Another Step Along the Road

The gates weren’t locked. They never are, not for as long as I can remember. The only restriction is the sign on the entrance warning that dogs must be leashed. For most locals, the country estate is a place for exercise, to witness the passing of the seasons with snowdrops, daffodils, bluebells. To see the pigs that moved in a while back, or admire the view across the valley.

But for me, it was something else. Not a place of enjoyment, but a reminder of what had been taken from me over the past few years. That day, it was something I was determined to reclaim.

I have anxiety. It started out small, easily ignored. A few worried thoughts here, some sleepless nights there. Saying no to things I’d usually say yes to.

Then it progressed. By the time I got help, I was struggling to leave the house. The belief that something bad was going to happen became a constant companion.

Anxiety isn’t logical and can be triggered by anything. A quick trip around Tesco became a mammoth task, with days of planning and mental preparation. Some people reading this won’t fully understand what I’m saying. Others will appreciate it all too well.

One of the things I stopped being able to do was go for walks. The great outdoors is good for your mental health, but not when you panic just leaving your front door.

Needless to say, I got therapy (thank you, NHS). It’s been a long and, at times, painful recovery, one which is still ongoing, but I eventually felt able to start doing the things I used to enjoy, albeit in baby steps. That meant five-minute walks, increasing to ten, then fifteen.

Finally, I was ready to take the next step on the road to recovery and try an hour. When I walked shorter distances, I chose routes that gave easy options to get home, but I wanted to push myself. Walking around the country estate would take an hour with no escape route.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I stepped through those gates, only ten minutes into the walk. My palms were sweaty and there was a weight on my chest. All to be expected. I repeated my usual statement to myself – It might be difficult but I can do this. Step by step.

I kept going, trying not to think about how far I had to go. I split the route into small chunks in my mind, so I just had to get to the pig enclosure, five minutes away.

No pigs could be seen that day. My heart still thudded. Another reminder to myself – It’s okay that it’s hard, you can do this.

Next was the Big Tree, only slightly taller than the rest, in another ten minutes. I couldn’t think past that.

The tree appeared. I was doing it, I was actually doing it! My next marker was the small path to the left, halfway through the route.

But my heart rate was picking up. That damn anxiety, not a voice but a certainty that I couldn’t do it. It became difficult to think straight. I was starting to panic.

I squeezed my hands into fists, tight as I could, for a count of ten, then released for ten. Kept breathing. In and out. There was no danger, it was just my anxiety making me think there was.

It might be difficult but I can do this. Step by step.

The path appeared. The point of no return, exactly halfway. I was okay, I was going to make it.

I took the path. It’s the steepest section. As well as robbing me of the things I enjoy, anxiety had also taken much of my physical health. It prevented me from exercising enough, if at all. A few years ago, I would hardly be sweating on a walk like this. Now, I was panting.

Near the top of the path, there’s a waterfall. It’s pretty small, but when I saw it that day I thought it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. My heart was still hammering, but from exertion more than anything. Everything was sweaty, not just my hands. I no longer needed to say my statements or clench my fists. I stopped and just breathed.

I didn’t linger, unsure how long the calm would last. The rest of the route was downhill and before I knew it, I was back at the gates.

I checked the time when I got home. One hour and five minutes. The longest I’d walked in over two years. Outwardly, my celebration wasn’t visible. I wrote in my exposure diary how my anxiety felt on a scale of one to ten, ready to show my therapist the following week.

Inside, I was dancing.

It had been scary. But I had done it. And if I’d done it once, I could do it again. Six months before, I hadn’t been able to walk five minutes without panicking.

Anxiety is irrational. I’d done that walk hundreds of times in the past without a second thought. I’d lost so much but I was slowly starting to reclaim it. Recovery might be a slow trek but I was getting my life back.

There was no champagne and caviar that day. Just a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich.

But as I got tucked in, I noticed something else that had been in short supply recently. I was smiling.

And that was worth celebrating.

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