Never Enough

  I recently made a post on my Facebook & Instagram account, referring to my often distorted image of the way I view my body. It was a culmination of thoughts that's been silently brewing in me for a long while. You know - those kinds of thoughts that desperately fight to come out and be heard in your alone time, but you shy back from, justifying your need to "protect yourself".

That floodgate of vulnerability seems to be a constant theme to my life; as many efforts as I make to be a genuine person, in one way or another I continue to hold things back for reasons of shame and fear. Things that inevitably demand to be felt in order to move past them. And many times, that vulnerability only comes by way of a shit storm. Why does it seem so often it takes a shit storm for me to realize it's okay to be real and imperfect?

  It was refreshing for me to face my insecurities in such a way, I think I found a new power in myself that I have so often doubted. That power coming from the belief that I am beautiful and strong, despite all the ways I inevitably make mistakes. I am beautiful despite not looking like the athletic physiques that flood my social media and tv screen. I am beautiful despite the many times I gorge on ice cream and donuts or half-ass my way through a gym workout. And I am beautiful in spite of achieving certain athletic goals and outward appearances.

 Body image has been something I've struggled with for as long as I can remember. And I know I'm not the only person, gay, straight or otherwise, who has felt this way. I can look back all the way to my elementary school days, thinking that if only I was pretty, people would like me and I would matter. I don't think it helped growing up in a family with 9 kids, and being a triplet at that. You can imagine you wouldn't get as much attention as one in a smaller family would. Don't get me wrong, I love my family and wouldn't trade them for the world. But I do think that need to feel important in part grew from a feeling of loneliness that often came from being 8th in a family of 9, and the lone boy in a trio with two other girls.

In high school, I thought that being beautiful meant being as skinny as possible. Funny, none of my other male counterpoints seemed to have this viewpoint but me, yet the belief prevailed all the same. It was a belief that at one point led me to drop 40 lbs during my Senior year. I don't know if I had a diagnosable eating disorder, but I do know I would fool myself into thinking I was full all of the time, as a way of avoiding eating too much food. When I learned about calorie counting during my CE Nutrition class, I remember taking that incentive to account for everything I ate. Going past the 500 calorie mark a day was a big no-no for me; it meant I was weak.  Even at every benchmark I reached for my 6'2  frame, 175, 160, 150, it was never enough. I needed more, I needed a sensation that none of my accomplishments could ever give me. And I shamed myself over and over for it. Shame for being too weak.

I carried that shame into my college years and on. Where calorie counting acted as my coping mechanism during my high school years, running became during my college experience. Marathon running was not only an excuse for me to keep healthy, it was an excuse for me to keep skinny. And from college on I've since learned to also incorporate working out into that mix of so often shame induced activity.

Don't get me wrong, I know that working out, running & even calorie counting can all be very good things that lead to greater health and happiness. And if you ever asked me, I would most likely tout off a list of benefits as justification. But deep down I knew that the reasons I would superficially list off were not the embedded motivation behind my actions. No, more often than not I was trying to fill a void that I believed apparent to who I was. And as I grow older, the more I see the voids I've created within my own security, the more damaging I see the effects are from such fissures.  Even when I've achieved "the look" I've wanted of six pack abs and an aesthetic appearance, I couldn't allow myself to really look at myself in the mirror and appreciate my physique. By all accounts, you could parooze my Instagram and see such photos. But even in the majority of such moments, I would only see how much less perfect I was than then the other guy and how much more other people were achieving. I gave the credit to these photos of people who flooded my social media and undermined my own efforts. I desperately wanted to feel otherwise, but so often that depression remained. It's sad really when I think about it, that I've never really allowed myself to appreciate my body and love myself outside of any external factors.

 I can see now how skewed I've often been in my thinking; what I wanted to feel the whole time wasn't a destination I needed to reach as a belief I needed to nurture within my own mode of thinking, free from any behavioral pattern. So this post really isn't so much a Come to Jesus, I've found the light sort of thing.  Looking back on my past years I duly note how hard it is to really see yourself the way you would like to be seen. It's a practice I need to grow and one that needs constant attention to be maintained.

I really do believe that a person who finds himself as sexy & beautiful is in reality so much more sexy & beautiful than the picture perfect GQ model who doubts they are (which I think many do). And the amazing thing about that thought for me is realizing that I am always only one thought a way from being the person I really want to be. It's all a matter of choosing that belief within myself.

So this year in 2018 I choose to make that a major practice of my life and I have hopes of what it can do for me. Even now since I've started, I find myself so much more comfortable admiring myself in the mirror. I've been able to allow myself to eat that slice of cake and not worry about the repercussions, or working it off in another cardio session to be ok.

I am good looking. I am sexy. I am all I need to be. No other opinion matters.

Unlikely Wisdom from My Unhealthy McDouble Troubles

I'm a pretty avid McDonald's goer. I'll admit it. If you'd had asked me anytime up until 1 1/2 years ago, I would have scoffed at the idea of eating at McDonalds. Fast food is gross! And McDonald's with the classless connotations it has behind it (e.g. see "Supersize Me), definitely not for me! 'I eat with refinement, like mushroom burgers' I would've thought (Ron Swanson would've gagged on that thought). Well, things have changed. And I've now grown up into my mature palate of salty processed foods with artificial flavors and food coloring (e.g. the egg yolk in the eggs aren't normally yellow I hear- apparently from my anonymous McDonald's friend they dye them).

I'm not sure how it happened exactly. It was most likely one night, as a busy college student, where I needed a quick fix and McDonald's was right there, so I caved. You just can't beat a dollar menu on a college budget. So my mouth came to know what was called a McDouble, with it's accompanying hot fudge sundae and any size soda drink. The overly salted food coursed through my body, igniting a flame of fiery pleasure to my insides, as well as gas. And thus the addiction began.

It's been an ongoing battle between the gluttonous lover in me seeking instant gratification  against my other food half that eats, well, anything and everything else.

But really, I do love how cheap and relatively good McDonald's can be, especially for the quick accessibility. They also have a good variety of healthy options on their menu, I just never buy them. I mean who really gets excited to go to McDonald's, to then get a lettuce wrap? 'Hey honey, I'm trying to eat healthier, so let's go eat tonight at McDonald's!'. Yeah, I think not also.

I've tried to keep this addiction of mine a secret, I knew all my friends would scoff at me if they only knew (especially my health kick friends who think I'm as extreme as them). But the addiction raged on and the time came recently to finally let my secret out, and with it the accompanying shame. I still carry that guilt 2-3 times a week as I drive my car away from the drive thru, shoving a burger into my mouth with one hand and fries in my lap, shaking salt all over me and my car. Really classy I know. I'm working on it.

I do love eating healthy and making healthy foods; that feeling of energy, health and pride is unlike any other. But I can't help sometimes the easiness of the way to McDonald's. I've been trying to follow a diet pretty stringently this year as one of my goals (check my New Year's Resolution List), and for the majority of the year thus far I've done pretty well. But I have my moments.

One of those moments happened last week when I didn't bring any food for dinner to work to which I thought I could brave the night without anything. But my stomach got the best of me and soon I was shamelessly picking up my dollar budgeted meal when an older gentleman at the McDonald's drive thru window made my day.

This man, who must've been in his later 50's or earlier 60's, opened his yellow arched imprinted window and shined a great big smile at me. He then in his rich voice asked me how I was doing and what plans I had that night. I spoke briefly to him with my mono syllable expressions. Who expects to have a conversation after all with the drive thru person? The man (Bob we'll call him) then wished me a wonderful evening in his cheery voice and waved goodbye. I drove on with my hot fudge sundae in my hand spilling on to my pants, shocked at how respected and loved I felt by Bob. He made me feel happy and inspired me to be better, despite my utter lack of figure friendly food dignity.

I can't imagine anyone ever thinks to themselves at a young age that when they get older, they'd like to man a drive thru window at McDonald's. Try speaking to your child who comes home with that written on their English Report! But regardless, there was Bob, as happy as could be, inspiring all those salty food addicts like myself, leaving them with a smile to make their day. Bob is my hero.

It really doesn't matter where you work, what you wear, how old you are, how smart/educated you are nor how beautiful. We are where we are in this current space of time. It may not be our ideal picture  of what we want our life to be, and that's ok (I'm willing to bet for 99.9% of you out there it isn't). We can keep working on that. But what really matters and how we should really measure ourselves, disregarding everything previously mentioned, is how we treat people. Because really anyone and everyone can make a difference in the life of another human being, you just have to make the choice. You can be a victim of your circumstances or you can be a creator of them.

So to Bob, I say thank you. Truly, in a moment I was feeling so depressed about myself that I had caved once again to fast food, I'm glad I did.  Because I got to be touched by him (not physically Ditto- ew.).

And I hope that despite all the mistakes or triumphs I make in my life, feats or defeats, successes or failures- that I can be happy. And in doing so share that good cheer with those around me. Because let's be real, everyone wants to be happy, and we're all desperately seeking it everywhere we go.