the devil and god are raging inside me

"And over the sea in a warm sunny place 
men and women sit watching TV 
they say, 'it's a shame anyone has to die
but it was either them or me' 
all safe and snug, tucked away in our mansions 
we smile feeling comfortably safe 
and over the sea there's a dark cold place 
out of sight, out of mind, out of reach, washed away..."
-Showbread, Escape from Planet Cancer

"The death, the rape, the tragedy

the world is an ugly place

what's capable inside of me

is going to rear its ugly face..."

-DIES, Aesthetics of Violence 

"And in my best behavior 
I am really just like him 
look beneath the floorboards
for the secrets I have hid..."
-Sufjan Stevens, John Wayne Gacy, Jr.

Several years ago at my former job, I sat down at my makeshift desk, which was really just a folding table propped up against a wall.  I was a temp, hired on to help the company catch up on their paperwork and they had no proper office to give me.  So they made due and assembled a desk from extra parts they had in storage.

As I sorted through the stack of files, I noticed the room grow dim on my right side.  I looked up and saw the florescent light on the ceiling had gone out.  I looked at the wall three feet in from my face and saw the light and the dark encompassing the same portion of polystyrene.  To me, it felt like the technological equivalent of the angel and devil on my shoulder.

When I was a child, as I came to understand myself and the world and people around me, I realized I wanted to help people.  I lived in a small town with small minds.  Religion reigned over everything.  God was not at the center of people's hearts but at the center of social normalcy.  And with that warped sense of religion came a warped sense of right and wrong.  They did not look to the Bible but to their biased pastor to see who should be shunned or celebrated and a mess was made of everyone.

Fortunately, I was able to avoid such brainwashing.  I did not grow up in the church and it spared me from being taught to discriminate (disclaimer: not all churches teach hate, just all the ones I attended).  I wasn't told to hate the gays or keep my distance from the blacks and shun the atheists and fornicators and underage drinkers.  In fact, all these "bad" people comprised the majority of my friends.  I liked them and I was a good judge of character.  How could they be bad?  And how were they any worse, open with their vices, than those who hid their sins on Sunday and resumed their wicked ways the rest of the week?

Although this "Christian" behavior was hypocritical, it didn't anger me at the time.  It only inspired me.

I realized I wanted to help people. I wanted people to love each other, to realize we are all the same underneath our skin and sexuality. I wanted people to know we all have the same desires and defects. I wanted to use my art to inspire and incite revolution. All I really wanted to do was open people's eyes.  I just didn't think I was good enough at the time. I wasn't quite ready yet.

I was a child, still developing my skills and message. What did I want to say? How was I going to change the world? I had lofty ambitions and I didn't want my life to go to waste. I grew up deformed in several ways and I felt so much pain inside because of my feelings and fears. I didn't want anyone else to go through that. I didn't want anyone to feel as alone as I did. Despite my personal demons, I thought people were basically good. The world was bad and we would get corrupted but we could be saved. We were worth saving.

art

"'Cause we all know art is hard
young artists have gotta starve
Try, and fail, and try again..."
-Cursive, Art is Hard

"Art is not the world, art is in our hearts..."
-Showbread, Stabbing Art to Death

"Let me ask you something, what is not art?"
-Unknown

I used to draw.  A lot.  My childhood was spent with a Slim-Fast in one hand and a pencil in the other.  I often sneaked into my sister's room and pulled out her charcoal sketches of dragons and Axl Rose she kept underneath her bed.  And I copied them.  I learned about lines and shading sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by the waxy smell of drugstore makeup and wall-to-wall posters of hair metal bands.

An artist was born.

I devoured sketch pads and ground colored pencils into stumps.  As much as I loved toys, I loved drawing utensils equally.  I couldn't wait to try a new type of marker or a new color of crayon.  I drew my favorite superheroes and created my own action figures out of paper.  But I was never incredibly creative.  My artistic endeavors were derivative of the enormous amount of Saturday morning cartoon I consumed and my eventual discovery of anime, which I was into way before it became so huge here in America.  I was ahead of the game back then.

I learned to shade and highlight.  I learned about depth and perspective.  All from doing it on my own, from observing, from drawing, from constantly creating.

I was good at copying.  Any attempts to be original were mediocre at best.  But when I was younger, I wasn't preoccupied with being original or unique.  I just genuinely enjoyed drawing and having fun with it.  I was good.  It gave me pleasure.

But sadness and insecurity crept in and my mind became poisoned and I became a perfectionist.  People noticed my talent and were impressed.  And somehow, people began to inflate my abilities.

"Brannon drew a picture of my daughter and it looks just like her!"

"Brannon doesn't even use an eraser!"

"I heard Brannon doesn't need to draw from pictures, or from life.  He can draw from memory!"

"One time, I saw Brannon sneeze on a piece of paper and then when I looked over his shoulder, his snot was in the shape of Mona Lisa!"

None of this is true, of course.  But for some reason, in some people's minds, I'm better than I actually am.  And that was a part of the insecurity.  I felt I could never measure up to people's outlandish expectations.  I was my biggest critic.  Eventually, nothing I drew matched the image I had in my head and it frustrated me.  I knew I was better, more capable, but for some reason, I couldn't translate the image from head to paper.

There were times when I got away with reaching people's expectations, or at least that's what they told me.  I did a few commissioned drawings.  But eventually the stress became too much and I stopped charging because my art was not worth anyone's money.  And eventually I stopped doing drawings for people all together because I couldn't afford to jeopardize the reputation bestowed upon me by others.  I never lived up to the hype, never went along with the adulation and as much as I tried to downplay what I could do, no one believed me and I suddenly I was a small town art prodigy.  And wanting to please everyone, I didn't want to produce low-quality work and prove everyone wrong.   

I had been painted into a corner, so to speak.

Art became a source of frustration instead of pleasure and so I stopped drawing as much.  And then I went to college to study art.  No one had any preconceived notions of who I was or what I was capable of and suddenly I was a clean slate, an out of practice clean slate.  And I felt like I was starting from zero while all my classmates were already prodigies themselves.  I was in over my head and terrified I had made a huge mistake.

But I finished college, got a degree, and graduated with honors.  I guess that means something to someone but it doesn't mean anything to an animation company.  They want to see your demo reel and it doesn't matter how great your grades were in college, if you don't deliver mind-blowing art, you're done.  There's hundreds of other wide-eyed kids in line behind you who have dedicated themselves to their art.  They didn't hide behind rumors of grandeur.

I abandoned art after college.  I didn't feel good about my abilities and wanted to go in a different direction.  I just wasn't sure about the direction I wanted to go in.

Let me let you in on a little secret I've been keeping about my relationship with art:  I DON'T FREAKING GET IT.

agnosticynicism

heterotaxia

"You love, love, love
when you know I can't love
you love, love, love
when you know I can't love you
so I think it's best we both forget
before we dwell on it..."
-Of Monsters and Men, Love Love Love

If someone says they love you but they don't show it, does it really count?

It's like living in poverty with a million dollar bank account no one told you about.  You're rich but you're not rich.  You're blessed but you're not blessed.  You're loved but you're not loved.  

I don't want to say not being in a relationship has been detrimental to my self-worth but I don't think it's helped.  I just keep thinking how I'm 27 and have never connected with anyone on a deep, meaningful level.  And the one time I thought I did, well, it disintegrated and completely changed the way I saw people.  If that strong of a friendship could crumble, there was no hope for me and anyone else.

But stuff happens.  People form relationships and those relationships sometimes end due to any number of circumstances.  And sometimes you're left wallowing in your own cesspool of self-doubt because no one else comes along to help you correct your interpersonal errors.  Sometimes locations and circumstances make it hard to hone in on a partner.  Or even a friend.

There must be some benefit to being told your loved by someone outside your bloodline.  They can be with anyone but they choose to be with you.  They open their hearts to the possibility of pain and see through the marks on your skin and the mistakes in your mind.  Someone out there came to you and decided to stay because you were worth getting to know.  For me, people have come into my life but it's the staying part that seems so difficult.  Do I subconsciously drive people away?  Do they just get tired of my incessant self-deprecation?  Or do they get bored with my personality?

I often feel like a novelty act, a brand new Brannon still in the cellophane and once the protective casing has been cut away and I've been squeezed of jokes and encouragement and conversation, I am discarded.  The newness wears away as the imperfections poke through the shellacked surface that's eventually worn away through long exchanges and lots of laughs and eventual awkward pauses.  Then missed e-mails.  Unanswered text messages.  Phone calls not returned.  There's something about me that hooks people in but once they've penetrated whatever "thing" magnetizes them to me, they realize I am too flawed, too flat, too frail to stick with and they eventually pull out.

I'm not trying to make myself look like a victim.  I know you think I am.  But I'm not.  And I am not blaming anyone who has gone away.  I wouldn't want to put up with someone like myself either!  The novelty becomes a nuisance after a while.  And everyone says they aren't like everyone else.  They'll stick around.  They never do.  Some stay longer than others, but for me, it's just a waiting game.  Classmates never called when class was over.  Co-workers never kept in contact when they found better jobs.  Old roommates haven't written.  It hurts.  It hurts so bad.  But I'm not bitter about it and I don't blame them.  I just take it for what it is: another form of rejection, just a slow kind, a knife plunged inside by inches. 

cacao kapow!

Valentine's Day hit me like Chris Brown in a Bronco.  I'm not talking about just being alone (although that did have a lot to do with it).  I'm talking about the enormous amount of crap I ate.

I won an entire plastic container full of Hershey Kisses from work and then the store gave everyone a box of chocolates and my mom bought two boxes of chocolate for me.  After consuming that much sugar and chocolate and lard and fat and lard and sugar and chocolate and fat and lard and more lard and the occasional coconut cluster that slipped past my security measures (yuck), I felt like total garbage.

It's kind of amazing how you don't realize how bad you stopped feeling until you start feeling bad again.

I always thought I was impervious to sugar, caffeine, Aspartame, vitamins and minerals, love, legally obtained prescription drugs, etc.,  because I can have that stuff and it doesn't make me more energetic or foggy or good or bad.  I've always walked around generally feeling like crap.  So, when I started exercising and eating less greasy, fast food-type items, I didn't feel more energetic or "alive" or better physically or even mentally.

All it took was a near month-long binge of boxed chocolates to make me realize I didn't feel as bad as I believed.  And you might say a month-long binge of chocolates will make anyone feel that way, no matter what condition they started in.  Even the most lethargic sloth would come away from three boxes of cocoa-coated caramels feeling worse.  But that chocolate wasted feeling was how I used to feel all the time before I started dieting and exercising.

I felt bad that I indulged so heavily.  I write these entries about doing well.  I write about moderation and it's okay to cheat every once in a while and you just get up and do better the next time around.  And then I binge.  And it happens to everyone but I still feel like I should be a better example.  I've battled food and my weight and my addiction to food for years and you'd think I'd develop some sort of resistance to the constant cravings.  But, no.  In a lot of ways, I'm no better now than when I was seventeen and bingeing on Doritos and Diet Coke.

I also feel like I'm not as in touch with my body as I should be.  I don't know what's going on inside.  I can't detect the changes in my mood or my middle.  There's a giant disconnection there and I don't know how to harmonize my senses and awareness. 

If anything, I guess this overindulgence was a good lesson.  There might be something to this diet and exercise after all, folks!  Maybe it does make a difference, even if the differences are subtle and fluid and not easily recognized by those who aren't in touch with themselves.    

do not allow back

This is embarrassing to write about but we're all family, right?  I've talked about all my other mishaps, be they spiritual, physical, and social.  Might as well talk about my professional snafus, too.

When I was seventeen, I quit my job as a florist assistant after dealing with dead people, nearly wrecking the company van (on several occasions), and inhaling second hand smoke from my soot-stained boss.  I quickly moved on to be a cashier at a pharmacy.  Things went swimmingly for six months until I sold cigarettes to an underage girl.  The girl worked with the Alabama Alcoholic Beverage Control Board and several agents quickly swooped in and told my supervisor.  I was fired on the spot.

Now, let me explain.

I was fat, pimply, and insecure.  I didn't have a voice.  I didn't like to "confront" people.  The girl did look too young but I was too scared to say anything.  I felt a rush of nervousness hit me, a bad feeling, but I ignored it because I didn't want to come off as rude or suspicious of her.  Yeah, it was my job to be suspicious and check her age but I didn't think of it in those terms.  I just thought of it as one person dealing with another.

And it was a huge mistake.  All these years later, it still embarrasses me.  No one likes to talk about how they were fired but I was fired for doing something illegal.  I look back on it now and I feel dumb.  All I had to do was ask for an ID but I couldn't even muster the courage to do that.  And because I couldn't ask a simple question, I was fired and it made my life spin in a different direction.

Cut to a few weeks ago.  A former coworker from my current job called me up and told me he had gotten a position as an assistant supervisor at that same pharmacy.  He said there was another assistant manager position open in another city and he said I should try for it.  I immediately thought of my termination and wondered if I could be hired there again.  I didn't want to express that to him, though, because it was embarrassing.  So, I shrugged off his offer and made lame excuses and said I wasn't sure if it was right for me.

The job did sound pretty good, though.  More money.  More hours.  I just had to face that shame again.  I finally expressed my concern to him and he said he'd speak to his store manager to see if I could be hired again.

Two days later, he sent me a text message saying I was on the "do not allow back" list.  I wasn't necessarily shocked but just knowing it was official was disappointing.  There was the smallest part of me that held out hope.  But that hope was squashed, just like it always is.  Just knowing I'm on a naughty list somewhere makes me feel dirty.  Filled with more shame.

It's bad enough that the dumb, huge mistake I made ten years ago still embarrasses me, it's also still holding me back from better opportunities.  I didn't even ask for the opportunity.  In fact, I avoided it  'cause I didn't think it would work out.  Naturally, it didn't.  But it was like the universe had to bring my bad decisions back around to me, another reminder of mistakes and failures, of setbacks and shame.

A week or so later, I walked into that pharmacy to pick up a couple of things.  I had just come from work and I had on a dress shirt and tie.  A man with an unkempt beard and a limp came up to me and asked, "Do you work here?"

"No, I don't," I replied.  "I'm sorry."

"Oh, no, it's okay," he said as he hobbled away.  "Sorry for asking."

I wasn't talking to you, mister.

apprehensive

"They’re fooling themselves. They think all this bullshit about hard work and achieving means something but it doesn’t. Universe is completely random. Particles colliding at random. Blind chance. So you didn’t make it. No big deal. It’s not your fault. Shit’s random."
-Party Down

I'm not an atheist, just apprehensive.

I've mentioned before that I've stopped praying or relying on God in any kind of way.  I used to feel guilty about it but now I don't feel bad at all.  Nothing in my life has changed.  I'm no better or worse for it, which makes me wonder if God was ever in my life at all, or if God is anything at all.

I don't know.  I'm not sure I care.  I do hate that I've slid so far down but what can I do?  I've tried it all with the prayer and meditation and Bible reading and patience.  Nothing helped.  Nothing ever does.

Faith is a lot like a slot machine.  You pray and pull the lever and you hope for good results but you never know if you'll hit it big or end up empty.  It's really all random chance. You can never be sure if the constant prayer ever pays off or if things in your life just finally line up.  You want something long enough and if you work for it, you might just get it.  It doesn't mean God had anything to do with it.  Just to be fair, it also doesn't mean he didn't.  You just can't know so why get caught up in it?

It pisses me off when people think I have given up on my faith in God just because I am not where I want to be in life.  Do people think that's how I think it works?  I'm not new to this game.  I'm not asking for a perfect life.  It's not about circumstances but sensations.  I have never felt that comforting presence.  I have never had a good feeling when it comes to God.  I've only ever felt separation, emptiness, nothingness.  I am not reassured when I pray.  When I scream for God to give me a sign, I get nothing.  I am not comforted and therefore I don't think there's anything out there to comfort me.  How hard is it just to say hello?  If God cares/exists, why has he not shown me?

And where's the stable relationship with anyone in my life, cosmic or concrete, with flesh or faith?  My parents are distant, my coworkers are crass and former friends are too busy.  I can congregate and communicate but I'm no one's number one.  

I wish I could believe again.  I wish I could be the good little Christian boy in my Christian bubble like so many people around here.  They are small-minded and naive and annoying.  And sometimes I think it would be easier if I could just be that way, too.  What if God gave a shit?  What if he finally had mercy on my menial life?

It's not like he's bullying me or anything.  It just feels like it.  But that's conceited on my part because, really, who am I?  He has a whole big world to ignore so why would he single me out to slice and dice?  No, he's saving that dirty work for the devil.

every night is a knife

I don't want to be here anymore.

I don't want to be         anymore.

every day is a dagger

I ruined the only good relationship I ever had.

Memories of holding hands and hotel rooms keep me warm but the cold always settles in again.  The irrevocable damage sweeps over everything and I just can't believe it happened, that things turned so bad so fast.  And it's the reason I pushed people away and messed myself up for all these years.  The worst part was I did it all for no good reason.  It's not like I ever really belonged to you.  And I'm not sure I ever wanted you in the first place.  But you were the closest I ever had to something special and so I held on to it so tight, an iron grip on a frail hope.

I pinned myself to the ground and watched you fly away and flourish.  I was left behind, fingernails splintered on the concrete floor.  The pain deepens every day, spread out and penetrated into every part of me.  It will never go away, grafted on to me the day I gave up on you and everyone, and everything, else.  I call out, "I'm here, too.  You forgot about me."  But my voice grows weaker.  Their ears grow more deaf.  The space grows wider.

You don't get to be okay.  I don't want to be happy for you because you ripped me apart.  You didn't even mean to but damn it, you did.  And I just want you to know the pain you caused me.  I just want you to dip your toes into the fire you lit inside my soul.  Just have a taste and then you can move on with your life.  And I want you to carry a bit of that burden with you when you do.

pavlolv's dawg

I feel like I'm constantly putting my hand in a meat grinder labeled hope.

god complex

"If you grew up going to church, at some point in your 20's you'll probably stop going to church.  If you grew up with faith as a central part of your life, at some point in your twenties faith might move to the outskirts of town next to the trailer park and three-legged squirrel refuge. Your twenties are a process of making faith your own apart from your parents and childhood. Sometimes that means staggering away so you know what you’re coming back to."-Paul Angone, All Groan Up

"Free from the torment of sin
all this I'm giving up..."
-The Used, Light with a Sharpened Edge

I feel like I've been shedding a lot of old notions about God and humanity over the past several months.  I've heard before that sometimes our emptiness is God carving us out so he can fill us up again.  I can only hope that's what's going on with me.

I've stopped praying entirely.  I've been angry with God.  I've been rebelling, pushing my self-inflicted boundaries, joking about going to hell and rolling my eyes to all the religious symbolism embedded in my town.  Days go by and I don't even think about it.  God is not in my life and I don't cry or fret.  I just float.

I've never been so far away from God before and I feel like I've entered this new state of being.  I don't know if it's good or bad.  I'm slowly breaking away from all of it and there's a part of me that feels tremendously guilty and there's another part of me that feels nothing at all, the same kind of nothing I felt when I was more religious.  When I have God in my life and when I don't, I still feel jaded.  That muted feeling has been my only constant since the mess of my life started.

Despite my anger, I still find myself wanting to defend God against the non-believers, to those who portray God as a fag-hating proponent of 'Merica.  That is not God.  God is love.  God wants nothing more than to love and cherish all us and have us be happy.  It's that simple.  But am I right about that?  How do I know who God really is?  It certainly isn't from first-hand experience.  I was taught God was one of love but what if he really does discriminate and decimate?

One problem with people's views on God is that a lot of people pick and choose what they want to believe.  That's why we have denominations.  One person didn't like one aspect of Christianity so they started their own.  The other problem is everyone thinks their way is the right way, which seems pretty egotistical to me.  I thought the only right way was God's way.  And we can't choose which parts we want to follow and which parts we want to disobey.  At least, not if we want to be good Christians.

Of course, I'd like to believe that God is one that loves and accepts everyone.  That doesn't mean it is true but I hope it is.  Unfortunately, there are also a lot of people who believe God is about death and vengeance and punishment.  That doesn't mean it is true but they hope it is.

I admit I don't know much about God but I feel I have a better grasp on him than the majority of the Christians that live here.  They know a textbook God through a pastor chosen to recite the words from the Bible and interpret them based on his opinions.  And people come and sit and follow his interpretations, not because it's what God teaches, but because they agree with the pastor's opinions.  If they can get behind what he says, they treat it as gospel.  If not, they simply move to a different church that lines up with their own pre-existing values and morals. 

But their version of God doesn't hold up when applied to a real-world setting.  They think it's about following rules.  They believe if they go to church and pray before bed and vote Republican, they'll get into heaven.  Stay away from the gays and lesbians because they'll turn ya!  Don't mingle with people of other faiths because they could cause you to question your own and we can't have independent thought!  Stay pure until marriage because sex, out of all the sins you can commit, even though they are all supposed to be equal, is the worst!  Well, besides being gay.

But the world is filled with gays and atheists and Muslims and the whole lot of them are having sex.  You just can't avoid that stuff and you can't act better than them because, as Christianity teaches, all of mankind sucks.  You're in the same tuna boat as the lesbians, the same burning building as the terrorists, the same blood-stained bed as the man who beats his wife and the woman who cheats on her husband.  We're all guilty of something and we shouldn't pretend to be pious because we have the Bible app on our iPhones.

You can't pray the gay away.  You can't make someone believe in God.  You can't take back your virginity before your wedding night.  And sometimes you get cancer and sometimes someone you love dies in a violent car accident because of a drunken driver and sometimes you lose your job right as your wife tells you she's pregnant and sometimes you can't get pregnant.  And all the while, these Christians say to give it to God but what happens when God does nothing with what you've handed him? 

They say God will make it better.  But then, what if he doesn't?  Then they say that it's a part of his plan.  There's no accountability.  Christians flip flop more than politicians sometimes.  God blesses us with the good stuff but is nowhere to be seen once the shit hits the fan.  Yes, God blessed her with a new home and him with a promotion.  No, God had no hand in her melanoma or his molestation.  We can't sincerely say God will make it better when sometimes he doesn't.

How do we know when he's ever involved at all?  People talk of free will all the time.  God gave us free will and that's why life sucks.  When is it God's will and when is it free will? 

I feel I know enough to realize God sometimes takes a lunch break just as we have our legs broken but I also know that it's not about the rules.  One day, I watched an interview with my favorite band, Showbread.  They happen to be Christians and they were talking about why they were a band and what Christianity meant to them.  The lead singer, Josh, said it wasn't about following a set of rules but having a personal relationship with Jesus.  That changed the way I viewed Christianity from then on.  Until then, I thought it was about following rules, about staying on the straight and narrow, because that's what I was taught as I grew up in and out of the church and through Christian friends.  But I realized rules don't lead to relationships and so I changed my focus from trying to stay good to trying to get to know God.

In fact, I've learned more about Christianity through the band and their lyrics than I have through church or conversations with Christian friends.  I've come to know God better through the band and have learned that God is acceptance and not alienation.  However, who's to say that the band is right?  And who's to say I'm not just another Christian switching seats until I find one I can go along with?  Maybe I'm just as guilty as those who frustrate me.  But I suppose the difference is my beliefs don't demean or discourage anyone else.  I don't think it makes my beliefs more correct or better but at least I know I'm not spreading hatred and I think that counts for something.

Of course, despite feeling like I knew God in a better sense, despite my prayers and attempts at making a personal connection with something I couldn't see, hear, taste, or touch, nothing got better.  I stayed sad.  I stayed numb.  I stayed hopeless.  But I tried to keep the faith.

But eventually the anger surfaced.  I was angry at the Christians who spouted on about God without really knowing what God was about.  I was angry at God because I couldn't understand how all these people felt the pull of his love and I begged for it and felt nothing.  Why was he so out of reach?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm actually angry with the God I thought God was supposed to be, the one I learned about in Sunday School, the one splashed across television, radio, and on the lips of the idiotic and patriotic.  Maybe I got it all wrong because God was given to me all wrong.

But like I mentioned earlier, how do you get God right?

I tried to figure it out for years.  I prayed and read the Bible and went through the motions but no answers came.  God did not smile down upon me and I eventually gave up.  My faith waned and I felt disconnected to the one thing I had held onto throughout the passing years and the changes to my body and attitude and spirit.

I'll never know if my God is the right God.  In fact, no one will until we die and the great veil is pulled back to reveal a hand or a hatchet, a spacious room or a blank space.  And that frustrates me because I'll always wonder if I'm pondering my version of God or the God that actually exists (assuming he does).  It makes me want to push way more because there are so many differing ways to worship, so many differing opinions on who God is that it overwhelms me.  If I can't get it right, why bother at all?  Is believing in the wrong God the same as not believing at all?

Sometimes it feels easier to let it all go.  God is complex.  Too complex for my cranium to comprehend.  I'm not saying I am rejecting God or giving up on him but I am giving up on trying to feel something.  I'll always remain open and receptive to God's love but I'm too exhausted to seek it out at this point in the game.  I've put so much energy into trying to be a good kid and it's gotten me nowhere.  I've put so much energy into trying to figure out who or what or how or when God is that my mind pleads for rest.  I've been blessed.  I've been cursed.  I've been damned.

I don't think I'll ever understand why. 

vestiges of humanity

"I am so scared of what will kill me in the end
for I am not prepared
I hope I will get the chance to be someone
to be human..."
-Ellie Goulding, Human

"I'm not attached to your world
nothing heals and nothing grows..."
-Marilyn Manson, Great Big White World

What does it mean to be human?  Is it our physical makeup, the fact that we get up and walk around on two legs?  Or is it something more abstract and intrinsic?  Is it logic and intricate thought?  Morals and judgments?  Is it love?  Faith?  Boredom?  Is it the invisible wires and nooses or the concrete machinery and hands that hold us to humanity?

Is it textbook or contextual?

I go through periods of wanting desperately to make a connection with someone, to feel grounded to the earth by love and affection and mutual respect and admiration.  There are also periods when I want to be completely isolated and left alone to rot away inside myself.

The unfortunate fact is I usually get my wish when I don't want it.  When I'm by myself, I want company.  When I'm in the presence of people, I want to dash away.

Loneliness once made me its bitch but one day I turned around and drop kicked it into the ether.  I've been better ever since.  That's not to say I still don't feel pangs of loneliness.  It's an unrelenting feeling always scratching at the skin on my chest, begging to get in and make itself home.  But I keep it away with distractions.  I go through an assembly line of lethargy consisting of waking up, eating, Internet, television, eating, eating, pooping, eating, more television, eating, going to sleep, and repeating it all the next day, all in an effort not to face myself or what my life has become.

I'm going to die and it's just not going to matter.  I don't think I've greatly affected anyone and it makes me a little sad to know I quietly slipped into life and will exit the same way.

To some degree, all of our lives are meaningless, at least when you look at the big picture.  The husband who dies doesn't matter to you unless you're his wife.  The child who dies is quickly forgotten unless you're her parent.  We all come and go and the world does not stop to scream and that's okay.

We all can't be in the history books but because I am not influential to anyone in my personal life, my ambition spread to the world.  What if I could impact the masses?  I always hoped I could leave some lasting impression through my art.  But I'm not an artist anymore.  I hoped I could leave a legacy with my writing.  But I'm not a writer anymore.  Okay, so what am I?  What can I do well?  What can I accomplish?  What kind of mark can I leave on the world?  Wait, maybe I need to lower my standards.  What kind of mark can I leave on people?  Still not so sure.

I'm not the boyfriend who taught the girl how to love.  I'm not the child who taught the parents how to think.  I'm not the artist who taught the world how to see.  No one carries me in their iPod or Kindle or in their hearts or minds.

"He's dead.  That's a shame.  Who's on Letterman tonight?"

I've kept my capillaries to myself and consequently, I've converted into a claustrophobic outcast.  I don't know what it means to love another person.  I can relate to people and their situations but beyond that I just don't get it.  What makes you like someone as a friend, as a lover, as a spouse?  I can't comprehend dizziness over another individual, kisses that weaken muscles, love that causes tears.  Is that what being human is all about?  Is it connecting, sacrificing, giving oneself to someone else?  Or is being human a process, a journey of faith and interaction and giving?

I've given humanity a shot.  I've tried to be kind and considerate.  I've sacrificed my own comfort and happiness many times to improve the quality of other people's lives.  I've been respectful.  I've been a team player.  I've hurt with a smile, cried with a laugh, died with a joke.  I've hugged and held hands and kissed and never felt anything but a sweeping sickness in me telling me it wasn't right.  I wasn't meant for it.  Sometimes I keep trying.  But mostly I'm over it.

I cut people out of my life easily these days.  I used to hang on in hopes something would spark but I see now it's mostly useless.  The only genuine relationship I had was something I screwed up, which tells me I am just not capable of maintaining a connection.  If they don't leave me by their own volition, I will force them to with my frustrating nature.

I'm consistently disappointed with people because they do not carry out the roles I have set for them.  It's not their fault and I don't know why I do it.  Maybe because I never had a group of people in my life who came along naturally to fulfill certain needs.  Now, I have to make up for that lost fulfillment by coming across those with roles to occupy.  These people don't know they are playing a part and it frustrates me when they don't act the way I want.  I construct these elaborate dramas to feel included.  To have a story to tell.  To cover up the truth of my deviancy.

"Yes, I've been involved.  Yes, I've had my heart broken.  Yes, I've loved and I've lost.  Yes, I've experienced."

No, I haven't.

Instead, I fall apart and break bonds.

I can't accept anyone for anything other than what I want them to be and that is selfish and shameful.  But no one sees that because I'm playing a part, too.  I take on the role of human, someone who complies with love and decency and understands the value of relationships.  But inside, emptiness is the only thing I understand.

salt soul

I finished Insanity on a lackluster note last week.  I had a lot of plans with people after work and that made it hard to exercise because I got home late and had to be up early for work and I also gave myself the lame excuse that one more week wasn't going to make a difference.  I didn't have a six pack before that last week and I wasn't going to have one after.  I think I worked out three out of the six days I was supposed to, which isn't terrible but I really wanted to finish strong.

Not a great end but the fact that I pushed myself for two months and sweat buckets each time is great.  I have muscle definition in my arms and I can do way more push ups and crunches than before I started and I have way more stamina...ladies.

I want to go back to the 8-week workout I started back in January.  I thought it would be a good idea to cycle through all my fitness programs  but I also want to take a week to do some lower intensity workouts, like my mom's walking DVDs, before I hit it hard again.  You know, something to give the old knees a break from all that Insanity pounding. 

Just for kicks, I popped in my P90 DVD two nights ago and breezed through the workout!  Insanity has really gotten me in better shape.  I remember huffing and puffing through P90 when I did it several months ago but this time around I was really able to keep up.  That was a good feeling.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still tubby and tire easily...just not as tubby and don't tire as easily.  It's improvement and I'll take it!

I've also tried to incorporate walking outside because the weather has been gorgeous lately.  I'll post pictures of my route on my next entry.

I've been a bit more relaxed with my workout schedule.  Since I'm not following any program, I don't feel as compelled to be strict, which is good and bad.  I haven't reached my goal weight so I shouldn't be so relaxed but at the same time, I have worked hard this year and I'm really just taking an easy week or two but I do intend on going hard again, even through Thanksgiving and Christmas.  With my work schedule and family obligations and tons of turkey, I'm sure I won't be able to exercise every day but that's okay.  As long as I keep going.

I think I'll be able to.

It's only the days that I want to exercise that I don't that bother me.  I also need to add that I've been eating badly lately.  Lots of candy.  Slipping in more and more fatty foods.  I need to reel the cheating in big time.  I'm being too lenient with my diet.  I can understand slacking off on the exercise after the boot camp from hell I went through for two months but food should remain non-negotiable. 

So when I eat crap and then don't exercise on a day I'm supposed to, it worries me.  Sometimes I don't get up and go but other times, despite my internal conflict, I push it all aside and just do it.  By the time I've got my shoes on, all hesitation is gone and I'm good to go.

I just feel better when I exercise.  Don't get that statement wrong.  I haven't turned into one of those people.  I don't physically feel better but I do mentally.  It's one more victory, one more fight against the calories I've consumed, one more attempt at creating a balance.  I'm starting to see that every bit of physical exercise is worth it, despite how I felt about the last week of Insanity not making a difference.  Sure, I wasn't going to get ripped but I could have burned off some of those extra candy calories. 

It's just when I wake up in the morning and I'm hurting, when it's difficult to bend my legs to get out of bed, I love it (although it's actually not good because it means I didn't sufficiently stretch) because it makes me feel like I really worked out, really pushed myself.  It's like how I feel when I sweat profusely.  I know I accomplished something.

I also hope some of that salt has seeped past the skin, that a switched has been flipped on, that I'll continue to be physical because I know I need to be.  Food is such a temptation for me and I am still so weak, despite the weight loss, despite turning down doughnuts, I still struggle.  And exercise is a good way to offset the days when I can't say no.  I hope exercising becomes a part of me, something I do regularly.  It doesn't have to be every day but at least four times a week.  And not even every week.  Maybe some days I can do five days a week and others three.  I don't have to be strict about it but I need to be firm, to keep myself accountable and remind myself that I need to get up and go, to feel the fat fall away as the sweat pours out. 

binge and not break

Yesterday, I felt I ate too much.

I really tried not to freak out about it because I've made so much progress when it comes to slipping up.  I've learned (or thought I had) that I can just let it go, realize that making a few missteps here and there will not undo all the progress I've made.  I know that.

But it will slow me down.  And now that I'm so close to reaching my goal and because it's so close to the end of the year, I really want to stay strong and not mess up so I can be sure I'll reach my goal weight by Christmas.

It's not even that I ate really terrible foods but I just ate too much during my three meals.  I'm constantly comparing the foods I eat to how much I exercised and thinking if it will cancel each other out.  For example, if I feel I really pushed myself with a great workout, I might have an extra serving during meal time or opt for a low fat dessert afterward.  Or if I feel I just went through the motions during the workout, I'll cut back on my food intake to try and compensate.  Just trying to create balance, y'all.

Yesterday, I did really well as far as cardio.  It was so nice outside and I had to take advantage of the cool wind so I went walking for an hour and I was such a BAMF that I immediately went inside and did an hour of Insanity.  Two hours of exercise?  That's just not me.  I'm such a lazy, unmotivated person.  But not yesterday!

So maybe subconsciously I gave myself some jiggle room and ate too much.  But during every meal?  What I should have done is been proud of all the calories I burned and kept it that way instead of replacing them with heaping piles of noodles and cheese.  But I love noodles and cheese.

So I'm a bit pissed at myself and kind of embarrassed about it because I feel like one of those people who are obsessed with every calorie they take in and freak out over having too many Tic Tacs.  I'm definitely not like that.  Yet.

This certainly isn't the first time I've overdone it with food.  But I think this is one of the few times I haven't planned it.  Usually when I cheat, I plan it out.  I tell myself that I will have pizza on Saturday.  That way, I still have control.  I know when I'm going to be bad because I've planned it and allowed it and I've internalized it and accepted it and it's okay.  But yesterday, I didn't plan it.  I didn't allow it.  It just happened and that took away my control.  And that sent me into a minor flush of frustration  

I'll be okay.  That one day is not going to undo all the hard work I've managed to accomplish.  But I guess it goes to show that no matter how much mental progress I've made in regards to trying to lose weight in an emotionally healthy way, I'm still going to encounter setbacks and self-loathing from time to time.  The key is not to let it envelop me.  The key is to acknowledge it and simply move on from it.  Tomorrow is a new day and a new chance to do better.  And in fact, I have done better today.  See, there ya go.  There's always a chance to start over, to regain focus, to renew drive, to throw out punishment and take in awareness and acceptance. 

deteriorating granny

"The world is sick
and all of us in it..."
-Showbread, I'm Afraid That I'm Me

Several months ago, my grandmother fell ill.  She had several episodes of failing health and had to be hospitalized a few times.  For a while, my heart jumped every time the phone rang.  I feared it was a family member telling us she had been put in a hospital again, or worse.

My parents and I visited her in the hospital during one of her stays and it was uncomfortable seeing her frail and hooked up to all the tubes and machines.  I stood there and didn't know what to do or say and just wanted to bolt.

She eventually got better, although she is thinner and more frail now.  I still worry we'll get a phone call late at night.

My other grandmother is slightly senile and her speech is becoming more and more incoherent to the point she can't get a full thought out of her mouth without stammering or stopping herself to clarify a statement.  I'm worried she's going to develop Alzheimer's.

There's dropping dead and then there's slowly deteriorating and dying.  I'm worried one grandmother is going to drop dead and the other will slowly melt away.

I see old people at work all the time and it kind of breaks my heart.  I see the old men with the dramatically curved spines and see-through skin and the old women with the milky eyes in wheelchairs being pushed by their children or shuffling in their walkers while their children patiently follow along.  They shake.  They stumble.  They need something to hold onto so they won't topple over.  I see oxygen tanks and forgetfulness.  I see exhaustion and sometimes I even see defeat in their wrinkled faces.  I'm scared that's going to happen to my grandmothers, that they will die in pieces, that all of their mobility will be stripped away, that their volition will vanish, that they'll be robbed of their reasoning.

I'm also terrified of that happening to my parents.  I almost can't bear the thought of my mom hunched over in a wheelchair with thin gray hair and skeletal hands.  I'm more worried about my dad since he drinks regularly and smokes heavily.  He's already battled with colon cancer and his brother died of lung cancer and yet he still lights up like he's sucking on sunshine.  It makes me angry and it makes it hard for me to want to get close to him because he's shellacking his lungs with tar and tearing up his liver with all the alcohol.

I'm also worried about my dog and cat.  They're both in the double-digit age now.  I'm always worried I'll come home to find Mom weeping over my dead cat's body.  Fortunately, neither one of them show signs of old age or failing health but it still crosses my mind regularly.  My mom  is enamored with our and when he passes away, she will be devastated.

And I think my fear of others dying comes from a fear of not knowing how to deal with everyone's grief.  I grew up in a household that discouraged expression.  I never saw my parents cry from pain or laughter.  They were stoic in their actions, language, and behavior.  Mostly.  And because I was never introduced to extreme feelings of sadness or joy, when I do encounter it, it makes me uncomfortable.  I don't know what to do or say. 

So when my grandmother's die, I'm going to have to deal with my parents' grief and I don't know how to do that.  When my dog and cat die, I will have to deal with my parents' grief and I don't know how to do that.  I'll just get that familiar need to bolt again, to run away until everyone stops hurting and everything is regular again.

I'm more worried about enduring everyone else's grief than my own.  That's because I don't feel particularly close to anyone.  Yes, I will be sad when my grandparents and pets pass away and I will cry but I'll probably move on easily.

And the reason I choose not to get too close to anyone is because I am also afraid to face my own grief.  If I get too attached, they'll one day leave or die and I'll be devastated and I don't know how to come back from that.  I've inadvertently carried on my parents penchant for not feeling too deeply.

I always imagined I would get a dog when I got out on my own and he would be my best friend.  The problem with that is the dog is going to die one day and I'm too afraid to mourn so I probably won't get a pet.  I'm also too afraid to mourn lost friendships so I don't have any friends.  I feel I already have enough hurt inside of me to burn on for the rest of my life so I don't need to add any more.  But if I never feel the deep sadness, I can't experience the great joy, either.  Is that a sacrifice I have to make to stay at an even level of feeling?

My fear of overwhelming grief has defeated the possibility of feeling overwhelming happiness.

No one wants a loved one to die and I think we all wonder if we can bear the pain of loss but people do it every day.  People are stronger than they think.  And I probably am, too.  I'm just not too keen to find out.

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.

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.

getting to know gluttony

I don't want to say my mom is the reason why I'm fat but...it is her fault.

I kid.  Sort of.  But my mom equates food with love and living in the South, food is fried.  We fry everything.  We fry chicken and potatoes and vegetables.  We fry desserts.  We'll fry anything.  We'll fry milk if you give us the chance.  So my mom equates fried food with love, which means I was doomed from the start.

My mom learned that kind of love from her mom, who probably learned from her mom.  I don't think that's an unusual parenting style, especially in the South, but it's a slippery slope.  I don't see much wrong with showing someone you care by feeding them as long as that's not the only way you show love.  You also have to teach your kids to have a healthy relationship with food, just like you'd teach them how to have a healthy relationship with people.

My mom skipped that part.

My parents were not very affectionate, especially my father.  Once again, not unusual, but Mom's love shined through the most when she cooked.  She conveyed her love through cornbread instead of kisses and while she just did what she knew, it had an unintentionally negative impact on me.

When I was younger, Mom asked me what I wanted from the grocery store.  I told her I didn't want anything.

"But the kitchen is practically empty." 

It wasn't. 

"I just hate the idea of you and your sister walking into the kitchen and not having anything to eat."

That sentence struck me.  My parents have been very fortunate to have always been able to provide us with more than we needed as kids.  I don't think her concern came from a place of fearing she might not being able to have access to proper nutrition, but came from a place of fearing she might be a bad mom.  I say that because she never said she worried about us opening the closet and not having clothing or opening our backpacks and not having enough school supplies.  It was all about the food.

And so my mom passed down the notion of food and love to me, whether she meant to or not.

Even as far back as recent months, as much as I've tried to diet, I still look to her as a compass of sorts, following her lead when it comes to eating.  I tried to be good and follow a strict diet but if I see her eat a small plate of food in the middle of the night, I feel like it gives me license to do the same.  Or if she asks if she wants to go get a pizza for us, she knows I'm going to say yes.  Sometimes I'm only as strong as she is.  And when she gives in, I have no trouble caving as well.

I'm not exactly sure how my weight gain started.  I don't think it was anything tragic that led me to the linguine.  At least not at first.  I was an active child.  I often played with my cousin, who was around my age.  But as I grew older, I simply grew out of playing outside.  I was not a rough and tumble child.  I was sensitive from the beginning.  I was artistic.  I liked to draw inside instead of kick up dirt outside.  I simply think the combination of an ever stocked kitchen coupled with inactivity caused my initial weight gain.

I didn't notice my extra bulk until a classmate of mine pointed it out in fourth grade.  We had all come back from summer vacation and the first thing he said to me was, "You got fat over the summer."  I'll never forget it.  It was the moment I became aware of my appearance.  And over the years, I've only become more and more aware of myself to the point of obsession.

That was around the time I went from eating out of pleasure and convenience to eating so I could comfort myself.  I took those notions of love and feel good feelings I inherited from my mom and ran with them.  Any time I felt bad, I used food to recreate those feelings, to cover up any pain I felt.  And this continued into adolescence.

When I hit puberty, everything only got worse.  Not only was my stomach expanding but my face exploded with acne.  I was an awkward mess of excess oil and body parts padded with fat.  And so I ate to forget the freak show in the mirror.  I felt ugly and inadequate and eating only made things worse in the long run but I either didn't realize or didn't care at the time.  As self-aware as I thought I was, all that weight certainly creeped up on me.

But eventually, I got sick of being so big and so I lost around 20 pounds during the summer after 11th grade.  I came back to school and felt and looked decent.  After I graduated, I continued the weight loss journey and ended up losing a little over 60 pounds and went to college with a better attitude and a better body.  But I hadn't defeated the cause of my weight gain.  I was still insecure.  I was still sad inside.  I still felt inadequate.  Somehow I had found the resolve to lose weight despite my overwhelmingly negative attitude about myself.

And then my first year of college destroyed me and once again, I turned to food to cope.   But only for a while.  Eventually, I got a hold of myself and dieted and exercised away all the weight I gained that first year.  But the issues remained, nagged at my mind and wouldn't let me forget the gross, fat guy I still thought I was.  I buried the feelings with school work instead of food.  I hadn't overcome my issues, only ignored them again.

It was only when I graduated from college and moved back home that I let food back in again.  It was like meeting an old, familiar lover.  And we made sweet, sweet love.  60 plus pounds worth of love.  I was more depressed than I had ever been and I did not care about anything except filling my stomach up with everything I could get my hands on.  I was in self-preservation mode.  If I didn't reach for pie, I probably would have reached for pills.

All the weight I lost, all the hard work I put into changing my body and my mind slowly unraveled with each passing day.  I packed the weight back on over the course of two years.  And I ignored it.  I didn't want to face myself and so I simply didn't.

And one day I looked at myself and saw that I was back to where I started.  Overweight and still miserable.  I realized I hadn't changed, hadn't learned, hadn't accomplished anything.  I felt like I had wasted my youth.

For me, food was the only constant in my world.  It wasn't just my comfort.  It was my companion.  It was my best friend.  And although some best friends can be destructive, I didn't care about the long-term damage.  I was looking for the short-term solution.  I couldn't just give up on food.  I felt like I was abandoning someone who had been there with me through thick and thin (both literally and figuratively).  Me giving up food would be like me telling you to suddenly cut your best friend out of your life.  I just couldn't do it.  It was a ridiculous notion.

But one day, just like that one  magical day in high school, I said I was tired of being like this.  I didn't want to see another birthday as big as I was.  I didn't want to ring in another year overweight.  Since January, I've made the decision to lose the weight I had gained not once, but twice.  And I've managed to lose 39 pounds so far.  I still have a long way to go and I've hit several obstacles along the way but I've done it before and I'm confident I can do it again.

But it's still hard.  Even now, despite how far I've come in trying to recognize bad food behavior, when I'm at my lowest, all I want is food.  It's still the only thing that soothes me.  No person, no god, no orgasm, no compliment or accomplishment is as satisfying as food.

And I even tell myself to stop.  I'll grab some chips or reach for the frozen pizza and I'll pause and tell myself it's not going to help.  It's only going to make things worse.  But I eat the chips or the pizza anyway.  I don't care if it's going to make things worse because I'm hurting in that moment and need to make the pain go away.  I say I'll deal with the consequences later.  I never do.  I deal with it by eating more pizza.  By eating  more cake and pie and chips and candy.  I deal by not dealing.

I've realized that it's easy to lose weight.  That's a bold statement with the seemingly insurmountable weight struggle so many people are going through but it's simple science.  More calories burned than consumed.  In fact, you can even pinpoint how much weight you want to lose on a weekly basis.  1 pound equals 3,500 calories.  Eat 500 less calories than you normally would every day and in 7 days you will have saved yourself 3,500 calories, which totals 1 pound.  The trick is finding out how many calories you usually eat and how many calories you need to consume to maintain or lose more.  But that's the basics.

But my point is, physically, losing weight is easy.  It's the mental part that is the hardest.  Diet and exercise can change your body but what is going to change your mind?  It's all a head game, a constant fight with the demons inside you pointing you in the wrong direction.  And until you tackle those demons and exorcise them from your brain, you'll always be in the middle of sensibility vs. gluttony.  I should know.  I've been caught in the crossfire more times than I can count.

My mom's not really to blame.  I was just kidding.  If anything, the combination of fried food love and my stunted social skills and possible mental defects that no one had any control over is what contributed to me being this way.  It's all just circumstances, random events and chances that led me here.  But I'm at a place now where I can take responsibility for my own body and actions.  Looking into the past and finding the cause of my weight issues is good because I can learn and grow from it but I don't play the victim here.  Not in this case.  I don't look back to blame, only to resolve.

I've managed to lose the 39 pounds despite not having dealt with my issues.  And until I do, it's very likely that I'll gain the weight back.  That's why it's imperative I try to fix the inside while simultaneously correcting the outside.  The problem is I just don't know how to do that.  So until I do, I have to stay on top of my eating and working out.  I gained all the weight back because I didn't stay on top of it.  I let myself go.  I allowed my inner insatiable beast to roam free in a playground made of pasta.  I've temporarily caged him but with makeshift bars.  He's still clamoring to get out.

I can only hold him back for so long.