wardrobe malfunction

On Sunday, I went shopping from my own collection of clothing.  When I packed up my belongings after college graduation, I placed the majority of my clothes in three giant plastic bins.  When I got home from school, I unloaded the bins from my car but not the clothes.  They went into storage.  What was I using them for?  I didn't have a job and didn't have a legitimate reason to get out of my sleep pants.  Pajama Jeans and Snuggies hadn't yet come onto the scene so my elastic cotton bottoms and oversized t-shirts comprised my wardrobe.  I like to stay classy when I can.

And then I gained all that weight and I knew nothing would fit because, out of the articles of clothing I did take out, they were too tight.  I reasoned the rest would be as well.

But now that I've lost 47 pounds, I'm almost back to my college weight.  I decided to bust out the old clothes and see if any of them fit again.  Much to my surprise, a lot of them did.  I tried on every piece and kept the ones that still fit/I still liked and removed the ones I was no longer interested in having.

Some were still too tight but it didn't bother me because they were size small and I was just flabbergasted that I was ever able to fit into a small at all.  It just confirms the fact that I cannot see my body how it is.  I thought I was fat in college but I was wearing size small?  That doesn't make much sense.  I neatly folded the shirts and sweaters and placed them back in the bin and hoped the next time I busted them out, the ones that were still too tight would finally fit again.

And I had a lot of clothes.  I went through my closet and removed the shirts and jeans that are now too big for me and put them in with the pile I no longer wanted.  I've done this more times than I care to admit.  It feels like I'm always shrinking and expanding, buying up a size and then down a size and that makes for a very cramped closet.

I usually wear the same couple of shirts and jeans all the time because they are comfortable and they fit and I like the way they look.  As I eyed all the clothes I had collected over the years, sizes ranging from small to extra large, I realized I didn't like a lot of my clothes.  When you're a bigger guy, it's hard to shop.  The things that look good on thin people don't look good on you.  You get to be a certain size and everything hangs on you like a shower curtain.  And that's the way I was for a long time.  I often bought clothes because I needed a larger size, not because I liked the way they looked or felt.  I had given up, shopping out of necessity instead of pleasure.

But my body has changed again and I don't feel as defeated when it comes to clothing.  I still don't feel great about it.  I'm still big.  But not as big and shirts and jeans aren't as intimidating.

It was bittersweet going through the mini mountains of stretched out shirts and faded jeans with the beginnings of holes worn into them.  I've made so much progress but it feels kind of empty because I'm just re-losing the weight I already lost.  Most people I know in real life who I don't see on a regular basis probably won't even realize I had to lose the weight all over again.  It's not exactly brag-worthy.  Oh, yeah, remember how I lost all that weight?  Well, I regained it all and then had to lose it again just to go back to being chubby.  My life is a mess and I can't control my weight.  How are you doing?  You gonna finish that?

If only I could have just kept going, kept losing while I was already halfway thin.  Maybe I'd finally be in great shape today instead of working so hard just to be back to where I was three years ago.  I try not to dwell on those kinds of thoughts, though.  They don't help matters.  A lot of people don't realize that I have an illness or addiction or eating disorder or whatever you want to call it.  It's a struggle every single day not to give in to the temptation that taps at my brain.

I'm still not where I want to be but at least I'm not where I was.

gerontophobia

After the episode with the old man, I realized he instilled in me a fear of other old men.  Any time an elderly man came into my department, the heat in my chest increased.  I was both annoyed and frightened and felt pressured to drop everything and engage them in a friendly welcome.  Some were receptive while others gave me dirty looks and interrupted my "hello" with a grouchy "I'm just looking!"

I couldn't win.  I say hello and get ignored or don't say hello and I'm being a jerk.

For a long time after the incident, my anxiety grew exponentially any time I saw gray hair and liver spots.  And in my town, that's basically the only people who inhabit the area.  So I was anxious a lot.

It all culminated with the return of the original a-hole himself.  I was quietly folding a stack of shirts on my counter when I looked up and saw him.  No joke, my cheeks flushed a hot red and my chest literally burned.  I wasn't sure it was him at first but as he got closer to me, I recognized his hunched back, glasses, the same red cap he wore during his first verbal assault, and the scowl on his face.

Damn it.

As he got closer to me, I breathed in deeply.  "Hello, how are you, sir?"  My voice was deadpan, icy yet respectful.

"I'm fine, how are you?"

"Good," I said as I focused my attention back onto the stack of shirts I was folding.  Was it possible he didn't remember me?  Did the old man disease that ate his manners also devour his memories?  No, I wasn't that lucky.

I wasn't sure what to do.  Help him out or call someone?  No, screw that.  I was going to call someone.  I told myself I would if I ever crossed him or anyone like him again.  Fortunately, my devout Christian coworker came into my department, holding up the same coat I sold the man.

"Hey, Brannon," she said in her monotone Lurch-in-a-tunnel voice.  "This gentleman says he wants to exchange the coat."

"That's the man who verbally abused me and I don't want to deal with him," I said.

"Okay, I'll deal with him," she said.  "Can you watch my department for me?"

"Gladly."

After the man left, I spoke with my coworker again.

"How was he?"

"He was...he was okay," she said, a hint of reluctance in her voice.  "He was appreciative of your help last time."

"Was he being sarcastic?"

"Uh, no, I was."

"Oh."

"He said you made too much of a fuss over the sleeves."

So, he remembered me all right.  It was bad enough he haunted my head but why did I have to be reminded of him?  Why, out of all the people I interact with on a daily basis, does he have to come back and bring up the incident all over again, especially to someone else?  I didn't want to be made to look bad in front of her.

"Actually, he did," I said and proceeded to explain to her what happened.

"Well, he's from the old school," she said.  "He comes from a time when people popped out of the aisles to sell people suits because they worked on commission and that's how they ate."

I understood all that but I almost felt like she was defending him.  I know she probably wasn't, most likely trying to soothe my feelings over the guy by just explaining his thought process.  It still rubbed me the wrong way a little bit.  But I got over it after a time because I knew it was probably my screwed up perspective making me take it the wrong way.  I tend to do that.  Shocking, I know, since I'm usually so good with people.

I've got another customer follow up for you as well.  Remember the guy and his mother with the homemade tattoos coming in and buying dress shirts?  Well, the mom came back in the other day and once again jutted her shiny blue slider cell phone in my face and said, "My son wants to talk to you again.  I got him the same shirt he already has."

I got on the phone with him and he said he wanted the same size shirt but in a different color.  "Yeah, man, hey, hey, I dun got four shirts that same color, bud.  I need anothern.  What other colors y'all got?"

I told him we didn't have any other colors in his size.  But like last time, he had to check for himself.

"Hey, hey, man, hey, uh, hey, can I come up in there barefoot?"

Oh sweet gravy.

"Barefoot?  I, uh, I don't know."  I wasn't sure about the dress code for customers.  I mean, I definitely do my share of complaining about them but they at least come in clothed.  They usually have stains on them or holes in them and sometimes they contain the occasionally turd or two but they're always clothed.  In my nearly four years of working there, I never had that question come up.  A majority of people (not all) wear shoes out in public, even if it's their ratty old bedroom shoes.

"Well, hey partner, hey, uh, hey, hey, I came up in there a couple of weeks ago and wudn't wearin' any so I'm gonna try it again."

"Well, okay," I said.  I had no idea how to respond.

Sure enough, he came in with his milky white feet exposed to the elements and our carpet.  And sure enough, he couldn't find another shirt.

"I guess I'll just have to return this and wait until you get more in stock," he said.

"Sorry about that."

"Hey, bud, hey, hey, it ain't no problem.  Hey."  At least he was nice.

When he left, another old man came into my department.  Still reeling from revisiting the the grouchy geezer, I walked up to this new man.

"Hey, sir, how are...."

"I'm just browsing!" he said, and waved me away.

I went back to my stack of shirts.

fearfully and wonderfully slayed, part 2

"Just let your faith die..."
-AFI, Sacrilege

I hear people say that unanswered prayers are still answered.  I keep thinking of that stupid footprints story.  Maybe you've seen me through all the pain and I never realized it or maybe I just made it on my own.  How will I ever know because you'll never tell me!  How can I keep the faith when there's no sign, no feeling, no subtle recognition to keep me going, to let me know I'm doing the right thing?  Am I just wasting my time? 
 
I kept praying, turned away from my sins, tried to think positive thoughts, focused on you and nothing ever changed.  I was empty on the inside and disappointed with the nothing in the sky.  Why couldn't I get a sign or a feeling of reassurance?  Why was there such a disconnect between me and you?  Was I still doing something so wrong as to keep you so far away?
 
I looked for you and only saw sadness.  I saw confusion over the course my life had taken.  I saw this little boy who sat alone, teary-eyed, wondering where the love and comfort was that was promised to him in a big book with big words and big promises if only he would believe in it all.
 
I believed in you.  But you didn't believe in me.

I put everything into college and it was the biggest financial and emotional mistake of my life, one that I will likely pay for until I die, which will probably be sooner than later.  Not only did college not work out but I barely scraped through graduation with all of my limbs.  My mind was destroyed as well as my spirit.

fearfully and wonderfully slayed, part 1

"If I ask you 'what is truth' will you be silent still?
My questions and doubts made a chasm
That I fear you can not fill..."
-Showbread, The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things
 
I met up with God the other day.  He actually let me record our conversation and I have conveniently transcribed it for you.  We had a long talk, or actually I had a lot to say to him.  You might notice he was sparse with the responses, which wasn't surprising.  Below is our exchange.

Me:  What's up, Lord?  I know you're busy not answering prayers and and standing idly by as the world crumbles, yet somehow swooping in and saving certain individuals from damnation to propel the proselytizing of non-believers, but we need to have some tea and a chat.  You've been dodging me for twenty-six years so the very least you can do is spare me a few minutes. 

God:  *irritated, pointing to iPhone*

Me:  Sure, I'll let you finish your call.  Tell Jesus I said hi and that I miss him.

God hangs up after several minutes, looks at me, becomes morose.

Me:  Please, have a seat.  Can I get you a Snuggie?  Nescafe?  Comfortable?  Good.  This is gonna take a while.

God:  *rolls eyes*

Me:  I hate to be negative right from the start so let's get to the good stuff first, shall we?  First of all, I am an incredibly fortunate individual.  I guess you'd prefer the term "blessed".  Sure, we can use your terminology.  I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and say you played some part in the positive aspects of my life.  I've never starved because my family couldn't afford food.  I've never been beaten by my mother or molested by my father.  I've never been left out in the cold or went without adequate clothing.  I've never had loved ones torn away from me by death or divorce.

My life is easy.

But I am absolutely miserable.   

I know this doesn't make much sense but please hear me out, okay?  As much as you might want to lambast me, I've already beaten myself up about it plenty of times.  I feel guilty and selfish because there's no real reason why I should be so miserable.  Looking at me from an outsider's point of view, I have no reason to be sad or even complain at all.  There are people who struggle twice as much as I do and aren't half as unhappy.  It's not something I can explain.  Believe me, I've tried to figure it out.  It's just those small things I've mentioned before, the small slices of pain life inflicts, the paper cuts that add up to amputation.

nocturnal permissions

I was thinking about writing the other day, specifically poetry and realized I hadn't written a poem in over two years.  I used to be so inspired to write poetry.  Lines flew into my head like it was the easiest thing in the world.  But one day, for reasons unbeknownst to me, it became harder and harder to write and the words wouldn't form and the lines that once slipped in so easily no longer showed up.  And I had to force it and it didn't feel natural anymore so I just stopped.

I suppose all of this thinking about poetry might have been why a poem suddenly popped into my head one night.  I just happened to be in that stage of sleep twilight, those precious few seconds when you can actually feel yourself crossing over into unconsciousness, a moment when you feel as if your internal organs have shifted just so, a wash of nausea and then your awareness fades and you're under.

It was odd because I haven't had the ability to write poetry in years and suddenly, this almost fully formed poem is thrust into my mind right before it shuts off for the night.  It wasn't a good poem but I found it interesting that it even showed up at all.  I don't want to say I thought that part of me was gone but I feel my writing has changed since my last attempt at poetry writing and it almost feels like it's just not the appropriate medium for me right now.  I don't understand poetry enough to appreciate it the way I should nor write it how I should.

This isn't the first case of it happening.  Back when my creative juices were really flowing, poetry came flooding into my head night and day.  I often found lines embedded in my head and it was as if digging for sleep somehow uncovered those buried bits of mood and feeling.

I've even managed to come up with melodies and song lyrics seconds before sleep, which is quite curious because I am no song writer, nor a singer by any stretch of the imagination.  Yet, there they were, these incomplete bits of songs and poetry, lines of feeling formed and free falling in my mind, snatched up seconds before sleep.

It's as if those few moments before I fall under are when my mind allows itself to break free from the strain of worry and fear and it grants permission to explore my pent up emotions in a more creative way.  It's as if drowsiness is an elixir of sorts, my drug of choice for coming up with ideas.  I've always come up with my best ideas at night.  It's when I work best.  It's when I feel calmer, more focused and less sporadic.  It's as if the closer I get to sleep, the more creative I become, the apex being at the moment when my brain is in transition.

Who knew my muse was hiding at the bottom of a bottle of night time cold medication?  Maybe I just need to stay buzzed on sleeping pills.  Then I can finally find my creativity again and write good poetry and finish my book and work on others. 
 

bullets or bitters?

"It feels so much like falling
dying while I wait to die
the fear of something or nothing
lonely empty lie..."
-Flyleaf, Much Like Falling

"I'm on my way to hell,
well I've tried
God knows that I've tried..."
-Brand New, Noro

"When are you leaving here?" a coworker asked me one day.

"5:30," I replied.

"No, I mean leave leave," he said.

"Oh.  Whenever I get up enough courage to take that entire bottle of Tylenol I have in my medicine cabinet."

He just laughed.  "Uh, no, I mean just quitting this job."

"Well, once that Tylenol has absorbed, that'll be my resignation."

He laughed again.  "You're warped."

"Yeah...I know.  Hence the Tylenol."

I was joking.  Mostly.  But even though I was kidding around, it occurred to me that I kid about suicide a lot.  And back before I was moved to a different department,  when I wasn't busy and the boss was away for the day, I often slipped to the edge of my counter and wrote.  One day, a supervisor came through, saw me, and said, "What are you writing there?"

Without missing a beat, I said, "My suicide note."  She too laughed and kept walking.  I guess she didn't take me seriously or maybe my coworkers all laughed out of discomfort.  It makes sense.  I can dish it out to others but I don't know how I would react if I found someone who could match my morbidity.  I might be a little uncomfortable, too.

I often think about dying, about getting out of this place, out of my skin, shimmying my way out of the mess I have made of my life.  If I'm left too idle, if I'm not distracted by television or music, I think about my life and it horrifies me.  It settles in that this is my life, this is what I've become.  It's hard to realize this is not practice.  I'm not test driving life.  I'm living it and I'm hating it.  When I sit back and really think about where I am and how I'm living, it makes me so despondent.  It's like, this is really it.  This isn't a fantasy.  This isn't a book or a movie where things are comically bad until I win the lottery or fall in love and everything is suddenly wonderful on the series finale.  There are days when I want nothing more than to just get out, you know, to just hit the eject button and be done.

There's always been a part of me that has longed for death, from being a little boy who prayed to God to kill me in my sleep so I would never have to wake up again to working at the electronic bingo facility a couple of years ago and nearly driving myself off the road.  I got into my car and made the hour and a half trip to and from the job and I often thought about crashing my car into a light pole or tree or even just accelerating as fast as my little Honda would allow until I swerved off the cement and into oblivion.  Maybe I'd lose control and flip.  My neck would snap, my spine would break, my brain would squish between the tree bark and transmission.  Or  maybe I'd just rupture my spleen and be taken to the hospital, stitched up and sent home to face the anger of my parents over totaling my car.

graphic tease

While at work, a man came through my department.  He was in his fifties, salt and pepper hair underneath a worn red Alabama football team hat, his eyeglasses shining under the florescent lights.

"Hey, it's pastor John," he said into the phone.  "Just calling to check in on you..."  His voice trailed off as he walked away from me.  I turned around and watched him.

A pastor.

I haven't had the best experiences with pastors in the past at work and I wondered if this guy would be different.  In fact, I was counting on it.  So, when he eventually left the store, I turned to God.


"God, here's a sign for me," I silently prayed.  I had given up on God giving me straightforward reassurance through a peaceful feeling or a calming voice swirling through the concha of my ear so I hoped for signs, obvious objects that would soothe my skepticism.  A quote.  A song.  A person.  A pastor.

"Please God, just let that man come back.  Use him," I said.  I prayed the man would feel some overwhelming need to come to me, to tell me that I will be okay.  God would use him as my sign, my assurance.  "I'll give it five minutes.  Please, have him come back within five minutes to let me know you're with me."

I watched the clock and counted down the minutes.  I felt stupid doing this but people witnessed miracles every day so would it really be that out of the ordinary for this pastor to come back to give me a sign I've been so desperate for for so long now?  The best part was no one would know.  It would be between me and God.  My own little miracle in the men's department.

Five minutes passed.  He didn't show.

I was a little disappointed but I wasn't all that surprised.  I know it was a silly request and it's not like my faith was resting on whether or not the pastor showed up.  But, hey, never hurt's to ask, right?  I thought I'd give it a shot.

I grabbed a bunch of strewn shirts and went back to my counter to fold them.  I zoned out as I stacked the perfectly folded shirts and when I looked up, the pastor was coming toward me.

My heart swelled.  He was coming back after all, just a little later than I laid out.  We were playing on God's time.  That was fine by me, as long as I received my affirmation.

As he got closer, I couldn't keep the smile from blooming across my face.  I looked up to greet him and he walked right past me.

My heart shrank back to its original shriveled prune size.

I stood among the graphic tees and witnessed God's graphic tease, dangling hope in front of me and pulling it away, constantly pulling it away, magnifying the hurt swirling inside me.  Like I said, I know it was a silly prayer and kind of a dumb thing to ask but it was one thing to let the man just walk away the first time and never see him again but having him come back in my sight only to walk away again just felt cruel.

I wished I hadn't even brought it up.  I did it on myself.  Stupid prayers on a whim that turned into more of a hassle than they were worth.  I should have put the pastor out of my mind and went on about my day without bringing myself down.      

It's the way God and I roll these days.  I ask for guidance and get gutted.  I ask for good days and receive depression.  It's in those moments that it doesn't feel like the actions and circumstances that I encounter are due to free will.  It feels like God is directly linked to my lacerations.  Are those my signs?  I don't know if I should be relieved that God is finally presenting himself or dismayed that he's proving his existence by eviscerating me.

I know I have it wrong.  My perspective is off.  I'm making too much of a not-so-close encounter with an unaware man of God.  I'm making too much of God's lack of involvement in my life.  Doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt.  

He keeps holding onto my head, keeping me at arm's length so I can't reach around his waist and hold tight.  I struggle, fighting to have faith in him and all I can feel is that hand, pushing away, rejecting me, maybe testing me, maybe seeing how long it'll take before the fight finally falls out of me.

It won't be much longer.

fifty shades of what women want

At the behest of my work girlfriend (who I will refer to as WG for short), I read Fifty Shades of Grey.  I didn't really want to but she kept insisting and I thought it could be something new we could discuss.  We've never talked about books before so I was looking forward to an intellectual exchange regarding fictional characters and their motivations.

But as I read, I kept pointing out problems I had with the book.  Christian Grey was too perfect, too mysterious.  Anastasia Steele was too innocent, too inexperienced.  Early on in the book, she said she didn't know why she was falling for him.

"That doesn't make any sense," I mentioned to WG.  "He's super rich.  He's super handsome.  He's graceful and just distant enough to leave her wanting more.  That's reason enough to fall in love with him.  Any girl would.  Heck,  I think I'd fall in love with him, too."

WG laughed.  "Well, he does have some physical flaws, though.  He's not perfect."

"Oh, yeah?  What?  Is his penis so large he can't find comfortable underwear?  What a tortured soul!'

She laughed again.  Ah, such a nice sound.

"So, what is so appealing about him?"

"I don't know," she said, her kohl-lined eyes wandering off to the ceiling, pondering.  "I guess I just like that he's dark."

"I'm dark," I said.  Hello, I was dead for three years.

"No you're not," she said with a smirk.  "You're just emo.  And you choose to be that way."

Ah, not such a nice sound.  She really knows how to stab a guy right in the face.

"He had a really dark childhood," she added.

"You don't know about my upbringing.  It could have been dark, too."  It wasn't.

"Not like his," she countered.

"You don't know what I've been through!"  Nothing.

I just wasn't that impressed with the book.  I'll admit I jump on literally bandwagons.  I read the Twilight series and The Hunger Games series and I always tried to enjoy the books for what they were instead of what they were hyped to be.  And they were both all right.  But this one I just couldn't seem to get into like the others.  I guess I can understand it's popularity because it's so provocative but honestly, it wasn't as filthy as I imagined, which was admittedly another reason I wanted to read it.  I wanted to see how raunchy it really got.  Maybe I'm just a sick mofo but it seemed a little tame to me.  It's possible things get more extreme in the other two books but I think the first one walked the fine line between kinky sex and all out smut, just enough to titillate and not alienate, which is why it worked so well.  So I give her props for that but the writing is pretty amateur.

insanity

I'm on the third week of the Insanity fitness program and it's every bit as intense and intimidating and painful as the advertisements suggest.

I feel like there's nothing left of me after every workout.  I'm pouring sweat within 5 minutes of the typically 40 minute programs and I'm completely drenched by the end of it.  I've never sweat like that before and have never felt so exhausted by the end of a workout.  My arms and legs are screaming and my lungs are gasping for air and I feel like I've just endured a boot camp session from hell.

But my title doesn't refer to the program.  It refers to my mental condition regarding my continual struggle to lose weight.  I noticed my weight loss started to slow down so I began the Insanity program to kick things back into gear.  Additionally, I started taking Alli consistently and have tried to cut sugar out of my diet.  I hoped the pounds would really drop with all that going on but they haven't.  Yeah, I'm still losing but it's still going so slowly.

I hit a plateau recently where I could not get under 200 pounds.  It was so frustrating because not only was I not losing any weight but I could not break that 200 pound barrier.  It was also frustrating because every plateau was time wasted.  When I committed to losing weight back in January, I wanted to lose 60 pounds in 6 months (10 pounds a month, average of 2 pounds a week, which is safe and recommended) but it's now the 8th month and I've only lost 44 pounds.  I'm very behind and it scares me because I do not want to be overweight for Christmas.  I know I have a few more months left and I even told myself that I had a couple of months of cushion room in case I didn't make my goal right on time but that cushion is slowly dwindling.  And now that I'm running out of time, I'm feeling the pressure to knock of these last 20-30 pounds.

But fortunately, I have finally broken the 200 pounds mark and I am down to 194.8 and it feels good but I am just so impatient and just want the weight to be off already.  I'm already exhausted from the Insanity workouts and frustrated because I can't eat pizza and all I want to do is inhale one so bad.  I know having a cheat day every once in a while is acceptable but not for me.  I'm an all or nothing kind of guy and I've put up a dam when it comes to food and as soon as I let a little grease slip through, the dam will break and I'll find myself on the floor, clutching a Little Debbie in both hands with lard dribbling down my chin.

Despite the 44 pounds lost, I'm still fat.  How much more do I need to lose before I feel good about myself?

There's been this wave of weight loss at work.  Several of my coworkers have gotten on these health kicks and have lost anywhere from 10-20 pounds and they are thin and look great and they didn't have as much to lose or had to work as hard as I have and it sucks because I've lost twice as much as they have and yet I'm still bigger than all of them.

They've reached their goal and can move on with their lives.  But even when I reach my goal, I won't be able to move on with my life.  This is forever.  I'll be on a diet when I die.

It also upsets me that I can't see my progress.  Well, I can.  I look in the mirror or see older pictures of myself and I can see a thinning in my face and frame but I still think my perspective is skewed.  I don't see enough change to be encouraged.  I have a problem seeing my body they way it is.  When I was heavier, I mostly ignored my condition.  I ate because I was depressed and couldn't see the damage I was doing.  I was in survival mode, eating so I wouldn't throw myself onto railroad tracks.

But when I finally faced it, I couldn't see how big I had gotten.  You have to remember, I was thinner in college, the thinnest I had been in my young adult life, so I graduated being as close to thin as I have ever been.  I fell into an intense depression after college and I went into my room at 174 pounds and came out of my room at 238 pounds and although it didn't happen overnight, it felt like it did.  I think in some ways I still saw myself as still being thin because the weight slowly crept up on me.  I was used to seeing myself as thin and since I didn't face myself as I gained the weight, I went along unaware.  I wouldn't have noticed at all except for the fact that none of my jeans or shirts fit anymore.  And they weren't just a bit snug.  I literally couldn't put my clothes on.

And now that I've lost weight, I can't see how smaller I've become because I've shifted my perspective to being "the fat guy" again.  I couldn't see how big I had gotten and it's only now that I've lost quite a bit of that weight that I'm starting to see how big I was/still think I am.  My body is always changing and my mind is always working to keep up with the bingeing and purging of fat.

It's hard but not impossible.  I'm going to keep going and I'll probably continue to be unsatisfied with my performance and the slow rate of weight loss, all along beating myself up for over eating and under exercising.  But it'll be all right because I'll get there.

But this is forever, remember.  So when I get there, I'll have to then shift my focus and fight to stay there.  No matter how much weight I lose or gain or maintain, I'll always be the fat guy.  I'll always have that mentality, always think about how what I put in my mouth will make me fat again.  My head goes to fat content and calories and the fear that comes along with it all.  There's no taste without trepidation, no dinner without despondency, no satisfaction without slicing myself open.              

connection II

"I have no need of friendship, friendship causes pain, 
it's laughter and it's loving I disdain,
I am a rock, I am an island..."
-Simon and Garfunkel, I am a Rock

"I'm not a popsicle, I won't melt away..."
-Zolof the Rock and Roll Destroyer, Popsicle

The funny thing is, a lot of the time these people come to me.  They seek me out and tell me it will be okay and they're going to stick around and as soon as I believe it, they peace out.  I think it would be one thing if I went looking for that kind of pain but it often falls right into my lap.

I have enough trouble making connections with people and I usually try to keep my guard up but once I think someone is in it for the long haul, I allow them in.  People unnerve me enough as it is even when my guard is up so imagine how they invade my senses when I allow it.  But they tear down my insides and slip out of my skin and leave this kind of emptiness in their wake.  And I'm left dumbfounded.  What just happened?  Where did they go?  Why did they do this to me?

When someone says they will stick around, that's pretty much the kiss of death for me.  That's my signal.  My warning sign.  Exit immediately to your left!  Pain approaches!  Get out while you still can!

I've mentioned this before but it bears repeating.  In high school, many acquaintances entangled in messy relationships often told me they contemplated putting up impenetrable walls forever because of the hurt and rejection they endured in past relationships.  I thought that was silly and told them such.  You can't shut everyone out because you'll end up blocking someone special.

But I understand their defense mechanisms now.

No, I am not going to build a wall forever.  Maybe for just a little while.  Or maybe at least pull back.  If I had my crap together, I wouldn't go through these highs and lows with other people.  I wouldn't need anyone's confidence or affirmations because I would be self-sufficient but because I'm not, I have to rely on other people to feel like anything at all and that is a dangerous position to be in because people are not perfect.  They're fickle and unpredictable and it's no one's job to make you feel better about yourself.  I think in my case, most don't even know they're doing it and once they stop doing it, I feel bitter.  Why did you stop?  Why did you go away?  Don't you know how bad I need you?  But there's no way to win because I need them to define me but once I allow them to, they go in and cause me a lot of mayhem.

I just kind of stand around and do my thing and people come and pick me up.  I don't try to be swept away with their kindness.  I can't help if I'm an easy sell.  Maybe it's because I'm so desperate for companionship in just about any form I can get that I'll go for whatever someone's throwing my way.  Naturally, the insecurities set in long before that person really has any resonance in my life but once they do, I'm hooked.  I'm trusting.

I'm doomed.

I don't know how to resolve this problem.  I suppose if I was stronger, that would be resolution enough.  Another douche ditched me?  No big.  I can move on because my worth does not stem from their opinion of me.  Bah, if only it were that simple.  It is, really, if only I actually believed it.  But I can work on that.  And I should, pronto, before I pull one of those high school moves and shut everyone down to protect myself from hit-and-run relationships.

The really embarrassing thing is I'm not even talking about romantic relationships but also friendships.  Any kind of connection I have with someone, whether it be a special girl or a guy friend.  I like to feel wanted, needed.  Like I'm cared about, however I can get it.  But it never lasts and the first sign of sour things to come is when they tell me they're not going anywhere.  I can think of four people just right off the top of my head who have fed me that line and I don't think they lasted more than a month or so after their declaration.

I'm becoming more and more convinced that I'm simply a loner.  My mind is too fractured to form healthy relationships with anyone, whether it be friend or girlfriend.  It doesn't mean I can't be friendly with people.  It doesn't mean I can't elicit a smile or a chuckle.  Just not love.  Just not loyalty.  Just not anything deeper than a fart joke or conversations where I try to keep up with intellectual discussions and pretend I know what they are talking about.

I'm not even blaming anyone.  There comes a point where you can think that it's someone else's problem, that everyone else is screwing things up but when you consistently face failed relationships, you have to sit back and wonder if you aren't at least contributing a little bit.  Here is where I fully admit that I probably contribute a ton of trouble and therefore run people off.  That's cool.  I don't mean to.  I can't help it.  My head won't allow me to just be comfortable with the way things are.  I'm paranoid, never trusting anyone.  Why do they want to be friends with a fraud like me?  Why haven't they responded to my text?  Are they laughing with me or at me?

I don't know what's going to change my mentality.  I've realized over the years that mental damage is not easily treatable.  That's not to say it's impossible but it's hard enough to even recognize there's a problem in your brain.  We are often unaware of how we behave...or at least I'm usually unaware.  It's only through my lonely introspection do I begin to decipher the day and realize I screw up continuously.  But that introspection only takes me so far, only helps me identify what I think my problems might be.  But where does the resolution come in?  Therapy?  Prayer?  Friendship?  I've tried it all without success.

I often feel that I'll be stuck like this and I often don't even mind.  I've gone so long without really knowing someone on a deep, personal, and intimate level that it almost doesn't matter if I ever do.  You never know what you're missing until you get it but if I never get it, I'll never know.  Blissfully unaware?  

I used to feel the pull of people but now the call of the great void is the only comfort I can find.  

customer appreciation week, part 2

toothless wednesday
All the rednecks came out Wednesday afternoon.  Mullet-haired parents and their snot-nosed brood came in countrified clusters to find clearanced camo pants.  I was straightening a stack of shirts (for the twentieth time) when this tall man in a trucker hat and ratty shirt with the sleeves cut off yelled across the department, "Damn, Carol, just git the kids some pants.  I'mma go to the pickup and smoke a cigarette!"

Of course you are.  I'm sure it has easy access too, with the amount of teeth he had missing, he could just shove the thing in without exerting the energy to open his mouth.

Then this lady came in and when I saw her from the back, I thought she was younger judging from her attire.  She was in a tight blue top and denim capris with bedazzled butterflies glued on each back pocket.  She wore matching blue socks and knock-off low top Converse.  Her thin blond hair was short and curled at the ends.  I guessed from her frame she was mid-thirties, still too young to be wearing such an outfit but who am I to judge?  I can't dress myself, either, and look like crap on a daily basis so whatever makes her comfortable.

But when she turned around, she was more like in her late sixties.  She looked like the witch from Snow White.  You know the hag who hands her the apple?  Yeah, that's what I was working with, except this fashion conscious lady had less teeth.  She was on a matching blue slide-style cell phone when she walked up to me.

"'Scuse me," she said.  "My son wants to talk to you."  She jutted her phone in my face.

I took it.  "Hello?"

"Hey, yeah, I'mma lookin' fer a certain kinna dress shirt," he yelled into the phone.

Oh, fun.

"Y'all had dem shirts and ties in a box the other day when I came over yonder.  My mama said she couldn't find 'em.  Y'all stick got 'em?"

We were standing right in front of them.  How did she not see them?

"Why, yes we do."

I help the guy find a dress shirt and hand the phone back to the lady, which she promptly stuck in her nylon fanny pack.

Later that day, a regular klepto customer came in and I'm going to have to dedicate an entire entry just for her because she's a bucketful of crazy and drops pearls of comedy from her dry, thin lips.

customer appreciation week, part 1

Y'all.  You just don't even know.

I had this crackhead come in to work Monday and she gave me all kinds of crap so naturally I wanted to write about it, okay?  Well, I never got around to it and Tuesday came along and I encountered more sewage.  So, I wanted to write about that and then on Wednesday, I had to deal with more obnoxious people.  And then Thursday!  So, why don't we just go through this week's offenders all together, shall we?

monday meth face
It wasn't even 9:00am yet when this sunken-cheeked skank straight out of an episode of COPS shows up and wants to exchange some shirts.  She looked really posh with her fuzzy pajamas and frizzy brown hair parted down the middle.  I ask if she had a receipt for the stuff she is returning and she said no.  Our policy is that we need to swipe their driver's license if they don't have a receipt.  It's that simple.

Well, you would have thought I asked her if she had a condom full of crack hidden up her twat 'cause she got so offended.  She didn't have it on her so she went back to her car.  She came back and said to her mother (who was with her), "I wish that dark headed lady was here...inaudible because I was walking back to the counter out of earshot...being made out like a thief."

Her mom didn't hear her either so she repeated herself and basically said that because I wanted to see her driver's license, I was making her out to be a thief and accusing her of stealing the stuff she was returning.  I went from zero to pissed in a nanosecond.

I looked at her with her shadow of a mustache, dangling nose hairs and sparkling nose stud and said, "Ma'am, I'm not accusing you of anything.  Our policy is that if you don't have your receipt, we need to see your driver's license.  That's just the procedure."

She looked down at the counter, scowling.  "Whatever.  My mother comes in here and shops all the time and has excellent credit."  What does that have to do with anything?

"I'm not doing anything wrong and I never said you stole this stuff.  Sorry I'm doing my job."

"Whatever."

Seconds later, as I'm exchanging this lady's merchandise, my supervisor comes up and I say, "Can you please tell this lady what the return policy is regarding merchandise without a receipt?"  She calmly told the lady what I told her and once again, her response was, "Whatever.  Fine.  Do what you gotta do."

After I finished the exchange, I bid the meth-laced lady a good day.  My co-worker was close by and heard the whole thing.  She also heard the lady still complaining in a nearby department.  Her mom was looking at dresses and she blurted out, "You better keep your receipt!  Better have your driver's license!"  What a bitch.  I mean, really, what a bitch.  Just being a bitch just to be one.

Moments later, my ultra religious co-worker came up to me and said in her low-pitched tunnel voice, "Brannon, I am so sorry you had to deal with that lady.  She was up at my counter crying.  She felt bad about what happened.  She has just gotten out of prison (OMG really? What a surprise!) and so she was sensitive about the driver's license thing.  She wanted me to tell you she was sorry."

I looked at my co-worker with a blank expression.  "Well, her being in jail is not my problem.  That doesn't give her the right to be rude.  Why can't she come apologize to me herself?"

"Yeah, she really should have," she responded.

I was still hot.  I wanted to say more, to vent my anger, but I knew she'd just look at me as a heathen.  What would Jesus do?  He'd forgive, of course, so I couldn't tell her what Bran would do, which is go slam her already busted face right into the counter.  I have no sympathy for that twitchy piece of trash.  She had no right to be so rude to me.  She ruined my day and the day hadn't even started!

I was doing my job, doing what I was supposed to do, and she comes in and gives me crap for following the rules?  I don't go to her job and knock the crack pipes out of her hands so she didn't have a reason to be so caustic with me.

If she was anxious about the driver's license situation she could have simply asked me why I needed to see it instead of storming off and assuming the worst.  But, in my extensive retail experience, when someone gets so defensive so quickly about being a thief or being dishonest, it usually means they are.  She has been in jail so point proven.

tuesday pee pants (the return of scatman)
Still reeling from my interaction with the lady the previous day, scatman came in to temporarily shift my feelings from anger to straight disgust.

To give a quick recap, he is the customer who came in a couple of weeks ago with extremely soiled pants on.  Tuesday, he shuffled in and this time, instead of smelling like dookie, he smelled like his clothing had been soaked in cat, dog, bear and bull urine and then laid out in the sun to air dry for a few weeks.  The smell was so awful that he literally stunk up my entire department although he only went to one section.  He left a stink trail so potent that it lingered long after he left.

And this time, it spread.

When he came in previously, he only affected me (of course) and two other coworkers.  But this time, he made his way to the front door and ran out of breath.  The unsuspecting coworker at the front door offered for him to sit down on the bench next to the entrance.  Soon, the smell hit her, too.  And the customers who all started making sour faces.

Meanwhile, I'm on the hunt for some air freshener.  I searched the whole store, leaving my department unattended.  I couldn't help it.  The smell had become personified, grown arms and legs and kicked me out of my work area.  I had no choice but to slay it with some smell-good spray. 

I'm really not trying to be cruel or make fun.  The man is in bad shape.  He was hunched over and couldn't shuffle very far without becoming fatigued.  And either he's so used to his own odors that he's immune to them or he's so out of it that he doesn't notice.  And that's sad.  And it seems even sadder that he doesn't have anyone to take care of his basic hygienic  needs because he clearly can't do it himself.  Even the lady at the front entrance who offered him the bench later told me he looked like the walking dead.

"Do you know his name?" she asked.

"No, why?"

"We'll probably see him in the obituary soon."

Dang.  I thought I was morbid. I never thought about him dying.  In fact, he'll probably stick around long enough to give my olfactory system a couple more good beatings before buying the farm.

This is getting too long so I'll put up a part two later so I can cover the rest of the week.    

you is we

I'm perplexed.

Sometimes I feel like people don't understand my writing.  One of the reasons I write such long entries is because I try to explain myself so thoroughly so as to be as clear as possible.  As I write, I always try to keep the reader in mind, always try to come up with questions they may have or points they want to bring up and then address those questions/points right there in the entry.

Sometimes I think this helps convey a deeper, more well-rounded comprehension of the topic at hand and other times I think I end up making my thoughts more muddled.  I wonder if, because of the length of my entries, some people just skim to get a general idea of what I'm writing and then throw a note my way, which happens to bring up a point already covered in the entry.  And I get confused because I think to myself, I already covered that.  It can get frustrating sometimes because I second guess myself, wondering if I did indeed properly convey my message.

But then I get notes from diarists who say they can relate, that I wrote exactly what they would have written had they covered the same topic.  And it feels so good.  I think to myself, Hey, I just made a connection there.  It feels good to be able to share a feeling or thought or opinion and even better to know that someone gets it because a lot of the time, I don't think anyone does.

But that's a silly way to feel.  I keep struggling to realize that no one is really alone as far as their thoughts and feelings go.  No one has ever felt a unique emotion.  Circumstances and individual experiences will differ, of course, but the feelings are all the same.  We all feel the desire, the hunger, the joy, the fear, the lust, the anticipation.  We've all gone through that a time or two (or a million).

When you strip away the backgrounds and upbringings, the religion and the prejudices, we are all alike.  We are all human.  We all bleed the same and love the same and hurt the same.  We are all connected.  We are all each other.  Our differences are minimal in comparison to our similarities.  But it's those insignificant differences that drive us apart so many times and it helps us to forget that we all want the same stuff.  We all want love.  We all want to be happy.  We all want to be accepted and recognized and it hurts me when I see those who don't get the recognition they deserve.   

I browse random people's diaries and Tumblrs and other blog-type social websites and my chest grows heavy with all the pain and despondency I come across.  We're all hurting to some degree.  We are all lacking something in our lives and I wonder if that's what's supposed to drive to keep us going.  What if that pain is supposed to propel us forward?  But it often causes us to back peddle.  Maybe we are meant to keep seeking until we find it is what we are looking for.  But do we ever find it?

It amazes we how we can be so mean to each other when all we want is to feel like we belong, to find someone to love and love us and keep us safe.  You want it and I want it so why is it that I ignore you and you tear me down?  Why do we pull apart when we are each others solution?  We tear at each other and sometimes tear at ourselves.

It seems so simple but I suppose we want it all.  People get so specific about their saviors.  They have to act the perfect way and say just the right thing and look attractive throughout.  There's been a few occasions where I could have been there for others but I didn't quite work for them, whether it was physically or emotionally, etc.  I wasn't a perfect match but I was a good fit. 

Even recently, I reached my hand out to someone only to have it slapped away because it wasn't manicured enough.  But what else can I do?  I tried.  I won't continue to seek out someone who doesn't want my help because I can't be their "everything."  There's a good chance you'll never find your "everything" in one person.  Isn't that why humans are social creatures.  To expand their limbs and touch multiple people, to find comfort in one, humor in another?

I couldn't have made all the pain go away but I could have taken away some of it because I feel that same pain.  We're all alike, remember?  I knew what the other person didn't about taking away some of the hurt but it hurt me more knowing they didn't want to hear it from me because I wasn't what they were looking for.  It's pretty typical.  I try to help people and end up hurting more.  And that's the way it goes with a lot of people.  We try, we genuinely try.  And then get torn apart and so we learn to keep our hands and opinions to ourselves.

The trick is to unhinge our hands from our bodies and reach out again, despite the possibility of more pain, despite the fear of rejection.  We can assuage the agony so why don't we?  What holds us back?  Someone else's standards?  Our own?  It makes no sense to stand in a room full of people starved of love and keep our distance with our arms folded across our chests so tight like a flesh and bone straight jacket.

We have hurt ourselves.  We have hurt each other.  We fire off words and weary like machine guns.  We spread the blood and debasement like finger paint.  We don't hug.  We don't help.  We only condition each other to hurt.

We are not monsters.  We are not animals.  We are humans.  With fragile hearts.  With fragile heads.  And the pain sets in and fogs everything until we lash inward and outward.  We separate from each other when we should pull toward each other.  It makes so much sense but it's the hardest thing in the world.    

defining entropy

When I'm at work, I loathe running into high school classmates.  When they see me, they ask one of two questions, or sometimes both:  "What are you doing here?" and/or "What happened with art school?"  It hurts me deeply because there's a perceived failure there, like I either dropped out or flunked.  Because, really, who has a bachelor's degree and works some crappy part-time retail job?  Well, me, of course.  In my defense, however, that does seem to be more the norm these days.  Work is hard to find for many people all around.  Good work is even harder.

But that doesn't stop me from feeling like a loser.

Por example, I was at work the other day, ringing up a lady when a girl I went to high school with passed by and recognized me.  She was the most popular girl in my grade, dare I say the most popular girl in the school.   Her parents were teachers at our school so everyone kissed her butt, adults and kids alike.

"Hey Brannon!" she called out.  I looked over the pile of clothes on my counter and saw her.  It took a second to register her face.  I haven't seen this girl since high school graduation nearly eight years ago so her physical appearance had changed.  She looked more mature, slimmer, prettier.  And there I was, overweight, unshaven, and sweating from the heat in the store and the heavy belly fat around my waist like a sauna suit.

Crap, I thought to myself.  I said hello and asked how she was and she said she was fine and asked me the same thing.

"Fantastic," I said with more than a hint of sarcasm in my voice.  She carried on and I finished ringing up the lady and then wanted to run out in traffic.  Why her of all people?  Why that day when I looked worse than usual?  Why did I have to run into her at all?

I wasn't exactly unpopular in high school but I wasn't beloved by the masses.  I always felt slightly skanky, not because I actually was but because I was such a mess with my weight and bad skin and other physical flaws that ate away any confidence I should have been building during those crucial years.  I didn't wear great looking clothes because nothing ever fit me correctly and I just didn't know how to dress myself properly.  I hung out with the rejects and pseudo goths.  I wasn't preppy or popular and I didn't exactly mind but I always felt I was looked down upon.
 
And I always said I'd graduate from high school and get myself together physically and emotionally and get a great job and show those snooty high school classmates that I wasn't white trash.

But as much as I've tried to fight it throughout the years, I can't.  I am white trash.  And I proved it to the most popular girl in school the day she saw me working in a low-rent retail clothing shop.  Naturally, I heard she's gone on to do quite well for herself, marrying a gentleman with a great job.  She's set for life.  She'll end up having a couple of kids and everything will be puppy dogs and ice cream for her.  Why shouldn't it be?  It always has been for her.

And why shouldn't my life be depressing?  It always has been for me.

A part of me wanted to follow her, to defend my achievements (dean's list!  cum laude!  Glenn Close at my graduation!) and go into a spiel about graduating but just not being able to find work in my field.  But I never tell them my filthy little secret:  I never even tried to find work in my field.

Even before I graduated, I had second thoughts about being an animator.  All of my classmates were so much better and more passionate than I was and the industry is so competitive and I knew I didn't stand much of a chance against my peers.  I even had a professor tell our class we weren't good enough to find a job right out of college.  He didn't even say it to be a jerk.  He had a point.  We had just learned the basics of animation, had just scratched the surface of everything there was to learn.

In my three years of college, I took twenty-seven courses and only around five of them were actual animation classes.  The rest was foundation fluff to inflate my tuition fees.  The best part was we were supposed to pull our best work from those five animation classes, which were all introductory.  Many of these pieces were our very first animations.  We basically had to pull together our best practice pieces and that doesn't make for a compelling portfolio.

Becoming an artist was something I almost feel I was pigeon-holed into doing.  I don't want to blame anyone because ultimately it was my choice to do this but everyone just expected me to be an artist because I was pretty talented at the time and it just felt natural for me to go that route.  I was so convinced by everyone else's conviction that I never took the time to explore or purse other passions.  Not until it was too late.  I fell in love with writing during my time in college but I was months away from graduation at that point, which wasn't the best time to switch my major.  I decided to continue on with animation.  Besides, I was always told it was easier to get a job with any kind of degree because it showed you were disciplined and could do good work.

But all of that is hard to explain to someone, ya feel me?  So I just say work is scarce and then slink off to the shoe department to devour a couple of desiccants.

This just isn't the kind of life I wished for myself.  This isn't what I worked so hard to achieve.  I did everything I thought I was supposed to do.  I made excellent grades throughout middle and high school, community college all the way up to university.  I didn't get distracted by drugs or drinking and I worked hard and studied hard, all to end up at the bottom.  I know the world doesn't owe me anything.  I also know my existence disproves good karma.  That doesn't make any of it easier to accept.

I just feel like I've worked so hard only to be embarrassed by those who have done better for themselves at a fraction of the cost and struggle.  I'm not above my job but I do feel I have more to offer than folding shirts and taking crap (sometimes literally) from entitled customers.  I feel bad enough about where I am without having to feel the shame of it every time I see an old classmate, especially a popular one.  It's like, "Yep, there's Brannon.  He wasn't much in high school and I see he still isn't.  No big surprise.  Someone's gotta keep the low class clothed."

Yeah, at least I'm working.  That's something.  And no, I shouldn't care what anyone else thinks about me because no one knows what I've endured but I've just always been preoccupied with other people's opinions of me.  It's something I've got to work on.  Of course, the biggest thing I've got to work on is the low opinion I have of myself.

I'm just tired of feeling like I have to define my gradual unraveling, constantly having to explain why I am where I am and who I've become.  It shouldn't matter and shouldn't really be anyone's business, especially to people who don't matter to me.  As I said, I haven't seen the girl in approximately eight years and don't care to ever see her again so why should her opinion matter so much?

I wouldn't feel so down on myself if I was at least working toward something.  I'd like to go back to school but I have no idea what I'd like to study.  Well, I do.  I'd like to study writing but, just with animation, it's not practical.  I just wish I could be interested in something that would allow me to break free from my small town.  Why can't I be like, "Yeah, I'm jazzed about being an accountant!"  I'm no longer working on my book due to chronic laziness/fear of rejection.  I'm basically whiling away the days with zombie games and bad television.  I suppose my concentration on losing weight has trumped everything else.  I'm not good at multi-tasking.  One crisis at a time, I guess.