How Not to Be a Loser

by Beth Moran

  ‘Hey. Hi.’

  I gradually became aware of a hand on my shoulder, pulling me back to planet Earth.

  ‘Are you okay?’ A man’s voice. I clung to that sound like a lifebuoy as he continued to talk, asking me whether I was hurt, or ill, if there was anyone he could call.

  Eventually, my head the weight of a rhinoceros, I dragged it up to see soft grey eyes full of concern as he crouched on the pavement.

  ‘Panic attack,’ I slurred, the all too familiar tsunami of shame bearing down, as the anxiety began to recede. ‘Agoraphobic.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’ he asked. ‘Can I get you home? Do you need a few more minutes first?’

  ‘No!’ My mission came flooding back to me, and I bolted upright. ‘I need to get to the pharmacy. My son needs medicine,’ I gabbled. ‘Is it seven yet?’

  The guy, who looked to be around his mid-thirties, glanced at his watch. ‘Two minutes to.’ He looked across at the rows of shops lining the square. ‘I could run and fetch it for you, but I don’t want to leave you here…’

  ‘Can you walk with me?’ There was no point worrying about my pride at this point. And as long as I could get there, then the mission wouldn’t have been a total disaster. Everybody needs a little help sometimes, right? I’d done well to get this far, all things considered.

  He helped me up, and we stood there self-consciously for a moment while I tried to figure out the best way to do this, bearing in mind my legs were about as helpful as Joey’s old Slinkys.

  ‘Shall I…? Um, does this help?’ He put one arm loosely around my back, but it felt awkward and weird. I’d also been sweating pretty heavily for the past twenty-eight minutes.

  ‘Would you mind holding my hand, instead?’ I asked, and he jerked his arm away instantly.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to… Sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Honestly. I just want something to grip on to. It helps.’ There was no time to bother about how we were both melting with embarrassment, or how when his face turned pink under his beanie hat, he looked so gorgeous my heart froze for a second. No time to notice how, despite me being taller than most men, he would have been the perfect height to lean in and tuck my face into his neck. Not a second to worry about how my hand felt safe, cocooned, wrapped inside his. And how that made the rest of me feel safe too.

  But, for goodness’ sake, Amy, no time for that nonsense!

  We sprinted over the road and across the square – or rather, I sprinted, he barely needed to break into a jog. Arriving at the pharmacy door puffing for breath, I didn’t know if it was worse for him to conclude I was completely unfit, or had turned to a wheezing wreck due to touching a fully-grown man for the first time in, well, too long to think about.

  ‘Okay?’ He looked down at me, eyebrows frowning. ‘Let me know if another attack’s coming.’

  Ah, yes. Panic attacks. That explained the quivering knees and flapping mouth.

  ‘Can I help you?’ a woman in a white coat asked. ‘We’re about to close.’

  I got a mental grip on my brain and tried to hold it steady, to not allow myself to become overwhelmed with being somewhere else, with other human beings, where anything could happen, and quite possibly would. ‘Um, I need some Calpol. For my son.’

  I hastily explained the situation, paid for the medicine and turned to find my rescuer waiting for me by the door.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  The stranger offered me a tentative smile, and I couldn’t tell if the butterflies jiving in my midsection were because of the walk home, or the thought of who I had the invitation to walk home with.

  I spied the dusk approaching through the shop window and thought about Joey at home, waiting for me. I felt neck-deep in humiliation. Weak and pathetic, yet again. I could not allow this guy, with his giant shoulders and kind eyes, who looked about ready and able to carry me home if I asked, to help me. I could not dump Cee-Cee only to grab on to whichever random stranger happened to be passing every time things got tough. That wasn’t independence.

  ‘Actually, I’m feeling much better now.’ Yeah, Amy, my anxiety crowed. That squeaky voice and manic giggle sound much better. ‘I can make it back myself. I only live down the road. But thanks very much for your help. I really appreciate it. You must have somewhere to be.’ I nodded at his football kit, the rucksack on his shoulder.

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll have missed kick-off anyway. I’ll walk you home.’

  ‘No, really, I’m much better in the dark.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m strolling off not knowing if you’re okay or not.’

  Yes please! the wimpy, pitiful, self-sabotaging part of me said.

  I took a deep breath. ‘If I take the easy way out now, then it becomes much harder to push myself next time.’ So all the stuff I’d been reading told me. ‘I can honestly manage once it’s dark, so it’d be like chickening out if I accept help.’

  And besides, I was beyond self-conscious at the thought of walking down the same pavement as someone so strong and sweet and normal, let alone having held their hand a few minutes ago. It was surely nothing to him, helping out a randomer in the street, but it was the most eventful thing that had happened to me in years.

  He frowned. ‘I really don’t think you should be by yourself.’

  ‘Look, walking home in the dark with a strange bloke is going to make me feel more nervous, not less.’ I didn’t add that this would be for embarrassing, amorous, love-starved reasons, not ones of safety. ‘So, thanks for the offer, but I’d honestly rather do it alone.’

  ‘This guy bothering you?’ the pharmacist asked, frowning at him over her thick spectacles.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I stammered back, mortified that she’d picked up on what I’d said and jumped to conclusions.

  ‘Why don’t you jog on home, sunshine?’ she said, sternly, before turning back to me. ‘I’m locking up in a minute, wait here and we’ll leave together.’

  ‘Right. Yes.’ The guy, now looking beyond mortified, backed away towards the door. ‘I honestly just wanted to help.’

  ‘I know,’ I called after him, cringing. ‘Thanks again.’

  I sat in the waiting area and boggled for a few minutes at the events of the past hour, while darkness settled onto the square.

  I sent Joey a quick message to let him know I’d made it:

  Mum you rock!

  * * *

  Did you get strawberry?

  * * *

  Orange makes me hurl.

  I thanked the pharmacist as we stepped outside, and before she’d had time to roll the shutters down, I started running for home.

  And while I may not have managed to run very far before a killer stitch forced me back to a walk, I did manage not to cry or freak out the whole way. I did, however, get the fright of my life when I stopped to pull the key out of my pocket and saw a huge person lurking in the shadows a couple of houses back.

  That is, until he lifted one arm above his head and gave a quick thumbs-up before bounding off in the opposite direction.

  I dosed up Joey, bundled him into bed and retired to the comfort of my own duvet, peeping out at the ceiling as a million thoughts whirled like a snowstorm in my head. What a humungous, momentous evening. I savoured the lingering buzz of endorphins from my race home, remembering how addicted I’d once been to my daily fix of happy hormones. How good it used to make me feel. Strong and purposeful and kick-ass. I wanted that feeling again.

  And that other sensation, buzzing about inside, I poked it a couple of times to try to figure out what that feeling was, dug into my brain’s dusty filing cabinet of positive emotions. Ah – yes! I remember you from days of old: pride. I felt proud of what I’d achieved that evening. And that felt so darn good, I cried.

  And as long as I was feeling all those good feels, I could try to stop my thoughts loitering around soft grey eyes, a shy smile. The zap of electricity that I was pretty sure had nothing to do with chemistry and e
verything to do with being utterly bereft of adult male company for a decade. When human beings are attention – affection – and friendship-famished, it seems a random interaction with a stranger can lead to wild thoughts, outlandish fantasies and dreams that cause blushes to last right through breakfast.

  Phew, I really needed to get myself a life.

  9

  Stop Being a Loser Programme

  Day Sixteen

  Within a couple of days, Joey was bouncing back to school. The day after that, a Saturday, I set my alarm for six-thirty, wriggled into an old pair of leggings (fascinating how they managed to be both stretched to capacity and sagging all at the same time) and dug out a pair of Joey’s old trainers.

  I filled up a water bottle, tucked my phone and keys into my hoodie pocket and boldly whipped open the front door.

  Oh. Too late! That was definitely dawn creeping up over the house opposite. I could manage a quick run anyway, couldn’t I? Ten minutes up the road and back?

  No. Apparently I couldn’t. My feet remained frozen on the doorstep. I managed a giant hot chocolate and a cream cheese bagel instead.

  Not part of the Programme.

  I wondered about running at night, but when I wondered this out loud to Joey over dinner, he shook his head. ‘I thought you were going to run in Top Woods so you didn’t see anyone? You wouldn’t let me run about in the woods at night. I’ll be sat at home stressing about you.’

  ‘I’ll try again tomorrow morning.’

  10

  Stop Being a Loser Programme

  Day Nineteen

  In the end, it took three more days before I set my alarm early enough, and thanks to the same anticipation I used to feel when heading off to pre-dawn training sessions managing to overpower the simmering fear, I headed out.

  I warmed up by walking until I hit the tiny lane that led to Top Woods. This comprised several miles of footpaths set across the old colliery site, weaving in and out of huge conifers and the more traditional English trees, interspersed with brambles and bracken.

  ‘Right, here goes.’ I clicked on the ‘Awesome mighty warrior champion’ playlist Joey had created for me, flicked on the head torch I’d bought online and got my flabby, neglected, scared little legs pumping. I discovered that one benefit from running in the near-dark is that I needed to concentrate so hard on not tripping over a root and snapping my neck, or stumbling off the path and down a sudden drop into black nothingness, that before I knew it twenty minutes had passed and I was back at the entrance to the lane. I estimated that I’d ran a third, marched another and limped the rest. Not bad for a first go.

  To my simultaneous disappointment and relief, the woods had not been deserted as I’d expected. I’d passed three people walking dogs, their spaniel and labradoodles greatly intrigued by this huffing, puffing, lurching beetroot on legs. I was also overtaken by two men sprinting past. One of them twice, so I guess he lapped me. Well, maybe if I had their high-tech jackets, streamlined legging things and fancy-schmancy trainers I’d be overtaking them.

  Or not.

  I did so hate to be beaten.

  I was going to have to do something about that.

  Showered and changed, I rolled Joey out of bed and made us pancakes with blueberries and banana, grinning so hard I could barely chew.

  It had been tough. My muscles protested, loudly. I had wavered between anxious, terrified and just about coping the whole time. I hated feeling weak. Clumsy. Uncomfortable. But the truth was, I’d been feeling all those things for years, I’d just buried it under an anaesthesia of robotic, mindless monotony. It was only as I staggered the quarter of a mile home that I acknowledged quite how taxing it had been, pretending things were not that bad, finding ways to live with the wretched reality of my condition, and all that it had stolen from me. Yes, I had cried – bawled – as I’d pounded through the trees. My pain and anger had combusted together to power me up and down the slopes. I had a mountain of grief and regret still to work through, but for now, this run was enough. After every race, before the analysis comes the celebration, embracing the sheer joy of having got up and at ’em and given your all.

  I added a scoop of chocolate ice cream to our towers of pancakes.

  Joey gaped at me. ‘I think you should go running every day.’

  ‘Really? I’m not sure this breakfast is on Cee-Cee’s diet sheet.’

  ‘Cee-Cee’s not the one who won a medal.’

  No. That was me. And right then, for the first time in forever, I remembered what that felt like.

  11

  Stop Being a Loser Programme

  Day Twenty

  Waking up to howling muscles felt simply glorious. Swatting away the memories, fixing my eyes firmly on the future, and the successful completion of the Programme, I hobbled back out of the house on my creaking legs – let’s stop and marvel at this for a moment – BACK OUT OF THE HOUSE! FOR THE SECOND TIME IN TWO DAYS – and, feeling like an old pro, completed my loop of the woods two minutes quicker than last time. My limbs loosened, as I knew they would, and I ran with two minutes more confidence, purpose and joy. I’d spent years as a child learning how to shut down pain and forge on regardless, and then decades implementing this as an adult, as I trundled on avoiding confronting the utter crapness of my situation. Now, I embraced the pain and revelled in it. Pain meant I was waking up, coming alive again. I even managed to lift my head a couple of times, nod at a dog walker as I lumbered past.

  Not the running men. I ducked out of the way as they sped by.

  One step at a time.

  Another email from Sean. Sorry, please, woe is me, terrible father, one more chance, blah blah blah.

  Delete.

  12

  Stop Being a Loser Programme

  Day Twenty-One

  While on my third run-walk-limp, I thought hard about the glossy invitation in my desk drawer, wondering what to do about it. As I mulled over whether by Easter I would be in a position to accept, and whether, even if I could, I should accept, I spied a new runner heading towards me.

  I guess it’s to be expected that I’d spot new people out here, after all not everyone runs every day, at the same time, along the same route. But even so, this person felt like an intruder. I instantly hated his yellow running top and stupid red hat. The way that he sprinted up the hill like a mountain gazelle, with a face set in calm concentration rather than a sweaty, flaming grimace (honestly, my fluorescent pink cheeks mitigated any need for reflective clothing) made me dislike him even more.

  Pah! to his natural running stride and broad shoulders.

  Now. Hang on a minute. While my recent experience of men was somewhat limited, if I remembered correctly, they did all come in different shapes and sizes. They did on TV, anyway. I recognised those shoulders from my actual real life male human portfolio, mainly made up of dog walkers, the two runners and the pizza delivery guy.

  And, of course, the man who’d found me as a blubbering puddle in the street a few days earlier.

  ‘Hey!’ He pulled up in front of me, just below the crest of the hill, a smile breaking out across his unflushed face.

  ‘Hi,’ I squeaked back, hoping the darkness hid quite how grotty I must have looked. I had slowed to an even slower walk, but he pulled out his earbuds and stepped closer, forcing me to either stop or act like a total ignoramus.

  I stopped.

  ‘So, you’re running?’

  I shrugged. ‘Trying to, anyway.’ I imagined my cheeks must be glowing like hot coals, throbbing veins lit up like rivers of lava.

  ‘Well, good for you.’ He nodded, seemingly impressed, as in, I’m impressed a woman who couldn’t even cross a road without clinging to a stranger’s hand has made it out of her front door again. ‘How’s your son?’

  ‘Oh, he’s much better, thanks.’

  ‘Are you running by yourself? Do you think that’s okay, I mean, safe? It’s pretty lonely in the woods at this time… Don’t you have a friend you could run wi
th?’

  Hah! A friend!

  The heat of humiliation cranked up to nuclear. ‘You’re out here running alone. Is it safe for you?’

  He quirked up his mouth in acknowledgement. ‘Fair point. I’m a pretty fit guy though. I know how to take care of myself.’

  ‘Unlike me?’ To my fury, my voice cracked on the words. ‘A completely unfit woman, who clearly cannot.’

  I dodged past him, suddenly desperate to get away, and began to accelerate down the hill.

  ‘Hang on, that’s not what I meant!’ he called after me. ‘I’m sorry, that was a completely stupid thing to say. I didn’t mean you. I’m an idiot… ah, crap.’

  I slowed down enough to turn around and shout back, with a pleasing amount of breath, ‘I’m a lot stronger than I look.’

  Strong enough to not allow the brainless words of this self-proclaimed idiot to slow me down.

  I decided to drag myself round for forty minutes, ignoring my anxiety’s insistence on repeating the warning on a loop: See, not safe! Alone in the woods! Not safe for a normal person, let alone a freak! What if you panic, fall and break your ankle, smash your head on a rock? What if a crazed rapist ambushes you from behind a tree – that big one up ahead? Murders you, leaving Joey motherless? What if that guy finds you curled up in a ball by the side of the path again, because a squirrel ran past or you heard a tiny rustle, because that’s all it takes to turn you into a snivelling wreck? Get back home, where you’re in control. You can’t handle outside, remember? Remember what happens when you go out?