For a really long time I bought into the idea that I could only "earn" food by doing some form of exercise.
At my most disordered times, this manifested in me running or walking for ten miles or more on an empty stomach and then continuing on to my job, which was being a baker (a very physical job that contrary to popular belief left very little time to actually eat anything) work an eight hour shift, and then come home only to be in such a deficit from only eating one meal the whole day (usually a chunk of bread or a day old muffin) that I would inhale the contents of my fridge and cupboards, only to start the whole fucked up cycle again the next morning.
As I've moved further and further away from those patterns throughout my recovery, I've noticed the voice that screams at me for not doing everything my disorder thinks I should is getting quieter.
The first thing I found difficult this year has been giving up on the dream of getting back into distance running now that the weather is nice.
It's tricky because distance running was a very large part of my disordered routine for a long time, but I still truly love the challenge, and I miss it. I have gone on a few runs this spring, and every time, I feel so good afterward. I know my body would really like the chance to train again, but to do it properly.
Secondly, I do a lot of walking. This we know. It's my main mode of transportation being that I do not drive, and it's also my main form of meditation both before, during, and after my pregnancy.
I have, however, noticed that it is also the activity that I lean on to expend energy (read: burn calories) when I give in to that voice in my head telling me I need to do some kind of penance before I am allowed to eat.
This is why I am very curious, because this week, for the first time in about twenty years, I don't feel like walking.
It's a very strange feeling for me because even my "not walking" still involves me walking distances most people drive like to the corner store, grocery, train station, or post office. I'm lucky, and I live in a pretty town where everything is relatively close, and I can stroll to the library, grab a coffee, and take the baby to the playground on foot with ease.
I've been doing this as much as possible since the weather got good.
I have also been doing at least one three mile "excursion walk" every day for about as long as I can remember. Like since I was thirteen and my parents let me leave the house alone. No joke.
I have walked with ear infections.
I have walked with UTIs.
I have walked after broken hearts, huge fights with my beard, bad news, good news, big meals, no meals, bad storms, rainbows, while pursuing degrees, while growing a human inside my body, while exploring cities and countries I'd never been to before, while pondering the next chapter in a novel or the next journal entry. I have walked hundreds (probably thousands) of miles while on the phone long distance, and it has always felt a certain way:
Necessary.
I'm not kidding.
I walk so much it's officially become part of my identity.
I am recognized by strangers who often ask me what my name is and "are you the girl I see walking everywhere?"
Walking and writing go hand in hand, and I feel quite happy being the "walking girl" wherever I live, but there's been a bit of a heat wave this week, and I didn't feel like walking on Monday when it was 96 degrees, and I didn't feel like walking yesterday, when it was 93 degrees.
Today it is unarguably gorgeous outside.
The temperature is a stunning 71.
The sky is cerulean.
There's a cool breeze, and it's as though the entire world wants to be walked.
But I don't feel like it.
The voices in my head argue, "but then you'll feel better!" "You'll earn an ice cream cone!" "Maybe you'll sort out that scene you're having trouble writing!" "You should call your Dad!"
I dismiss them all.
And it feels revolutionary for the walking girl to put her feet up.
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