Young hearts, run free

Fifteen. I am crouched down in the grass, on my hands and knees, vomiting my dinner up in the dark. I've run here because I hate myself. And I'll keep running for a few more years because I'll still hate myself for a while to come.

I've come a long way from the bulimic, depressed teenager to the woman who's going to run the London marathon this weekend. I wish I could tell little Immy that she's not really alone in the darkness, vomiting and hating herself. I'm there, standing right beside her. We've done this. We have come so far.

We cried together. We went to therapy together. We went soul-searching in all the wrong places, and some of the right places. She and I flew to France, shared a caravan for a few months. Cut our hair with blunt scissors in a desperate moment, contemplated running away from it all 'Into the Wild' style. But kindness brought us back to shore each time. We swallowed the pills, shared the pain and the fear. The embarrassment of admitting defeat and starting again. Mother Curtis stroked our hair when we wept, for a whole year she left us notes of hope and encouragement on the  dining-room table each day when she went to work. And the feeling shrunk a little, day by day. And we fell in love with a boy who helped us to fall in love with ourself, and see the lighter side of life even in the dark times. We've travelled to Bali and back to meditate on what was left of those demons. And we even learnt how to love food all over again; something that seemed entirely impossible all those years ago. It wasn't easy, but we did it.

We fucking did it! 

And on Sunday, with every heavy, slow step I run, I'll also be running for little me.

Follow this link to sponsor me and little Immy on Sunday :)