The Walk of Witness - finished and yet only just started

It is done. Over eighty miles, 8 days of walking in all weathers and here I am, back in my flat in Sheffield. I still feel strangely disconnected from everything, as though I can't settle now without the rhythm of my feet moving beneath me.

And yet I have returned with an even deeper love of the 'tranquil wildness' of the White Peak. When the sun shines it can be truly breath taking. Day one was particularly varied - first the dramatic rock formations on Froggat and Curbar edge, then through the stately grounds of Chatsworth House, then past the idyllic village of Edensor then finally into Bakewell, crowded with day trippers getting their fill of Bakewell Pudding. But there were so many beautiful moments throughout the whole walk. Shaded rivers overhung with lush foliage. The eerie ancientness of Stanton Moor, where the prehistoric Nine Ladies Stone Circle and stone quarries bear witness to the lost generations that sculpted the land. Tiny ancient churches, where I would sit quietly to breathe in the profound sense of peace. Dramatic river valleys, with hidden caves and carpets of wildflowers. Sudden wildlife encounters - buzzards and kestrels overhead, a hare springing up by my path, a fox dancing across the field like a flash of flame, so many hidden songbirds singing out their hearts...

 The Eagle Stone near Curbar Edge and the Cork Stone on Stanton Moor

But there were testing times, especially when the weather was foul. Heavy rain quickly turned the romantic steep-sided dales treacherously muddy and rocky, slowing my progress to a crawl. Loneliness was a heavy burden: without anyone to lift my spirits, my mood often plummeted as I slopped and slipped through endless mud and drizzle. It was all too easy at times to slip into despairing and cursing myself. But raging did nothing to help the situation - when you are in the middle of nowhere, all you can do is keep going. My worst moment came when I was blundering around a field in the rain and couldn't find the gate to get out. I was cold, wet through, miserable and faced with a long slog across empty moors before I reached any shelter. So when a cross-looking farmer came out, it was the last straw. But seeing how upset and wet I was, he immediately invited me to come in for a cup of tea!

Food was a struggle at times - it's amazing how many villages I passed through that had a pub (or two!) but no shop. Thankfully my parents met me at one point to restock my dwindling supplies, but it was still difficult to cater to my 'food rules' and restrictive diet. Desperate for something green, I even supplemented some of my meals with dandelion leaves, whilst freshly-picked blackberries satiated my 'fruit fix'. All in all, I coped although having tinned fish every day was beginning to get a little monotonous.

Wildlife encounters - prehistoric friend, a Water Vole sculpture and a sleepy hedgehog in Tideswell Churchyard

Fittingly, on the last day of the walk I ascended Win Hill, whose photograph is the backdrop to this blog. With the weather forecast being dire, I wrapped myself up in all my waterproof layers and trudged out into the grey, brooding morning. As I trodged up the steep slope, I thought of all the things I wouldn't miss - the loneliness, permanently wet feet, sheep poo, over-curious cows, tinned fish every day.... and the things I would: waking up somewhere different each day, the sound of running water, sudden bursts of sunlight through the trees, birdsong as a constant companion.

Youlgreave

I ascended up into the cloud layer. I remembered how the last time I was up here, it was in the middle of a thunderstorm. I really must try and come here one day when I can actually see the view. I could make out the summit on the horizon- a distinct, almost conical mass - and headed towards it.

As I reached the trig point, the clouds above cleared and the sun broke forth. The surrounding mists fled away down the hill and the wind dropped, leaving a hushed silence. I was alone, on top of a mountain, watching as distant summits, fields and lakes appeared and disappeared in the rolling cloud. Around me, beyond the oceans of purple heather, cows and sheep lay down in the green grass, their bodies turned golden by the sunlight. The words of a hymn I came across in one of the many ancient churches I visited came to me, repeating in a gentle refrain:

It is well, it is well with my soul
It is well, it is well with my soul

Anorexia has blessed me in one way. Whilst the disease has corrupted my mind and withered my body, it cannot touch my soul. At moments like these, I feel it deep within, eternal, like the bottom of the ocean which remains still even as the tempest rages on the surface. And this is how I know I will endure, that God will heal me fully when I cast off this body and mind and go to join him in heaven. This hope gives me strength for every day.

And that I suppose is the message of life. All our strivings on earth - for money, fame, recognition, a legacy - will come to naught. We bring nothing into this world and take nothing out of it. The best we can hope for is to bear witness - by preparing our minds to receive and putting ourselves in places outside our normal comforts - to moments where we are touched by the forces greater than ourselves; love, hope and peace. And let them change us.

My walk goes on.

Thorpe Cloud

Frustrated...but it could be worse

I really should know by now that trying to get a straight answer out of the healthcare system can be like trying to wring blood out of a stone.

I had hoped for a final decision at my long-awaited "Health Review" meeting yesterday. After all enough people were there - my GP, mental health therapist, supervisor, counsellor and various representatives from the University support services. Unfortunately, the key representative from the Department was on holiday. Which meant that I was never going to get a definite yes/no answer.

This is because there are two parts to my "return" - I have to be declared medically fit by the health services and then the Department has to decide whether it actually wants me back. Which apparently is not guaranteed by merely being 'medically fit'.

At least the first part could be deciced yesterday. But it took long enough. I felt like a criminal awaiting their sentence as I sat outside waiting to be invited in to join the discussion. As they talked on and on, my nerves mounted - it was way past the time they told me to come, clearly it wasn't straightforward.... a kind nurse noticed my distress and sat with me, filling me in on all the Olympic action I've missed (it's difficult to keep up when you don't have a telly!)

Finally I was allowed inside. After finding out that I couldn't be given a clear answer from the Department that day, the medical team gave their verdict. Apparently I haven't maintained my target BMI for long enough to be able to go back at the beginning of October (the earliest time I could have done) and that the best I can aim for is mid-November. IF the Department accept me. And only IF my weight doesn't dip in the slightest under the target BMI. So I am still under a cloud of uncertainty. Worse still, I left my job at the college in July so have nothing to keep me occupied (and earning) over October. What if the Department decide I can't come back? Should I be looking into a Plan B and start applying for another, permanent, job?

I just wish it would all end!

Almost packed...

At least I have something to take my mind off things for the next week - my "Walk of Witness" has finally arrived. Tomorrow, I will take an early bus to Hathersage to start my 80-mile wander around the Peak District (see the page "The Walk" on the menu to the right). It should give me some perspective at least - there are bigger and greater things in life than a PhD and I have to believe that God will accomplish his will in me with or without this qualification.

But right now, I just want to KNOW. Will I or won't I go back?

So it's back to the waiting room. Best foot forward...

Countdown...one week to go

This time next week I will know for sure whether I will be going back to do my PhD or not. On Friday 19th August, I will have my "Health Review Meeting" attended by my supervisors, GP, mental health worker, counsellor and various representatives from the University support services. It feels like I am about to go on trial.

I am nervous. Although I hit my weight target two weeks ago, it has wobbled a little since then; fortunately I managed to pull it back up pretty quickly, but it does show that I can't afford to be complacent. I'm hoping that the things I have done this year will also be taken into account - working as a science technician in a busy college, completing a four-day hike in the Lake District, cutting down on my cardio workouts, making more time for rest, etc. At the end of the day though, the weight is the most important thing.

And then there is the mental side of things. One of the tricky things about recovering from anorexia is that the disease can so easily mutate into something else - another eating disorder, an exercise obsession, a "pure-eating, healthy living" lifestyle, etc. (described brilliantly by this blog post on the phases of recovery - see Level 6). Anoreixa will use anything it can to get back into your head. And I am worried it is happening to me again. This past week, I have been working on a report about the devastating impacts that diets high in meat, dairy and processed foods have on the environment. I can't help but take it personally - if I had any morals, then surely I would reduce my intake of these! Those chocolate bars had palm oil in - I am destroying the Amazon Rainforest! Think of all the plastic packacging I get through on my yoghurts - surely these end up as microparticles that kill seabirds! It is the same with health messages; I worry that the "treats" I enjoy as part of my diet are actually skyrocketing my cholesterol, eradicating my good gut bacteria, setting me up for heart failure, contributing to dementia, and so on and on.

All of this has steadily built up over the past few days to the point that I feel compelled to cut out, or at least cut down on, my sugary treats and snacks. Never mind that, given that I don't eat starchy carbs, these are a major source of calories and that getting rid of them would leave me with mostly fruit and vegetables. No matter that, as a good friend of mine tries to remind me, I am a "special case" with a body that is still under the optimum weight and so would still consider itself "starved". But now I can't put anything in my mouth without worrying. It's just not worth the stress and guilt.

So I am having a little "sugar-detox" at the moment, with the intention of limiting processed foods to occasional treats, rather than an every day indulgence. Although part of me feels virtuos, I am also sad because I don't know whether this is me making the decision, or whether anorexia has slipped in through the back door and settled into my mind again. It's as though every time I come across a diet related message, the anorexia says "Aha! Yes! I can use this to hurt her!" All I know is that it did feel so wonderful to be able to have treats in my diet again, after making them 'off-limits' for so long. Is this a step forward towards heath and happiness, or a step back towards deprivation?

Off-limits again?

Another illustration of just how cunning this disease can be.... I finally realised where my growing preoccupation about my tummy came from. I had never been concerned before with how I appeared to others (only how much I weighed) so I couldn't understand why I felt so envious when I saw girls with toned and sculpted abs at the gym. The feeling that I should be like this came, ironically enough, from the questionnaire I have to fill in every now and then which assesses my current 'anorexic state'. This is a almost never-ending series of statements which I have to give a frequency score for (e.g. never, once a month, every day, etc.) Quite a few of these statements realted to "the desire to have a completely flat stomach". I used to just cross 'never' for these without thinking about it, but on an unconscious level, the diseased part of my mind got the message that this was how I should be thinking. As though the questionnaire was holding up a set of ideals which my anorexic self seized upon.

It is pretty pitiful: I don't know what I want anymore - or at least, I don't know if the things I want come from me, or the demon in me. Which makes it pretty hard to feel good about any of the 'choices' I make.

But it doesn't seem so important right now - I just want to get abck to my PhD. Only once I know the outcome of the meeting, can I begin to challenge anything else.

Thanks for reading.