As his ass begins to flatten, his biceps deflating from mountains to hills, he knows he only has himself to blame. The desire to keep his body lean and taut is greater than his fear of it becoming flabby. Yet still, he finds it easier to distract himself with other things like...sitting. That, instead of making his legs move in a forward motion toward a goal that, once a necessity, has now become a discardable challenge. Sitting. Avoiding. Why? Is there fear? He knows the place and its virtually unfriendly members. He knows a person will rarely say hello. But he craves the chummy atmosphere that he once took for granted. He’s convinced himself he’s too old to be desirable in this playground of youth and pretty bodies. He now feels self-conscious where he used to feel like he belonged. So he sits. And avoids. And his abs become slack. He becomes mentally self-destructive—harder on himself than any other person could possibly be. He’s taken the step forward before. He knows he can. He knows the feeling of satisfaction. He sits. His legs twitch, aching to move. Only he can change his situation. Only he can fuel his desire and defeat his fear.
To share ones life, even a part of it, takes a vulnerability that I don’t often possess. My story is one of many in this world, yet there is a universality in it that allows people to connect to it. Opening up and sharing the struggles and joys of my life with others, then hearing from them how they recognize themselves is something that I hadn’t anticipated. It's more than I could have asked for.
None of us are alone. There is common ground. Honest sharing starts a dialogue where people can discuss how they feel, what they’ve been through, what they’re currently experiencing. I feel blessed to have found a voice and a platform for sharing mine.
To say that I was overwhelmed by the response to my latest HuffPo Gay Voices blog post, "How Do You Find Self-Worth When You Don't Like Yourself" is an understatement. The piece resonated with so many people from all walks of life proving that we're all human beings and that feelings of unworthiness are not unique to one's gender, sexual orientation, or position in life. I was unprepared for the number of people from all over the country, and other parts of the world, that reached out to thank me, tell me I'd written their story, tell me what they did to find self-worth.
Many told me I was brave and courageous for sharing this story. I’m thankful for those comments. I appreciate them along with all those who chose to share their similar stories with me. Those who reached out on twitter and Facebook. Those who gave generous positive feedback. Words are powerful. I have found bravery in bearing my soul so honestly. Sometimes facing the scariest thing can be the most rewarding.
Positive comments are like beautiful flowers in the garden of life, but as everyone knows, any beautiful garden can be infested by weeds. The trick is to not let them strangle the beauty and mar the landscape. The positive comments I received from the above mentioned blog created a diverse flower bed full of engaging thoughts, interesting advice, and pearls of wisdom, but there were weeds mixed in. Sometimes they weren’t easy to see at first -- hiding; buried between beautiful gems of flourishing positivity. In an open forum where people hide behind keyboards and animated avatars with all the courage in the world to say something negative, these “weeds” are to be expected. My favorites from the current blog include: “Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” “Sounds like someone needs more sunshine and fresh air in their life,” “Self-absorption is a turn off,” “Very often low self esteem is well earned.” My personal favorite had the word "vapid" in it, but because I refuse to give credence to such out and out meanness I won’t quote the entire remark.
It took me a few days to read the comments. I wanted to read them, but was afraid of the negativity. I thought any negative reaction to my soul-bearing blog post might feed into my feelings of unworthiness or undesirability, but I wanted to see the flowers. I found the courage to read them and, with the help of a coworker, not take the negative ones too seriously. The piece I wrote was important to me. I wanted to interact with those who were so positive in their responses. I wanted to acknowledge those who gave good advice. Doing so was a step in the right direction for me. I was able to draw strength from all of you. The above mentioned “weedy” statements became humorous to me instead of depressing. I allowed myself to think about what was said, then question it’s truth and validity. In spite of the weeds I was still able to see the flowers. I was able to allow the good and the bad to coexist and not get bogged down by the bad.
Listen, I'm thankful every morning that I wake up to another day. There will always be challenges to face, but there will also be victories to celebrate. I'm working on being kinder to myself and my therapist can attest to that. Look. That’s me planting a few flowers in the garden. I’m still going to find weeds in there. Even weeds that I plant myself, but I’m figuring out how to not let those weeds dictate how I view the garden as a whole.
To those of you who said my story is your story I say, "Thank you for helping me see that none of us are alone." Plant the seed of positivity and watch what happens. The effect is beautiful and can change what you see and how you see it. Weeds will always be there. We just have to keep them from choking the vibrant garden that is life.
The journey continues.
Sometimes I just need to clear my head of the pollution that’s clogging up the processor. I need a “reset Safari” button for my brain. The cache needs to be cleared of all of its downloaded cookies and previously viewed pages so that I can browse with a cleaner slate.
The past is the past. I have to learn from it, but not live in it. I have to take what has happened in my life and reconcile it like last month's bank statement then file it away. The past can’t be changed. Some of it is joyous and some of it is not. It can’t be put on like a sweater in the cold months. I shouldn’t be paraded around like a prized Pomapoo.
Actions of the past are actions of the past. A bad choice, a hateful criticism from a parent, a harsh word from a stranger is not something that is constant and therefore shouldn’t be on a constant loop of remembrance, playing over and over in my mind.
How will I ever learn to truly love myself, be happy with myself, take pride in myself if I allow shame-filled feelings of my past to keep me in a fear-filled present?
I have been stuck in a purgatorial rut: wanting to move forward, wanting to progress to the next level, yet continually falling off the platform as I leap for the gold coin hanging above me.
I see the words that I’m typing. I hear them as they run through my brain before making their way to my fingertips. I know that I can live the life I want. I know that I can find happiness. I know that I can love myself. I know that I can care about other people, another person. It's all about choice, and I seem to keep making the safe one.
I keep wondering what keeps me grounded in my fear? Why do I feel so safe in the rut? Why is pushing against the walls sometimes all that I can manage? Do I need someone else to pull me up? Do I want someone else to pull me up? Why can’t I just climb out all by myself? When will I climb out all by myself?
This life that is mine keeps churning through its minutes and hours. The sun rises and sets every day. I have to find a way to enjoy what I’m doing even if it's nothing more than sitting on my sofa watching bad television. I judge me a lot.
I deserve to live the life I want and to be happy with the path I choose. I deserve to see a kinder expression on the face staring back at me in the mirror.
The past may inform the present, but it doesn’t have the right to dictate it. I think I’m letting my past dictate my present. I’m keeping myself trapped between the murky walls of self-doubt, unworthiness, and fear.
I’ve had moments of living outside of this rut, but the older I get, the more it seems I’m walking back into its smotheringly comfortable confinement. I’m hiding. I’m hiding and wondering if I’m missed. I’m wondering if I’m missed instead of living in the world, leaving moments of laughter and energy that are missed when they are absent.
I am the only thing standing in my way. I get that. I am the one making this journey more difficult than it has to be. I am the one letting fear keep me from feeling the touch of another human being. I am the one encased in armor. I am the one with the key. I am the one who can unlock the door, release the dusty build up, and let the sunshine in.
I am the one. Acknowledging may be the first step, but action is required. It’s gonna take a reset, and it’s time.
Dot: Are you working on something new?
George: No
Dot: That is not like you, George
George: I've nothing to say
Dot: You have many things
George: Well, nothing that's not been said
Dot: Said by you, though. George
This blank white page stares back at me as I stare at it. I have so many things that I want to write about and yet I won’t sit down in front of the computer and compose the story. I can’t seem to get the ideas and thoughts to flow from their murky bed of inception into the clear stream of clarity. Even now as I try to describe this situation, I erased the sentence five times and began again finally landing on the one you read.
I wrote in the summer about practicing and how I hate to do it. That is again my problem. There are seven blog entries about my life or experiences that have been started just sitting on my desktop waiting for me to complete them. There are two short stories of fiction that have been started and two that are still swirling in my brain. They call out to me daily and I ignore them. I feel an obligation to finish them yet I won’t do it. I can’t explain why. I want them to be finished. I want to feel the sense of excitement I feel every time I send a new piece I’ve written out into the cyber world that is blogger, twitter, and Facebook. I love seeing the numbers grow as people read what I’ve written. It’s exciting, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
Part of my problem is that I don’t quiet my mind and focus on what I want to say. That quieting and focusing clears the path for the words to form at the end of my fingertips as they strike the keys on my computer.
There are times when I’m lying in bed at night and a thought will come to me. Usually it’s a thought about the fiction I’m working on. When I am in a relaxed state and those thoughts happen, I need only grab the notebook and pen that live beside my bed and beautiful descriptions of moments make their way to the page. I look at them the next day and feel a sense of pride in the fact that I wrote them. They may not be great sentences to everyone, but to me, if I’ve managed to describe the image or create the mood that was in my head then it’s a success.
I’ve plenty to say. I’ve even gotten better at saying it. I just don’t say it as often as I used to. I miss that, yet I still make no major effort to change it.
I hear my father’s voice in my head sometimes telling me as a child that I’m lazy. I don’t want to hear that voice because I don’t want him to be right, but somehow I think he is. If I apply that statement from my childhood (which irritated me then) to my current writing process I have to agree (and that irritates me now).
There is no fear in a blank white page. It is a blank canvas on which to create. I have such grand ideas in my head sometimes and I’m afraid I can’t write them the way I see them. Therefore I let the fear of failure-to-translate keep me from continuing my project. I’m a fool for doing that. I judge myself so harshly. I don’t give myself a chance to succeed because I’ve already deemed myself a failure without writing a word. Isn’t that amazing? Having written nothing I’ve already decided it’s not good enough.
Eureka! I think the above words clarify beautifully, and quite simply, the idea that I think I’m not good enough. Ouch! No murkiness there. Now we’re getting to the root of the problem. I don’t think I’m good enough and therefore nothing I do is going to be good enough. So I just brood on what might have been, or what could be, instead of living in the moment of what is...and writing.
I published only 33 blog entries in 2012. That’s down from the 70 I published in 2009 when this blog was fresh and new and I was excited about it. Those numbers are a disappointment to me, and I’m the only one to blame.
Sometimes it only takes a moment to get what I’m thinking down on the page. This took less than half and hour.
There are no resolutions for the coming year, but there is a challenge to write more and fear less. There is a challenge to create and complete. I extend this challenge to myself. I hope to retire the hat of the fool, or at least stow it away in a dark corner to be brought out at times when I need of reminder of how far away from it I have gotten.
George: White. A blank page of canvas. His favorite. So many possibilities...
(Dot and George are characters in the musical Sunday in the Park with George by Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine. Dialogue reprinted without permission. No copyright infringement intended.)
