Counting Butterflies
Managing my mental health even when the sun shines
My mental health has been in the bin lately. I’m not shy to admit this, because I know now to catch the spiral early enough to deploy mitigating action and also seek help. Whereas once I would be under blanket for an indeterminate amount of time, I now know that the time is limited, no matter how all-encompassing it might feel. Book an appointment with the doctor, speak to someone you trust and be gentle with yourself.
Oh, friends, of course it all seems straightforward here, writing after feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus, after hyperventilating, after getting frustrated by a daily tremor in my hands, after lying on the floor at work for hours, talking to doctors on the phone about my debilitating stomach pains. (Who knows if any of this is connected? Who knows.) After feeling the very specific guilt that comes from seeing someone you really care about being affected by your own mental state. It feels like a very, very ugly thing to reveal.
All of that aside, here we are, finally, at Saturday morning. I woke with the sun, drank coffee, pottered about the house and did some writing. When I got to a good point with it, I stretched my arms above my head, turned to the window and said, “Right!” It was time to go for a run.
It was not about the run itself at all. It never is on this kind of morning, it’s about seeing what the day holds. What height are the nettles now? How many butterflies will I see? As slow or as fast as I like at whatever point on the route I like. Walk a bit, whatever. Just smell and see and get an update on what has been happening in that part of the wood. Pause to see the big view out towards Ditteridge, towards Bath, the one I always stop to look at, the one I always tell myself to look at, to really notice, do you see it? Are you looking? Yes, shut up, I’m trying to look at it in peace.
I always stop the run at the top of Corsham High Street so I can stroll down it. It is very pretty, sometimes a tiny bit bustling, and the walk eases me back into life outside of the run. The slowing of step lets my brain creep back up to normal speed.
Like boiling a frog.
I’ve been in a funk since I got back from the Isle of Arran, so it’s not just post-race blues. But mornings like this are what dilute everything, and what remind me that I really am fine, everything is fine. What is tangible are butterflies, what is actionable is footsteps, and for as long as I can recognise this - metaphorically, allegorically or otherwise - I can believe that everything will be fine. And isn’t that enough?
