Fat
I’m fat again. This hardly a surprise to me when I look back at life over the past six months or so though. When stressed, I tend to withdraw and seek comfort. In all honesty, comfort, for me, is food. I love eating. I love savory. I love sugary. I love spicy. I love food.
And so when the bedbugs came, I dined out. I didn’t just eat the vegetable buffet either. I ate tacos, steak, and more desserts than I care to remember. When I got tired of noticing my weight edging up each day, I just stopped looking the damn scale entirely. It looks like we’ve hopefully emerged victorious over the bedbugs(1), and in that vein, I’ve been “going to start being good again tomorrow” for at least two months now. Sometimes I even start exercising a couple of days before I get depressed about something, quit exercising, and seek unhealthy food. The only thing I haven’t done is openly confess. So here it is, world. My confession.
I’m fat. I’m fat because I use food to soothe my frayed nerves. When I get stressed, I eat poorly and often, and due to my intensely introverted nature, I get stressed a lot. As a kid, I used to get so nervous at the thought of going to school that sometimes I would be unable to sleep. I played sick sometimes just so I could hide in my house, away from everyone. Sometimes, I even got so nervous that I actually made myself sick. One time I threw up before school in front of all the kids because I was absolutely panic-stricken at the thought of having to be around the other children all day. So yeah, I get stressed. For the past week, I’ve been fighting an ardent battle to face each day because I’ve been absolutely depressed over the election results.
Please note that while some people will tell you that they’re depressed, they really aren’t. They’re sad. That’s a completely fucking different thing entirely, folks.
The only times in my life that I’ve owned my life have been when I’ve been punk rock enough to own it. I’m owning it now, bitches. This is my life. I bow to no one. I don’t even bow to myself or any of my stupid ideas of myself.
I won’t be silent so that people can assume that I agree with them. When someone talks about how thrilled they were that people came out in droves to support the anti-gay amendments, you can bet your ass that I’ll tell them that I consider this a civil rights issue. When someone asks me if I’m attending church anywhere, I intend to tell them that I’m practicing my faith privately. When someone asks me what my faith is, I’m going to determinedly explain that I’m a Christian Buddhist. The punk is in, bitches, and he’s open for appointments.
And in that vein, I’m taking care of myself again. This world deserves/needs my presence for as long as I can manage. It’s time to drop this fucking spare tire. It’s time to make my blood pressure normal and healthy. It’s time to feel good again. It’s high time to feel so healthy and confident that when I get an ache or pain that I’m not convinced that it might be a serious health problem. I fear no one—not even myself. I’m coming out of the cocoon, bitches. I am unique and beautiful.
I walked six miles this morning. I will walk a minimum of twenty miles per week. I will lose at least one pound every week. Anything less is cowardice.
I will win. I don’t seek absolution. I only seek the galvanization of purpose that comes from revealing the sad, scared, depressed, secret places in my soul. You’ve all seen me weak, scared, and defeated. I won’t let it happen again. I am punk rock personified. I seek both salvation and enlightenment. I’m not going to lose again.