I should call more often. It's the right thing to do, the loving thing to do. And certainly, I often intend to, and never explicitly decide not to. But I know in the back of the mind how I'll feel when I hear her broken voice, her complaints of pain. How someone else's suffering can hurt more than anything you experience yourself if you love that person enough. And if anything is certain, it is that I love her.
So I find myself at the end of the day realizing I forgot to call, long after it's too late and she won't have the strength to talk. Not an intentional oversight, of course. Time just got away from me. That's what I tell myself to feel better, but it doesn't work. I feel weak and cowardly, awash in self-loathing.
So I build a scaffolding of schedule to hold myself to, so there's no excuses, no way to hide from such minimal duty. These are the days I will call, and that's the way it is. I take a deep breath before I pick up the phone, prepared to feel the ache of powerlessness. I budget time after each call to recover, ashamed to require such a luxury when I'm not the bedridden one.
There are visits, of course. But I won't talk of these as some things are too personal and private to share. Though I will admit the worst parts of those visits replay in my mind, the machinations of a guilty conscience that exerts itself during some happy moments. The human mind compartmentalizes to help us cope and continue to exist while bad things are happening, but it also holds a tormenting presence that finds such mental trickery reprehensible. It's a house divided against itself.
My wife, supportive and loving, wants to help me but struggles with how matter-of-factly I deal with things. "I feel depressed," I will tell her with same tone I'd use to remark on the weather. Whatever storms of feeling are below the surface, they manifest themselves as impersonal pieces of data. As someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, she doesn't know how to help when I process my emotions in this way, communicating them like an impartial spectator recounting an event on the news*.
I'm saying all this because I don't want to say any of it, and forcing myself to talk about these feelings is (probably) a healthy thing to do, even if it makes me feel silly and exposed. There has to be some strength in admitting weakness, even if it doesn't feel that way, and strength is exactly what I need right now.
* I've written about some of the more difficult aspects of my childhood that may be part of the reason for this.
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Hiding Behind Fiction
My previous post was about my first public reading. I initially thought that I'd blog about the experience soon after, but in reality, I had far too much to process to talk about it until now.
The reason I've always been drawn to fiction is because you can talk about your feelings and experiences through a layer of abstraction. This provides an opportunity to give a fresh look at well-worn themes. It also allows the author to hide behind the story.
Writing a non-fiction piece, and then reading it in public, is a different kind of monster. I can't say that it's something I wanted to do. It was more of a compulsion. The difficulty of the task is shown in the fact that the piece I wrote is in second-person. While this is a powerful stylistic choice, I'd be lying if I claim that was the only reason I employed it.
When I stood before a crowd at art2art a couple weeks ago, I felt nothing. I was simply a conduit for the words on the page before me. I had written a short intro and placed it, in bold, at the top of the first sheet.
"Tonight, I’ll be reading an abbreviated version of a narrative non-fiction piece called 'Rewind.'"
I stumbled a bit on that simple sentence, but after that the words simply flowed from me.
"You realize one day that you don’t have memories, you have flashbacks."
As I launched into reminisces of my father's alcoholism, the protective wall I had built so long ago disappeared. For seven minutes, I was opening myself to the world.
"Then he begins to sharpen his hunting knife at the kitchen table. His eyes are red. He never looks up. He runs the whetstone against the blade too many times. It has to be razor sharp."
As I finished, my only concern was the feedback I'd get. The enormity of sharing my darkest places wouldn't really hit me until later. The audience applauded, but it was a kindness I expected. I waited to hear from people as we took a break between sets. I feared no one would say anything, that my inability to write had finally been exposed.
"She gives you a pair of work gloves, and tells you to pull out the bottom slat with a hammer. You work at it, and as you finally pull it away, an ocean of empty vodka bottles pour out, like hitting the jackpot on a slot machine."
I received encouraging words from the other artists in the front row, but this I also expected. I milled about for a bit, and no one else approached me. The dark voices I've grown to hate started to whisper in my head. I went to the restroom to be alone.
On the way back to the reading room, a woman approached me and thanked me for sharing the story. An older man asked me if I was a professional writer. When I answered no, he told me to keep at it. Others gave similar earnest feedback. For the first time in memory, I felt good about writing, instead of just viewing my compulsion as some form of self torture.
"You pour the bottle into the mop sink and fill it with water. You feel exhilarated by your daring. But you also feel very afraid."
After the event finished, a group went to a nearby bar, including my wife, Cathy, and one of the organizers (and our friend), Sue. The bar was full for a Celtics game and very loud. There were many of us grouped around a table, most of them strangers to me. I couldn't hear well. I found myself wishing that Cathy and Sue and I could be somewhere else having a quiet conversation.
I felt the darkness return. I grew uncomfortable that these people, these strangers, now knew about my childhood. I became sullen.
"The man who built thick ropes of muscle by driving a truck for hours a day, who won beer money by arm wrestling in bars, is gone. This man still has the same pot belly, but he slouches and his arms and legs have wasted away. You realize that you’re stronger than him now."
I realized the next day that I wouldn't be able to blog until I had time to process the experience. An inner struggle I'd fought all my life was waging its latest battle. Is it better to share your dark places or hide them?
"There is no final scene with a graveside speech, no coming to terms, no achieving inner peace. You simply grow to understand that everyone is human, with weaknesses and fears. Willing to try almost anything to escape from them.
You realize that had things been a little different, you could have turned out the same way. That if you’re not careful, you still might."
It took weeks, but I have my answer now. I want to write. I have many stories to tell.
But they will be fictional stories that I can hide behind. I'll show the world my dark places, but only through a filter.
It's the only way to end the war inside my head.
The reason I've always been drawn to fiction is because you can talk about your feelings and experiences through a layer of abstraction. This provides an opportunity to give a fresh look at well-worn themes. It also allows the author to hide behind the story.
Writing a non-fiction piece, and then reading it in public, is a different kind of monster. I can't say that it's something I wanted to do. It was more of a compulsion. The difficulty of the task is shown in the fact that the piece I wrote is in second-person. While this is a powerful stylistic choice, I'd be lying if I claim that was the only reason I employed it.
When I stood before a crowd at art2art a couple weeks ago, I felt nothing. I was simply a conduit for the words on the page before me. I had written a short intro and placed it, in bold, at the top of the first sheet.
"Tonight, I’ll be reading an abbreviated version of a narrative non-fiction piece called 'Rewind.'"
I stumbled a bit on that simple sentence, but after that the words simply flowed from me.
"You realize one day that you don’t have memories, you have flashbacks."
As I launched into reminisces of my father's alcoholism, the protective wall I had built so long ago disappeared. For seven minutes, I was opening myself to the world.
"Then he begins to sharpen his hunting knife at the kitchen table. His eyes are red. He never looks up. He runs the whetstone against the blade too many times. It has to be razor sharp."
As I finished, my only concern was the feedback I'd get. The enormity of sharing my darkest places wouldn't really hit me until later. The audience applauded, but it was a kindness I expected. I waited to hear from people as we took a break between sets. I feared no one would say anything, that my inability to write had finally been exposed.
"She gives you a pair of work gloves, and tells you to pull out the bottom slat with a hammer. You work at it, and as you finally pull it away, an ocean of empty vodka bottles pour out, like hitting the jackpot on a slot machine."
I received encouraging words from the other artists in the front row, but this I also expected. I milled about for a bit, and no one else approached me. The dark voices I've grown to hate started to whisper in my head. I went to the restroom to be alone.
On the way back to the reading room, a woman approached me and thanked me for sharing the story. An older man asked me if I was a professional writer. When I answered no, he told me to keep at it. Others gave similar earnest feedback. For the first time in memory, I felt good about writing, instead of just viewing my compulsion as some form of self torture.
"You pour the bottle into the mop sink and fill it with water. You feel exhilarated by your daring. But you also feel very afraid."
After the event finished, a group went to a nearby bar, including my wife, Cathy, and one of the organizers (and our friend), Sue. The bar was full for a Celtics game and very loud. There were many of us grouped around a table, most of them strangers to me. I couldn't hear well. I found myself wishing that Cathy and Sue and I could be somewhere else having a quiet conversation.
I felt the darkness return. I grew uncomfortable that these people, these strangers, now knew about my childhood. I became sullen.
"The man who built thick ropes of muscle by driving a truck for hours a day, who won beer money by arm wrestling in bars, is gone. This man still has the same pot belly, but he slouches and his arms and legs have wasted away. You realize that you’re stronger than him now."
I realized the next day that I wouldn't be able to blog until I had time to process the experience. An inner struggle I'd fought all my life was waging its latest battle. Is it better to share your dark places or hide them?
"There is no final scene with a graveside speech, no coming to terms, no achieving inner peace. You simply grow to understand that everyone is human, with weaknesses and fears. Willing to try almost anything to escape from them.
You realize that had things been a little different, you could have turned out the same way. That if you’re not careful, you still might."
It took weeks, but I have my answer now. I want to write. I have many stories to tell.
But they will be fictional stories that I can hide behind. I'll show the world my dark places, but only through a filter.
It's the only way to end the war inside my head.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Tough Love for My Testicles
It was an event that has to happen every so often. Considering it's been eight years since the last time, it was overdue.
I had a physical.
Now, I have a queue of excellent excuses for why it's taken so long to get back to a doctor's office.
There was how my previous doctor canceled an appointment, leading to me procrastinating before making a new one. After all, I thought we had a special connection, and he went and just canceled. Was I supposed to go running back to his arms without letting him feel a slight chill from my cold shoulder?
Of course, he decided to join Doctors Without Borders (or something similar, hell if I can remember) before I could go crawling back, so that ended that relationship.
A replacement doctor took his place, so I was all set. Almost. Turns out, Dr. I-Can't-Remember-Her-Name-Because-She-Never-Saw-Me wasn't setup with my insurance yet, so I'd have to wait until her paperwork went through for another physical.
Then she left the hospital, and I was a man without a doctor.
Most people would rectify the situation, especially after the nagging letters started coming from the insurance company about needing a new PCP. But I had been burned twice, and my heart was still tender. I was in no rush to race back to a medical relationship that would leave me feeling so ignored and, yes, unloved.
Add on to this the fact that the worst news of my life is most likely to come in a doctor's office, and my subconscious mind had no problem whispering thoughts of procrastination into my hospital-phobic head.
So eight years passed.
Now, when it comes to medical mentality, my wife and I are polar opposites. When she gets a splinter, she wants to run to the hospital to make sure it won't make its way to her heart and kill her in her sleep. And if I were to cut off a hand, I would most likely explain to her, "If I just rinse it with water, it should be fine."
(This showed itself in one of the more horrific events of my college years. I managed to put a gash in head by being a total jackass. It involved a high jump down a flight of stairs with a low overhang. As I sat with blood literally gushing down my face, the EMT tried to take me to the hospital. When I attempted to talk my way out of going, he simply stated, "Do what you want, but you'll have to sign a waiver." Only the threat of Northeastern being free and clear of the lawsuit I had in the back of my mind made me agree to going to the Emergency Room. That low overhang was their fault, damn it, not my idiocy and deciding to jump down flights of stairs.)
My wife goes to a women's clinic, and is quite fond of her doctor. She's also sick of me blowing off routine medical checkups. This led to her making me an appointment.
So I went, and here's what happened.
I arrived at the clinic feeling a bit awkward. After all, it's a practice for women. Cathy had assured me that husbands are welcome, but when I arrived, the place was, as they say in French, sans sausage. I felt like the creepy guy in a movie that's trying to find his wife in a woman's shelter who had run away after years of abuse.
Pushing that feeling aside, the signing-in/waiting room process was quite nice, actually. Then a friendly medical assistant took me to the "pod" and did the whole height/weight measurement.
(I was pretty happy at this point, since Dr. "I'm going to go save the world" had basically called me a tubby son-of-a-bitch when we last met, and now I was 40 lbs lighter. This was also my first line of defense when this doctor made the old BMI reference and alluded to the fact I was still a tubby son-of-a-bitch. The "I just lost a lot of weight," angle was a sure-fire way out of the healthy living speech I'd heard way too many times already.)
So Dr. Y arrived after a long wait, and things went well. She did the usual interview. Family medical history, current medical issues, etc. We discussed my least favorite health topic, the numerous lipomas that dot my torso and arms, a chronic source of minor pain. She gave me the same advice I'd heard before: they were so small and numerous as to no merit removal unless they grew bigger or hurt more. No surprises there.
We moved on to the disrobing part of the festivities. There's a certain ritual to this process, one I almost disrupted by being ready to simply get naked as soon as she told me I'd need to put on a johnny. (When a woman tells me to get naked, I don't dilly-dally.) Then the voice of reason in my head reminded me that is was not appropriate to remove clothes yet, and waited for her to leave before I switched attire.
When she returned after what I have to assume to be another patient visit (it took a while), the typical poking and prodding ensued. Then she started talking about my testicles, and things went downhill fast.
My testicles are, by and large, my good buddies. Now Dr Y was telling me about all the horrible things that could happen to them, with cancer being at the top of the list. This kind of information makes me giggle nervously. (That's right, I literally start giggling. Sigh.)
She then informed me she was going to teach me how to give myself a testicle examination. I had heard tips in the past about this process, but this was going to be a show-and-tell.
It started innocuously enough, with her feeling the lymph nodes in the crooks between my legs and crotch, having me feel them as well. Then she proceeded to the Boys.
In my memory, I swear she said, "You really have to roll them around." She might have used a different wording than that, but she proceeded to treat them like a pair of marbles free to roll around in sack. My giggling really kicked in now, and I fought the urge to scream, "THEY'RE ATTACHED IN THERE!!!"
Now, one question I've been asked a couple times by women is, is there a risk of getting... "excited" by this attention? For me, the answer is no for two simple reasons:
(And also, I know every women reading my bitching is thinking, "At least you don't need an exam that involves a speculum!" I do not, and I'm very grateful about this. And I'm sorry you do.)
So anyway, back to my testicles getting worked over. The process was so uncomfortable for me that after she was finished, it took me a minute to realize that she had not proclaimed the Boys riddled with malignancy. Hurray, little buddies! You're not (currently) trying to kill me.
This brought us to the end of our little adventure. She told me to get dressed and head to the lab area to get blood drawn and a tetanus and pertussis shot. The lab tech proceeded to draw the blood and was ready to send me packing before I pointed out that the tetanus shot was checked off as well. (Gotta be on your toes at a hospital.)
Then I was off to the rest of my day, a bit sore, but otherwise in good health.
I may even do it again before eight years pass.
PS: That tetanus shot is hurting like a mother fucker right now...
I had a physical.
Now, I have a queue of excellent excuses for why it's taken so long to get back to a doctor's office.
There was how my previous doctor canceled an appointment, leading to me procrastinating before making a new one. After all, I thought we had a special connection, and he went and just canceled. Was I supposed to go running back to his arms without letting him feel a slight chill from my cold shoulder?
Of course, he decided to join Doctors Without Borders (or something similar, hell if I can remember) before I could go crawling back, so that ended that relationship.
A replacement doctor took his place, so I was all set. Almost. Turns out, Dr. I-Can't-Remember-Her-Name-Because-She-Never-Saw-Me wasn't setup with my insurance yet, so I'd have to wait until her paperwork went through for another physical.
Then she left the hospital, and I was a man without a doctor.
Most people would rectify the situation, especially after the nagging letters started coming from the insurance company about needing a new PCP. But I had been burned twice, and my heart was still tender. I was in no rush to race back to a medical relationship that would leave me feeling so ignored and, yes, unloved.
Add on to this the fact that the worst news of my life is most likely to come in a doctor's office, and my subconscious mind had no problem whispering thoughts of procrastination into my hospital-phobic head.
So eight years passed.
Now, when it comes to medical mentality, my wife and I are polar opposites. When she gets a splinter, she wants to run to the hospital to make sure it won't make its way to her heart and kill her in her sleep. And if I were to cut off a hand, I would most likely explain to her, "If I just rinse it with water, it should be fine."
(This showed itself in one of the more horrific events of my college years. I managed to put a gash in head by being a total jackass. It involved a high jump down a flight of stairs with a low overhang. As I sat with blood literally gushing down my face, the EMT tried to take me to the hospital. When I attempted to talk my way out of going, he simply stated, "Do what you want, but you'll have to sign a waiver." Only the threat of Northeastern being free and clear of the lawsuit I had in the back of my mind made me agree to going to the Emergency Room. That low overhang was their fault, damn it, not my idiocy and deciding to jump down flights of stairs.)
My wife goes to a women's clinic, and is quite fond of her doctor. She's also sick of me blowing off routine medical checkups. This led to her making me an appointment.
So I went, and here's what happened.
I arrived at the clinic feeling a bit awkward. After all, it's a practice for women. Cathy had assured me that husbands are welcome, but when I arrived, the place was, as they say in French, sans sausage. I felt like the creepy guy in a movie that's trying to find his wife in a woman's shelter who had run away after years of abuse.
Pushing that feeling aside, the signing-in/waiting room process was quite nice, actually. Then a friendly medical assistant took me to the "pod" and did the whole height/weight measurement.
(I was pretty happy at this point, since Dr. "I'm going to go save the world" had basically called me a tubby son-of-a-bitch when we last met, and now I was 40 lbs lighter. This was also my first line of defense when this doctor made the old BMI reference and alluded to the fact I was still a tubby son-of-a-bitch. The "I just lost a lot of weight," angle was a sure-fire way out of the healthy living speech I'd heard way too many times already.)
So Dr. Y arrived after a long wait, and things went well. She did the usual interview. Family medical history, current medical issues, etc. We discussed my least favorite health topic, the numerous lipomas that dot my torso and arms, a chronic source of minor pain. She gave me the same advice I'd heard before: they were so small and numerous as to no merit removal unless they grew bigger or hurt more. No surprises there.
We moved on to the disrobing part of the festivities. There's a certain ritual to this process, one I almost disrupted by being ready to simply get naked as soon as she told me I'd need to put on a johnny. (When a woman tells me to get naked, I don't dilly-dally.) Then the voice of reason in my head reminded me that is was not appropriate to remove clothes yet, and waited for her to leave before I switched attire.
When she returned after what I have to assume to be another patient visit (it took a while), the typical poking and prodding ensued. Then she started talking about my testicles, and things went downhill fast.
My testicles are, by and large, my good buddies. Now Dr Y was telling me about all the horrible things that could happen to them, with cancer being at the top of the list. This kind of information makes me giggle nervously. (That's right, I literally start giggling. Sigh.)
She then informed me she was going to teach me how to give myself a testicle examination. I had heard tips in the past about this process, but this was going to be a show-and-tell.
It started innocuously enough, with her feeling the lymph nodes in the crooks between my legs and crotch, having me feel them as well. Then she proceeded to the Boys.
In my memory, I swear she said, "You really have to roll them around." She might have used a different wording than that, but she proceeded to treat them like a pair of marbles free to roll around in sack. My giggling really kicked in now, and I fought the urge to scream, "THEY'RE ATTACHED IN THERE!!!"
Now, one question I've been asked a couple times by women is, is there a risk of getting... "excited" by this attention? For me, the answer is no for two simple reasons:
- There is nothing sexy about a doctor's office and a cancer exam. I don't care if a naked super model was giving the Boys a look-over, Mr. Happy is not going to salute.
- While some guys may dig ball abuse (and some go as far as to pay for the service, I've heard), my little buddies do not like being worked over. It only makes me giggle nervously.
(And also, I know every women reading my bitching is thinking, "At least you don't need an exam that involves a speculum!" I do not, and I'm very grateful about this. And I'm sorry you do.)
So anyway, back to my testicles getting worked over. The process was so uncomfortable for me that after she was finished, it took me a minute to realize that she had not proclaimed the Boys riddled with malignancy. Hurray, little buddies! You're not (currently) trying to kill me.
This brought us to the end of our little adventure. She told me to get dressed and head to the lab area to get blood drawn and a tetanus and pertussis shot. The lab tech proceeded to draw the blood and was ready to send me packing before I pointed out that the tetanus shot was checked off as well. (Gotta be on your toes at a hospital.)
Then I was off to the rest of my day, a bit sore, but otherwise in good health.
I may even do it again before eight years pass.
PS: That tetanus shot is hurting like a mother fucker right now...
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
In the Middle of a Proverbial Marathon/We're Out of Control
Hello, my name is Mike. I'm still fat.
We'll, I'm decidedly less fat. Over the last three months, I've lost 32 lbs. I'm eating fairly well, and I'm getting a decent amount of exercise. The metrics all sound good (and we recovering tubbos love metrics): weight down from 252 to 220; waist went from crammed into a 38 to a comfy 36; neck from 19 down to 17.5. Even better, I've actually added muscle, so it's a much healthier 220 then when I hit it on the way up.
I take a lot of pride in what I've accomplished so far. I can see the difference in the mirror and I'm happy about it. People comment on how thin I am. Its enough to give me a big old warm and fuzzy.
But the fact still remains: I'm overweight. My BMI has crossed over from "obese" to "overweight." That is a good thing, but to hit what is considered healthy weight for my height, I need to get down to 184. And yes, BMI is just a rough measure and not an exact science, but I wager it's not that far off when it tells me I have to lose 36 more pounds. Maybe when I hit 195 and I look in the mirror, I'll see something worthy of being called a physique, with little extra flab and healthy muscle tone.
That is the future. For now, the battle continues. And really, when that day comes, nothing much will change. I'll eat a few more calories, but still eat healthy food. I'll continue to get a decent amount of exercise. A few indulgences will probably be allowed. But this a marathon that doesn't end; I'll be a recovering tubbo no matter how long I'm a healthy weight.
Okay, so this has all been pretty dull so far. Fat guy has lost some weight. It was a struggle, but he's succeeding. Let's all feel good about the human spirit. The audience applauds, the credits roll.
Here's the thing: I've had a lot of time to think (especially during all those workouts, when the only other things to think are either this sucks so bad, am I insane? or bored bored bored bored bored BORED! ), and I've come to a conclusion.
We're out of control.
You may be way ahead of me on this one. Truth be told, I've had my suspicions for a long time. But the evidence keeps mounting.
How many ways are we out of control? Too many to count. But here are a few examples:
We consume without concern for consequences or cost. We sell our souls to corporations to get shiny toys and tasty treats, and we don't care who gets hurt or what things they do to shave costs and drive up profits. We look to talking heads that shill hate and outrage, and cause further division and create problems instead of solving them. We let the purity of faith become corrupted with prejudice and intolerance. We allow ourselves to believe that we have to choose between left and right, when the real choice is between regular people and those that want to take advantage of them. We're happy as long as we have big TVs and iPods and sports and beer. We sweat in the winter and freeze in the summer. We look for others to blame, and absolve ourselves from guilt. We eat sentient beings when we have humane options. We reproduce without any thought to how the world will be able to hold us all. We trade fulfillment for material comforts. We say the right things, but we don't mean them.
And, as Thoreau would say, we lead lives of quiet desperation.
Okay, I admit that rant was a bit excessive, but I believe it's mostly true. And this is where it all comes back to losing weight.
I made a huge effort to improve myself in one area I've always struggled with, but there's so many more things that need to be fixed. I could make a list, but my rant hit on many of them.
In the end, the only hope for all of us if we accept that we are all constant works in progress, and that we must keep struggling towards becoming our ideal selves. We may differ in our view of what that is, but I have to believe that for the vast majority of us, it would be a very positive thing. Throw in a healthy dose of tolerance and acceptance, and we could all get along in our new enlightened state. And for those that would strive to become beings motivated by hate and greed, to quote an old song, "get off my cloud."
And as they crept off my cumulus, I'd also say to the back of their heads, to quote another song, "what's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding?"
P.S. I'm not really that much of a dreaming idealist. We're going to stay out of control for the foreseeable future. If I've learned anything about humanity, we'll keep going with our bad habits until we have our toes dangling over the edge of the abyss. Then we'll kick a rock over to see how far the fall is before we decide to turn around. We're all fucking nuts!
We'll, I'm decidedly less fat. Over the last three months, I've lost 32 lbs. I'm eating fairly well, and I'm getting a decent amount of exercise. The metrics all sound good (and we recovering tubbos love metrics): weight down from 252 to 220; waist went from crammed into a 38 to a comfy 36; neck from 19 down to 17.5. Even better, I've actually added muscle, so it's a much healthier 220 then when I hit it on the way up.
I take a lot of pride in what I've accomplished so far. I can see the difference in the mirror and I'm happy about it. People comment on how thin I am. Its enough to give me a big old warm and fuzzy.
But the fact still remains: I'm overweight. My BMI has crossed over from "obese" to "overweight." That is a good thing, but to hit what is considered healthy weight for my height, I need to get down to 184. And yes, BMI is just a rough measure and not an exact science, but I wager it's not that far off when it tells me I have to lose 36 more pounds. Maybe when I hit 195 and I look in the mirror, I'll see something worthy of being called a physique, with little extra flab and healthy muscle tone.
That is the future. For now, the battle continues. And really, when that day comes, nothing much will change. I'll eat a few more calories, but still eat healthy food. I'll continue to get a decent amount of exercise. A few indulgences will probably be allowed. But this a marathon that doesn't end; I'll be a recovering tubbo no matter how long I'm a healthy weight.
Okay, so this has all been pretty dull so far. Fat guy has lost some weight. It was a struggle, but he's succeeding. Let's all feel good about the human spirit. The audience applauds, the credits roll.
Here's the thing: I've had a lot of time to think (especially during all those workouts, when the only other things to think are either this sucks so bad, am I insane? or bored bored bored bored bored BORED! ), and I've come to a conclusion.
We're out of control.
You may be way ahead of me on this one. Truth be told, I've had my suspicions for a long time. But the evidence keeps mounting.
How many ways are we out of control? Too many to count. But here are a few examples:
We consume without concern for consequences or cost. We sell our souls to corporations to get shiny toys and tasty treats, and we don't care who gets hurt or what things they do to shave costs and drive up profits. We look to talking heads that shill hate and outrage, and cause further division and create problems instead of solving them. We let the purity of faith become corrupted with prejudice and intolerance. We allow ourselves to believe that we have to choose between left and right, when the real choice is between regular people and those that want to take advantage of them. We're happy as long as we have big TVs and iPods and sports and beer. We sweat in the winter and freeze in the summer. We look for others to blame, and absolve ourselves from guilt. We eat sentient beings when we have humane options. We reproduce without any thought to how the world will be able to hold us all. We trade fulfillment for material comforts. We say the right things, but we don't mean them.
And, as Thoreau would say, we lead lives of quiet desperation.
Okay, I admit that rant was a bit excessive, but I believe it's mostly true. And this is where it all comes back to losing weight.
I made a huge effort to improve myself in one area I've always struggled with, but there's so many more things that need to be fixed. I could make a list, but my rant hit on many of them.
In the end, the only hope for all of us if we accept that we are all constant works in progress, and that we must keep struggling towards becoming our ideal selves. We may differ in our view of what that is, but I have to believe that for the vast majority of us, it would be a very positive thing. Throw in a healthy dose of tolerance and acceptance, and we could all get along in our new enlightened state. And for those that would strive to become beings motivated by hate and greed, to quote an old song, "get off my cloud."
And as they crept off my cumulus, I'd also say to the back of their heads, to quote another song, "what's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding?"
P.S. I'm not really that much of a dreaming idealist. We're going to stay out of control for the foreseeable future. If I've learned anything about humanity, we'll keep going with our bad habits until we have our toes dangling over the edge of the abyss. Then we'll kick a rock over to see how far the fall is before we decide to turn around. We're all fucking nuts!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Random Thoughts Interspersed with Song Lyrics
The poets down here
Don't write nothing at all,
They just stand back and let it all be.
-- Bruce Springsteen, "Jungleland"
I've never been interested in blogging about what I ate for lunch, what celebrity died last week, what's the hottest thing on reality TV, etc. The problem is when you cut out the noise, how much signal is left? Often, not too much.
By the way, I tried quinoa for the first time today. Isn't that exciting? (I'm not making that up. It's real, I swear.)
We're too young to fall asleep,
Too cynical to speak.
We are losing it,
Can't you tell?
-- Radiohead, "My Iron Lung"
One thing worth mentioning is that in last six weeks I've made a serious effort to eat better and exercise. The results have been very good thus far: 17 pounds lost. Considering I started at 252, I still have a ways to go. At six feet tall, I'm aiming to get down to 185, but I'll settle for under 200.
The remarkable thing is that it's been much easier this time around. I cut the soda, improved my diet to get rid of junk and eat healthier, less processed foods, and workout four to five times a week. I've tried this before, and it always eventually failed, but this time it's been almost easy.
Love of mine,
Someday you will die.
But I'll be close behind,
I'll follow you into the dark.
-- Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"
Some credit goes to new tools at my disposal. I've followed the South Beach Diet (which is more science than quackery, from what I can discern) and have used EA Active on the Wii to keep me motivated to follow a workout schedule. While these have helped, the real key is my own mortality.
I'm a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. Those 12 teaspoons of sugar per can of soda and all the fat from burgers and fries was setting the scene for mid-life drama. Heart attacks and diabetes were a when, not an if.
I still don't know what I was waiting for,
And my time was running wild,
A million dead-end streets.
Every time I thought I'd got it made,
It seemed the taste was not so sweet.
-- David Bowie, "Changes"
When I was in my 20s, I always felt there was time to turn things around before health problems caught up with me. Suddenly, I was approaching mid 30s and carrying a large spare tire (I'm guessing tractor-sized) and had a very bad Coke habit (the beverage, not the drug, I swear.) And that why it's sticking this time. I don't want to keel over at 40, or live with self-induced health issues. And I don't what to curse my youthful bravado in my senior years.
Now, I'm not one of those self-delusional types. I didn't think I was big-boned, or that it was all really muscle and not fat. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the belly hanging. My BMI puts me at obese. But now that I've gotten down to 235, it's been sobering how many people comment on my weigh lost. I was so fat that in comparison, I now look comparatively skinny. This is frightening, and reinforces the need to fight on.
Always felt like giving in
To the feeling I can't win.
But I took it on the chin.
Now I'm finally cashing in.
...
My losing streak is done.
I said my losing streak is done.
-- eels, "Losing Streak"
When I put before and after pics of my first six weeks side by side (no, you can't see them,) I see a bit of difference, but I also remember what I used to look like in those long ago days when I was in shape. (It's true, I swear. I was 185 at one point in college and went to the gym daily.)
I still have a long way to go, but this time, I feel like it's going to stick. I'm going to make it.
"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
-- Simon and Garfunkel, "America"
Now that I'm getting my ass in gear on the weight front, I want to keep up the good mojo in other areas. I'm going to do my best to write more. I have a great story idea burning in my head (called "The Healer," but don't tell anyone I told you.)
Writing is, and most likely will always be, incredibly difficult for me. Yet, I'm like a moth drawn to the flame. If I don't keep trying, something vital will be lost, and there will be an emptiness I feel that will never be filled. It may never be filled, but I have to keep trying.
If you're not going to keep trying to do the things that matter, why go on living?
You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.
-- Billy Joel, "The Entertainer"
In the end, one thing I have to accept is that my artistic impulses don't take a direction that heads toward mainstream appeal. I mean just look at this blog post. Random lyrics all over the place, and in red???
"A little self-indulgent, don't you think, jackass?" you ask. I nod gravely.
But this is part of the equation for me. No compromises, no committees, no marketing plans. I don't want to make a product, I want to make art. And I'd much rather have a drawer full of terrible art than terrible products. There's at least poetry in being a failed artist, even if it's bad poetry.
I ran my mouth off a bit too much, oh what did I say?
Well you just laughed it off, it was all OK.
-- Modest Mouse, "Float On"
In short, I'm going to find more things to say more often, so keep your eyes peeled.
It's true, I swear.
Don't write nothing at all,
They just stand back and let it all be.
-- Bruce Springsteen, "Jungleland"
I've never been interested in blogging about what I ate for lunch, what celebrity died last week, what's the hottest thing on reality TV, etc. The problem is when you cut out the noise, how much signal is left? Often, not too much.
By the way, I tried quinoa for the first time today. Isn't that exciting? (I'm not making that up. It's real, I swear.)
We're too young to fall asleep,
Too cynical to speak.
We are losing it,
Can't you tell?
-- Radiohead, "My Iron Lung"
One thing worth mentioning is that in last six weeks I've made a serious effort to eat better and exercise. The results have been very good thus far: 17 pounds lost. Considering I started at 252, I still have a ways to go. At six feet tall, I'm aiming to get down to 185, but I'll settle for under 200.
The remarkable thing is that it's been much easier this time around. I cut the soda, improved my diet to get rid of junk and eat healthier, less processed foods, and workout four to five times a week. I've tried this before, and it always eventually failed, but this time it's been almost easy.
Love of mine,
Someday you will die.
But I'll be close behind,
I'll follow you into the dark.
-- Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"
Some credit goes to new tools at my disposal. I've followed the South Beach Diet (which is more science than quackery, from what I can discern) and have used EA Active on the Wii to keep me motivated to follow a workout schedule. While these have helped, the real key is my own mortality.
I'm a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. Those 12 teaspoons of sugar per can of soda and all the fat from burgers and fries was setting the scene for mid-life drama. Heart attacks and diabetes were a when, not an if.
I still don't know what I was waiting for,
And my time was running wild,
A million dead-end streets.
Every time I thought I'd got it made,
It seemed the taste was not so sweet.
-- David Bowie, "Changes"
When I was in my 20s, I always felt there was time to turn things around before health problems caught up with me. Suddenly, I was approaching mid 30s and carrying a large spare tire (I'm guessing tractor-sized) and had a very bad Coke habit (the beverage, not the drug, I swear.) And that why it's sticking this time. I don't want to keel over at 40, or live with self-induced health issues. And I don't what to curse my youthful bravado in my senior years.
Now, I'm not one of those self-delusional types. I didn't think I was big-boned, or that it was all really muscle and not fat. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the belly hanging. My BMI puts me at obese. But now that I've gotten down to 235, it's been sobering how many people comment on my weigh lost. I was so fat that in comparison, I now look comparatively skinny. This is frightening, and reinforces the need to fight on.
Always felt like giving in
To the feeling I can't win.
But I took it on the chin.
Now I'm finally cashing in.
...
My losing streak is done.
I said my losing streak is done.
-- eels, "Losing Streak"
When I put before and after pics of my first six weeks side by side (no, you can't see them,) I see a bit of difference, but I also remember what I used to look like in those long ago days when I was in shape. (It's true, I swear. I was 185 at one point in college and went to the gym daily.)
I still have a long way to go, but this time, I feel like it's going to stick. I'm going to make it.
"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
-- Simon and Garfunkel, "America"
Now that I'm getting my ass in gear on the weight front, I want to keep up the good mojo in other areas. I'm going to do my best to write more. I have a great story idea burning in my head (called "The Healer," but don't tell anyone I told you.)
Writing is, and most likely will always be, incredibly difficult for me. Yet, I'm like a moth drawn to the flame. If I don't keep trying, something vital will be lost, and there will be an emptiness I feel that will never be filled. It may never be filled, but I have to keep trying.
If you're not going to keep trying to do the things that matter, why go on living?
You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.
-- Billy Joel, "The Entertainer"
In the end, one thing I have to accept is that my artistic impulses don't take a direction that heads toward mainstream appeal. I mean just look at this blog post. Random lyrics all over the place, and in red???
"A little self-indulgent, don't you think, jackass?" you ask. I nod gravely.
But this is part of the equation for me. No compromises, no committees, no marketing plans. I don't want to make a product, I want to make art. And I'd much rather have a drawer full of terrible art than terrible products. There's at least poetry in being a failed artist, even if it's bad poetry.
I ran my mouth off a bit too much, oh what did I say?
Well you just laughed it off, it was all OK.
-- Modest Mouse, "Float On"
In short, I'm going to find more things to say more often, so keep your eyes peeled.
It's true, I swear.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Scary Things Pointed at My Head
Went to my bi-annual dentist appointment today. I had a sinking feeling throughout the day before my visit that this would be the time that all the warnings of, "We'll have to keep on an eye out on that next time," would finally catch up with me. I feared horrendous issues. Dates with drills and other sharp, scary things.
Turns out that my teeth were just fine, thank you. Things seemed to be so good, as a matter of fact, that I didn't get the usual warnings about my bad oral habits. I was shocked, to be honest.
But, there was one bump in the road. My hygenist informed me that it had been five years since my last set of full oral x-rays. She also explained that they had moved to a new computer based x-ray system. "It's easier because I don't have to develop x-rays anymore," she said happily, before noting, "But taking the x-rays is a bit harder."
This caught my attention, since the travails of x-ray development had been hidden from me, but, by golly, the actual taking part involved me and my poor little mouth.
She brought out what looked a bit like the usual apparatus: a metal bar with a large plastic loop on the not me end that was used for aiming the x-ray cannon. (I call it x-ray cannon because that's what it looks like when it's pointed at my head.) On the business end, where once had been a simple little piece of x-ray film, was a hunk of plastic with a rather intimidating cable protruding and running to a computer. It was about to be my joy to bite down on this sucker eighteen times.
First was the lead flak jacket for my chest (and more importantly, my genitals). After that was thudded into place, my first command to bite down was given, and with that uncomfortable hunk of plastic in my mouth and the x-ray cannon pointed at my head (my chest is protected, but what about my brain?), she ran from the room to pull the trigger.
I have a pretty strong gag reflex, so this exercise in painful repetition required a force of will on my part. Beyond that, for a couple of the x-rays, it hurt pretty ******* bad.
In case you're wondering, the word replaced by ******* is "fucking."
Now, this would all have been perfectly awful enough, except for one exciting twist. When I'm in a painful, awkward situation, I tend to giggle. Giggling is not the best way to go about having oral x-rays taken. It potentially messes up the x-rays, which can lead to more cannon fire, and more melted brain cells. I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere. Or my good friend and fellow blogger MommyDoc may have told me that.
Anyhoo, another symptom of giggling in the dentists office is you look pretty silly (or sexy and macho, at least that's what I tell myself). Based on the exasperation of my hygenist/sadist, I'll have to bet on silly. Perhaps it was the simple fact that she had been looking forward to torturing the poor sap that need the full x-rays to end her day, and here he was, laughing. I guess that's like hours of foreplay not only not leading to an orgasm, but resulting in an anti-orgasm where your genitals explode. Needless to say, she was not pleased with my inability to suffer properly.
After the last x-ray, I had the urge to proclaim, "That was the oral equivalent of a prostate exam!" In a rare moment of self censorhip, I did not.
The rest of the exam was unremarkable. Just the usual insufferable pain caused by sharp, pointy things digging into my gums under some pretense of dental health. Then the cameo by the actual dentist to pull at my lips as if I was Mr. Ed before patting me on the head and assuring that everything was just fine, scooter! (Okay, there was no patting of the head and the word scooter was not used, but it sure felt that way.)
So with the good news of no impending oral doom and a throbbing mouth, I made my escape, never to have to go back. Until January 5th. Fuck.
Turns out that my teeth were just fine, thank you. Things seemed to be so good, as a matter of fact, that I didn't get the usual warnings about my bad oral habits. I was shocked, to be honest.
But, there was one bump in the road. My hygenist informed me that it had been five years since my last set of full oral x-rays. She also explained that they had moved to a new computer based x-ray system. "It's easier because I don't have to develop x-rays anymore," she said happily, before noting, "But taking the x-rays is a bit harder."
This caught my attention, since the travails of x-ray development had been hidden from me, but, by golly, the actual taking part involved me and my poor little mouth.
She brought out what looked a bit like the usual apparatus: a metal bar with a large plastic loop on the not me end that was used for aiming the x-ray cannon. (I call it x-ray cannon because that's what it looks like when it's pointed at my head.) On the business end, where once had been a simple little piece of x-ray film, was a hunk of plastic with a rather intimidating cable protruding and running to a computer. It was about to be my joy to bite down on this sucker eighteen times.
First was the lead flak jacket for my chest (and more importantly, my genitals). After that was thudded into place, my first command to bite down was given, and with that uncomfortable hunk of plastic in my mouth and the x-ray cannon pointed at my head (my chest is protected, but what about my brain?), she ran from the room to pull the trigger.
I have a pretty strong gag reflex, so this exercise in painful repetition required a force of will on my part. Beyond that, for a couple of the x-rays, it hurt pretty ******* bad.
In case you're wondering, the word replaced by ******* is "fucking."
Now, this would all have been perfectly awful enough, except for one exciting twist. When I'm in a painful, awkward situation, I tend to giggle. Giggling is not the best way to go about having oral x-rays taken. It potentially messes up the x-rays, which can lead to more cannon fire, and more melted brain cells. I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere. Or my good friend and fellow blogger MommyDoc may have told me that.
Anyhoo, another symptom of giggling in the dentists office is you look pretty silly (or sexy and macho, at least that's what I tell myself). Based on the exasperation of my hygenist/sadist, I'll have to bet on silly. Perhaps it was the simple fact that she had been looking forward to torturing the poor sap that need the full x-rays to end her day, and here he was, laughing. I guess that's like hours of foreplay not only not leading to an orgasm, but resulting in an anti-orgasm where your genitals explode. Needless to say, she was not pleased with my inability to suffer properly.
After the last x-ray, I had the urge to proclaim, "That was the oral equivalent of a prostate exam!" In a rare moment of self censorhip, I did not.
The rest of the exam was unremarkable. Just the usual insufferable pain caused by sharp, pointy things digging into my gums under some pretense of dental health. Then the cameo by the actual dentist to pull at my lips as if I was Mr. Ed before patting me on the head and assuring that everything was just fine, scooter! (Okay, there was no patting of the head and the word scooter was not used, but it sure felt that way.)
So with the good news of no impending oral doom and a throbbing mouth, I made my escape, never to have to go back. Until January 5th. Fuck.
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