#OOTD: Tight Jeans, Tight Chest

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I want to read a person’s story and other times I just want to listen to their voice. I get it! That’s why I’ve also created an audio version of this blog. Enjoy them both! Flic x

#Iamfine

It wasn't exactly what I had set out to achieve that day.  

When I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, looking at my unrecognisable reflection, I realised tight jeans with a tight anxiety chest was my Instagram outfit of the day. 

I don't recall the moment I'd opted for that #OOTD. Had I been too busy to notice? Or was it more a case of having my head buried too deep in the biscuit tin to pick up on this transformation? 

I'd waded knee-deep into as many distractions and coping strategies that I could possibly lay my hands on. After all, there was no bloody way I was giving my burnout or mental health any eye contact. 

Struggling? No, I was fine. Honestly. Absobloodylutely fine. 

Badgers are my hecklers

This screenshot of time causes my bag of badgers to react with the biggest of laughs and jeers. 

Standard. The fuckers. 

They're the hecklers in the audience that you dread and hate but know probably need to be there—to keep you on your toes, to keep you working on your game. To remind you that if you want the privilege of mental health, you're going to have to care for it, stand up for it. Always. 

I want to say "off you trot badgers", but know they'll retort with, "we're not the one with trotters, sugar tits". 

I told you they were mean. And rude. 

And, probably have a point. Fuck.

I wasn't planning on embracing tight jeans or a tight chest. But, I guess we could say a waistband that was fit to burst along with a chest crushed with anxiety had slipped into my DM's without being noticed. 

Sneaky. Neither had been invited. 

You see, I wasn't even aware they were creeping up on me because I was too busy consumed with work and a carrier bag full of pandemic survival strategies. Open that bag, and you'll spy a hefty amount of work, wine and Wotsits. I have a talent for combining that “W” trio. 

One moment I was getting used to the overstretching and overburdening of my days; the next moment, I had tripped up, lost my footing and my breath. 

Now I had gone blue. Literally, blue. 

#TightJeans

My beloved distressed jeans were now cutting off circulation to my calves. So envisioning ripped off belt loops and shredded fingernails, trying to get these bad boys on, was not too far in the distant future.

I admit, "too tight" clothes sound a personal loud klaxon for having spent a year cruising my way into burnout and dealing with chronic stress by eating all the rewards and drinking all the refuge. 

That's why "too tight" jeans need to be listened to. And it's nothing to do with fat-shaming or unrealistic expectations of your body. Instead, attention needs to be paid to the whispers of coping and comforting myself with all the wrong things. 

An unhealthy diet that I've labelled as a 'treat' has not served me well. Sugar for the shock, salt to counteract the sugar and wine to chill the fuck out and forget that I had let it rip with the previous two categories plague me. 

In all honesty, I thought that mirror moment was the epitome of failure. That was until the moment I realised I couldn't breathe. 

#TightChest

Jeans that not only slide over your arse but fasten up are one of my life's current "nice to haves". Whereas breathing, well, that's a non-negotiable, isn't it? 

And when I say breathing, I'm talking about my current clutch at my chest, trying to inhale, trying to grasp air, trying to implement the most primitive acts and instincts to survive.

A tight anxiety chest not only encourages you to believe your chest cavity is crushing you, but it also loves to wrap and dress up your thoughts in fear.  

You can't heal in the same space where the burnout fire roared

I'd say my bag of badgers were long-time best mates with my self-sabotage tendencies. 

You see, only a few months ago, I'd churned out work at record speed and had been achieving impossible deadlines. I had not only just ticked all the task boxes in my life, but I had crushed them (I know, the irony). 

What was there to worry about?

My mental health is what I needed to worry about. 

If I'm capable of slaying the impossible and unsustainable tasks in my life, then I have to accept that the pendulum can equally swing the other way. 

With tables turned, I now see I was slaying burnout and my mental health in equal measures. I was on track to ruin it all in record time. No deadline or target required. I was hammering it and crushing it to the bloody bone. 

It turns out I was on track to be the best...at burnout. 

Fuckity-fuck.

The peace in owning our stories

I appreciate you may be reading this, having never experienced tight jeans or a tight chest. But, likewise, you may be reading this and painfully relate to those terrifying moments of trying to catch spare pockets of air or denim. 

You see, this is the awkward stuff at the heart of our human experience. And this is why I share my story—despite needing to take regular breaks from writing about this painful experience. The irony of the tight chest threatening to strike back with every paragraph.

But the more we accept ourselves, our stories, our imperfections, with all of their depth and breadth, the more likely we will be able to find deeper peace in owning our stories, our choices and the paths we tread.  

The writer, Jeanette Winterson, says, "I know now, after fifty years, that the finding/losing, forgetting/remembering, leaving/returning, never stops. The whole of life is about another chance, and while we are alive, till the very end, there is always another chance."

#IwillBeBetterThanFine

So here I am. I am embracing another chance. Another chance to live my life differently. Another chance to live life in balance. To treat my physical and mental health with the utmost regard and in equal measures. 

I'm not meant to fit in tight boxes, tight corners, tight jeans, or exist in tight chests. 

No joy can be found there.  

That's why I will continue to push through the messiness of life and my story. 

I hope you will do the same for yourself too. 

Flic x

P.S. If you know a woman struggling with #everydayburnout please send her this article and tell her from me that she is not alone. 

Burnout and feeling as mad as a bag of badgers can really isolate you, and the one true thing I needed on my lowest of low days was to not feel so lonely. 

I see you out there, Sista. Please hold on. It does get better.