I used to love swimming. I learned fairly young (five or six, maybe younger–I can’t really remember) and it was pretty much the only PE activity I enjoyed at school. I did it out of school as well, once or twice a week. I’d go to the school pool after hours, or the public pool in the town centre. I wasn’t afraid to go on my own, either. I swam across rivers, I swam in tarns, I swam in lakes. I swam underwater, my hair swirling out around me. I’d pretend to be a mermaid (shut up). I could swim underwater for the length of the pool. I loved it.
Then, at some point during my late teens (between sixteen to eighteen), I had to stop. It wasn’t down to depression, because I was never constantly depressed. It was because of the scars and marks on my arms. I had to keep them hidden from my family, so I couldn’t go swimming with my mother any more. When we rented a holiday house in France with a private pool (yes, middle class, I KNOW), I couldn’t swim with the rest of my family. I had to wait until they went out for a walk before I could venture in–and even then I kept a light cotton long-sleeved top on, in case theneighbours could see.
I didn’t go swimming for another four years after that. Which takes us to 2006, and the onset of Graves’ Disease. I’ve already mentioned that it was rather debilitating at the time, and that I put it down to my simply being out of shape rather than physically unwell. So I decided to try and get back into shape by going swimming. The scars on my arms had faded, as I hadn’t been cutting for two years. My hands and feet were covered in horrible psoriasis (one day I might talk about how that completely destroyed any body confidence I had and how desperate I am to avoid another flare like that one) but I hoped that wouldn’t be too visible in the water. And I’d been a good swimmer, right? Obviously it wouldn’t take me too long to get back into shape!
It was a complete disaster.
The minute I kicked off from the wall I realised something was wrong. I was doing breaststroke, one of the easiest swimming styles known to humanity, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. My arms were doing the right movements. My legs were doing the right movements, but there was no strength behind them. I was unusually out of breath, and my limbs were absolutely useless. Weak. I was trying to propel myself forwards, but I was barely treading water. I could hardly keep myself afloat.
And like a genius, I’d climbed in at the deep end.
I actually thought I was going to drown before I’d made it three metres from the side. I made it to the other end of the pool eventually, clinging to the rail at the side until I reached the point where I could touch the bottom. You’d think my common sense would have kicked in then, and I’d have tried something less strenuous — like treading water in the shallow end or simply walking in the water — but no. There were a few other people in the pool, and I was utterly mortified at the thought that they might have seen how out of shape I was.
So, like a muppet, I forced myself to do another three laps. I’m surprised I managed to pull myself up the ladder to get out of the pool when I finally gave up. I was shaking. Breathless. My legs felt like lead weights as I dragged myself out.
And I didn’t think about swimming again for quite some time. I missed water, I missed the feeling of weightlessness and grace as I dove–but there was no way in hell I was getting back in a pool. The psoriasis got worse, too, so I started hiding my hands and feet at all times. I’d always hidden my arms, so it was really just one step further. It took a long time before things started to get better.
When I got the fibro diagnosis, last July, my rheumatologist recommended hydrotherapy. And the thought of sitting in a heated pool, doing gentle exercise, sounded absolutely wonderful. However, I’d become incredibly self-conscious about my body–mostly because hiding it had become so completely ingrained–and Australian doctors were always so sodding nosy about my scars I simply couldn’t face it.
But I hurt so damn much I needed it. I needed water. I needed to float. To be weightless. To take the pressure off my joints. So after a while, I made tentative plans to Go Swimming. I found a gym close to where I lived–in a quiet suburb filled with families and retired people. No teenagers. No threats. You could get a swim and a session in the steam room for $8. The pool was heated, too, so it would ease my muscles.
And yet every time I made plans to go, I talked myself out of it. My partner didn’t want to go with me, and I couldn’t possibly go alone. People would give me funny looks because of my arms. My swimming costume didn’t fit properly. There’d be too many people there. There’d be an aqua class going on at the same time, so there’d be no room. I’d turn up, and the place would be closed to non-members. All complete nonsense, because the open hours and class timetables were posted online, but I’m good at making excuses.
Well, the flare I’ve been for the past two weeks or so has put an end to all that. It’s the worst I’ve had since I was diagnosed (although thankfully it has been manageable today). So today I finally did it. I went swimming. For the first time in three and a half years. And yes, I had to take a Valium before I could leave the house. And yes, I had to talk my partner into coming with me because I couldn’t have gone alone. And yes, I did need her to hold a towel out to me as I climbed out of the pool so the other people using it didn’t see my scars (not that they were looking, but whatever). And yes, I did overdo things slightly and will probably pay for this at some point.
But I still went swimming. And you have no idea how good it felt to be able to do it. To have the muscle strength to do it. To be able to make it from one end to the other without the fear of drowning. To float. To feel my hair fan out around me in the water. To feel weightless, like a mermaid.
This is a pretty small victory, I know. It’s not like I scaled the Empire State Building or sailed around the world in a teacup or anything. Right now, though, I don’t care. I feel like I reclaimed something of mine today. A small victory, but it’s mine.
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