It’s summer here in Victoria, Australia. YAAAY. Kiddies are out of school and parents are off work, and they’re all at the beach.
I haven’t surfed yet this summer. Oh, boy. You must hate me. I hate me. Quite simply, that’s probably the deepest psychological reason I haven’t been surfing. I still have Bulimia, despite being in “recovery”. I may stop the disordered behaviour physically but emotionally, I’m still in a cage. It is not great. But hey, I don’t really want to talk about that. Just three (utterly stupid) words is probably suffice to explain: I feel fat.
It was my good friend’s birthday on Sunday. She organised a beach day. “Woo!” I said. Then I thought of the summer crowds and I thought of my body and how I only own either wetsuits or “small” bikinis (for under the wetsuits). Oh, boy. I had a panic attack…about going to the beach – the place that makes me the happiest me I could be…and I realised I am not doing so well.
Surfing makes me grateful to be alive, but right now I can’t bear the thought of exposing my heart to the beach, full of summer crowds. My summer is drowning.
…A woman drowned off my surf break the other night. I felt sad about that. While I may not be in the water, I feel myself drowning anyway. I am drowning without water. I’m like a crab…waiting for low-tide again so I can scurry into the water without watchful prey nearby. I’ll be back in the water eventually, I promise you me.