Not long ago I wrote about not wanting to go to therapy again, seeing it as a sign of my own personal failure. I felt similarly about resorting to drugs. When I came off citalopram last time, in 2014, it was a point of pride for me. I was proud that I had reached a point where I felt comfortable to go it alone, to swim by myself without the buoyancy aid. Without cheating. Continue reading
It’s Sunday, 9.31am, and I’m on my yoga mat. I’m right in the middle of the room, surrounded by 49 other yoga addicts. Nothing unusual about that, except that I’m crying. In the quiet stillness of dozens of people intensely focusing on their breath I reach gingerly for my sweat towel. Hoping the teacher isn’t wondering why I need it already, thirty seconds into the class, I dab at my damp face. Continue reading
It’s a Sunday afternoon in January and I’m floating in a pitch black capsule of salty water.
As we sat down at a row of iPads to watch the video introduction at Auckland’s ‘Float Culture’, I won’t lie, I felt a little ridiculous. Yoga, hunting down the best artisan gelato in town, going for brunch in my active wear… ‘Is this who I’ve become?’ I wondered. Someone so removed from reality that I’m handing over a small fortune to sit in salty water for an hour? I live a ten minute walk from the sea! Continue reading