My son and ex-husband tell me I’m an addict.
I’ll admit … I once was. In my late teens and early 20’s I was completely obsessed with exercise. Now, I manage my addictive tendencies with daily vigilance.
My battles weren’t pretty.
I remember a day as a young mum, when I had two toddlers and a sink full of dishes, where I absolutely lost it. There was hysterical yelling from nowhere. I realised it was coming from me.
My mother’s jaw dropped and my husband abandoned his beer. “I hate this. You guys don’t get it,” I cried and yelled as the kids scattered.
I remember my Mum’s loving arms around me as I sobbed uncontrollably. Much worse than any 2-year-old tantrum. It was primal. Intense. “I’m going crazy! I need to get out,” I screamed, losing control completely. “I’m exhausted … I can’t go before they wake up – it’s too f***ing early. YOU won’t let me go… You don’t get it … I NEED to walk”.
“Hey, relax, it’ll be okay,” said hubby, slouched in the leather recliner.
Mum is wiser. “You go darling, I’ll look after the kids and the dishes.”
And I went.
Runners on … out into the fresh air … outside … to the beach … I walked to sanity.
It has been 25 years since I was addicted to exercise.
I think it came from my youth. I was so obsessed with gymnastics that I became National Champion at 16 and a borderline bulimic by 20.