I’m really not! Fitness has been something I’ve never been able to maintain for longer than a brief period until I fall from the pink cloud. I start with good intentions and, before long, I notice a small improvement in my health, but all it takes is a day or two of not working out to throw me off course. It’s raining, my gout is acting up, I’m overly medicated, or I simply give up because I’ve been lazy. I get pressured by family and doctors to get my ass into gear and lose some weight. I hover around the one hundred kilogram mark, and although I’m tall so it can be disguised with a hoodie and some trackies, I’m not over the moon about my physique. Outside of health reasons, who am I really trying to impress? I don’t have a partner, and I don’t want one; if anything, I’m doing this for myself. But myself doesn’t always care. Maybe I need a trainer or a gym membership to keep me accountable—then again, that would be a waste of my precious money. I don’t need someone breathing down my neck to push me; I can quite easily go for an hour-long walk on my own without a middle man.
My main motivation isn’t to run a marathon. All I want is a bit of general fitness so I can make it to the letterbox and back without coughing or collapsing. I might not be completely unfit, but I notice small things wear me out quickly. Simple activities like playing with my nephews or carrying groceries up the stairs leave me breathless. Losing weight would be a welcome bonus, though I’m skeptical because of the medications I take. Antipsychotics tend to add pounds. That’s discouraging, but I’ve got to look past it. If anything, it’s even more reason to stick to a routine, even if I start very small.
Not long ago I went on a one-month health kick. I wanted to lose at least a little—just enough to encourage me to continue and aim for more. I ate properly and gave up beer. At the end of the month I weighed myself…and I had put on weight. How could this be? It was really disheartening. Never again, I told myself. I was angry, and before long I slipped back into old habits. It’s the bloody tablets, I told myself. There’s nothing I can do because I absolutely need my medications unless I want to spend a night in jail or end up in the loony bin. That’s happened too many times before. So what do I do?
Another issue with exercise is that I have to get out in the morning and I’m not a morning person. It’s a long story, but I become unwell in the afternoons. If I get my heart rate up later in the day it tends to trigger a bout of mild psychosis and fills me with anxiety. I can take pills to soften the effects, but when my mental illness has its grip on me I cannot leave the house, let alone exercise. I know it might sound like an excuse, but it really isn’t—true story.
My mum is a real inspiration. She goes to the gym almost every day, and she combines that with regular yoga sessions and long walks. The difference for her is that she’s facing the onset of a serious illness, so she’s determined to do everything she can to keep it at bay — and she genuinely enjoys the routine. My dad is much the same. He’s seventy-two, rides his push bike for miles with apparent ease, and also travels the country on his motorbikes. I have two very fit parents. I’ve never understood how people can get a natural high from working out. I’m told it releases dopamine and serotonin, but I’ve never experienced that. I dread the lead-up to exercise, I dislike the process, and I don’t enjoy how I feel afterward.
When I was in my teens and living in Bendigo I would sometimes ride my bike to school. This was a solid two-hour trip each way. Most of the time it was done on a BMX as well. I played basketball, I raced motocross — which, surprisingly, requires a high level of finesse — and I used to play golf regularly. I would play the full eighteen holes and then immediately want to do it all over again. I could manage that with ease back then. Not long ago I played nine holes with my old man as a Father’s Day present, and it completely wrecked me. I was aching for the next week afterward.
I’ve found that it makes things harder when I put too many expectations on myself. There are no half measures for me — once I commit I go all in. Not only will I start walking or running, I’ll also decide to quit smoking, stop drinking, lift weights regularly and eat consistently healthy meals. Piling so many changes on at once puts enormous pressure on me and often leads to a “screw it” moment where I quit everything altogether. I’ve been trying for most of my life to live healthier, only to fail again and again. Right now I honestly feel exhausted and tempted to give up for good.