looking back at me in the mirror when I sat at the bench press, not a frightened, gangly fifteen-year-old.
Yet motivation to keep up a consistent fitness regime was hard. I’d only have to miss one day out of my routine, and it’d fall like a house of cards.
I realised this year that I’d been doing it for the wrong reasons. Working out to improve my appearance was ticking the box of being active, and was doing what I could. But I wasn’t enjoying what I did, and I certainly wasn’t moving my mood.
Dean found an iPhone app called Couch to 5K that completely turned things around for me. It set out an incremental programme of fitness that, over a twelve-week period, got you to a point where you could do a 5-kilometre run. Starting with simple walking, and adding in staggered bursts of running as the weeks passed, the goals were achievable and manageable.
Instead of looking at the athleticism of an All Black or the impossibly beautiful mesomorph torso plastered throughout gay media, wondering how I was supposed to cross that chasm (let alone questioning whether it was even necessary), all I had to do was look at a simple instruction that said: today you’re going to walk for five minutes, then run for two.
Say goodbye to compare, contrast and defeat. Say hello to achievement, and those elusive endorphins that annoying fitness freaks go on about.
Yes, being active does feel good.
And there are unlimited ways in which you can make this link in the wellbeing chain work for you. I’m still working it out – my fitness regime has dropped off again, alas – but the difference now is that I know that I can do it.
And so can you.
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I think I had a similar school experience in re fitness — I could not stand physical education. I’ve always been on the bigger side and I generally shut down during PE and sat in the corner.
In 2007, while I was going through a manic phase and after I was hospitalized with Clostridium difficile, which made it difficult for me to eat for *months*, I used the lower appetite and the mania and combined it with exercise. I dropped 140 pounds from 319 (144 kg to ~77 kg). Then came the risperidone, combined with a schedule that forced work together with graduate school to produce a reduced exercise slot, and I’ve gained 100 pounds again.
It’s hard to get back on the exercise wagon, my metabolism is shot, and my appetite is still pretty high after switching from risperidone to one of the newest atypical antipsychotics, lurasidone (brand name Latuda, which is very expensive). I’m trying to get back on the wagon, so to speak, but it is extremely difficult.
As I do not have a car now due to my partner’s vehicle dying, it is very difficult to get around a car-centric city like Atlanta, Georgia. There is a rail system, albeit limited, and I use it to get to the most accessible pharmacy to get my four different medications, all at different times. But it borders on a “transitional” (read: gentrifying neighborhood that is still pretty crime ridden) neighborhood and I am very afraid to walk around the transit station after the sun goes down — so I skip exercising right after work at my employer’s gym. Since Mr. Rptrcub works more than 40 hours a week, sometimes late into the evening, hitching a ride with him is nigh on impossible.
At least I walk everywhere now after taking the train!
The key is in your last sentence – you *are* doing something. Being active doesn’t have to be formalised. And walking is absolutely fine for exercise. How about going for a 15-minute walk at lunchtime?
I’ve found i’m far more physically active now than i ever was in school. Hell, i even did what my 12yo self would have thought unthinkable and joined a rugby team (scotland’s only gay rugby team at that). That was due to a need to meet new people and be outside, things which were relatively easier when you’re in school.
Good on you, Aidan. That’s the reason gay rugby teams exist, so that guys like us could actually reclaim a feeling of inclusion in team sport. Hope you enjoyed it.
Another great blog Chris!
I am loving this series!
I am of course in the same boat, albeit on the other end, I have to exercise to stave off obesity! You know I still struggle with the exercise too! I really had to fight myself this morning at 5:45 to go to boxing class! I nearly backed out, but didn’t, and I’m glad I didn’t back out! Even though I’m still incredibly unco, the other day trying to do an assisted chin up, I broke the machine, and this morning I could barely get it together to skip rope! But I did manage to do a chin up (yes just one), and I surprised myself for about 30 seconds with the skipping rope aswell! The thing is you just have to do it, no matter what. I pretty much screamed in my head this morning, “just get up and do it you lazy motherfucker”! And as for being unco, who cares! You know even the all blacks make mistakes, and drop the ball, sprain and ankle (or more), no ones perfect.
Anyway I think I’m preaching to the perverted, oh I mean the converted.
P.S I have lost 20kgs in the past 2 years, so there’s a great reason to keep exercising, and keeping it off!
You’re doing a boxing class? Excellent. I think the important thing is, if you’re not enjoying your exercise, then the answer is to change what you’re doing rather than stopping doing it. Motivation will come and go, depending on what mood you’re in that day, but sometimes you can get bored with what you’re doing, or get trapped into thinking that you *have* to do running or you *have* to lift weights.
Yeah boxing class is for fitness, not for getting in the ring and damaging my beautiful face (scoff). It’s the best cardio! And helps with coordination, of which I have precious little! Also I enjoy lifting weights, and running! I know I’m a sicko!
No, I get you, I had wondered about boxing class for the same thing. I imagine it does good for your arms as well.
I was about as good as you at throwing, though of course girls weren’t expected to be able to throw, so it wasn’t as traumatising.
Gymnastics and volleyball were my dreaded sports. Volleyball HURT, dammit! As for gymnastics – I wasn’t willing to risk severe injury just so I could throw myself over a large obstacle. Ridiculous.
The sport I was best at was dodgeball. Because I was so tiny, and could run relatively fast over very short distances, I was always good at it. The fact that it was effectively physical assault seemed to escape the PE teachers. I dread to think what injuries the boys received when playing it.
Did you dislike team sports?
Only volleyball, really. I liked playing soccer, hockey, cricket, and softball. Mainly because we were ALL really shit at them! There wasn’t a lot of pressure to perform. I didn’t mind netball, despite having horrendous hand-eye coordination.
Basically, I hated sports where I was afraid of hurting myself. My classmates would only give me a hard time if I completely refused to try. If I tried and failed they didn’t hassle me.
In retrospect I guess I was really lucky that my complete lack of skill didn’t impact hugely on me! I think maybe boys are harsher when it comes to sports.
Gawd, this post made me snort – which hurt my nose. It’s so funny because it’s so tragically true for me! As a girl I wasn’t even expected to be able to do pushups or chinups, much less climb a rope. Other girls could do it, but those of us to tried then fell down like rocks were pretty much left there. Through my years of depression I had no idea I could actually do something to help. Instead, I still made like a rock and just lay there, waiting for it to go away.
My exercise revelation has only happened this year. I’m 48 years old, and am only now getting the knowledge I should have had at 12. I haven’t been able to wear jeans for years, but just watch this space, dammit!!
Oh, I just remembered another humiliation-by-measurement . . . did you have to do the beep test?? Sheesh, how many times can you run around the field in a certain time (it felt like and hour, but I think it was 12 minutes). That test was the first time I actually rebelled, and decided that I’d do the punishment detention and walk it. Less humiliation that way.
No, we never had the beep test – beyond my school’s level of technology. The headmaster was very much a parchment and quill man, and that was just his face.
We had the beep test but luckily due to short staff our portly Science Teacher became our PE teacher and he let us make up our own results. Bless that man.
I was planning to talk to a number of people I know who have been incredibly successful at being active for this post, but Labour releasing it’s sports and rec policy this week – along with Trevor Mallard’s comments about the possibility of compulsory team sport participation in schools – really got me going.
If we’re looking to combat obesity, as well as promote understanding of the link between physical and mental health, then the whole menu of options need to be given to young people and allow them to choose.
Being active is actually a skill that needs to be taught just as much as academic subjects, but when I was at school, the PE teacher was little more than a bloke with a whistle.
Have you read Mark’s Daily Apple? http://www.marksdailyapple.com/how-i-would-change-gym-class/ He posted yesterday about how he’d change kids PE if he could – including having actual gym teachers, not maths teachers with a whistle.
I like some of his ideas, but I’m very anti the idea of enforced team sport and competition when it comes to physical activity. I think individual goals are the best. Some people will love doing team sports, but those that don’t want to, there should be alternatives.