Stranger.

It helps to know that I'm not unique in what I'm doing, here.  There are plenty of people struggling to reclaim their health and bodies after years of obesity.  For me, I count it in decades.  I hate thinking of it in that long of a times span, but fact is fact.

Personally, aside from this blog, an fb status here and there, and the odd progress shot on the 'gram,  I'm extremely reluctant to share my experience.  It's not a conscious decision, it's fear.

Fear, fear, fear.

Anyone who's been stuck in the rabbit hole can tell you that fear is an every day thing.  Fear of insult.  Fear of injury.  Fear of failure.  Fear of judgment.  Fear of scorn.  Fear of death. Fear of relapse.  The list goes on.  And it doesn't just evaporate into nothing the minute you start to make a change.  For me, it got even worse.

Gym anxiety is still a thing with me.  Even though I know everyone in there has their own shit to think about.  That dude deadlifting 4,000lbs with one hand obviously has something else to focus on, rather than how many squats I'm doing on the TRX thing.  That girl running on the treadmill, so fast that I'm pretty sure she's about to be airborne, totally gives no shits about what I'm doing on the leg press.  Buddy doing his crazy monkey bar thing on the big machine has no vested interest in how much time I'm spending on the bike.  Eventually, I get over myself and rack up another work out on the books.

But the fear gets in your head in every day life, too.  And I'm not just talking weight loss, here, buds.  No matter how the change is happening, when you move to put distance between yourself and something that has consumed your life or personality for a long time, you start to wonder about the stranger you're becoming to yourself.

Things will be different.  You will feel different, you will look different, and you will be living your life in a different way.  Something that ate your time, effort, money and life is becoming a memory.  What will be the result? This has been the status quo for so long, even when you knew it would probably not end well. It was life as you knew it, it was your identity. Will you even know yourself anymore?

Think about that question:  will you even know yourself anymore?

This is pretty deep shit, right here.  Your identity tied to the 5 ton anchor of bad shit, dragging you under the surface. Emotional trauma, self hate, crushing depression, whatever your deal was.  Did you know yourself then?  Or really, do you want to hold on to that part of you?

I fucking don't.  I don't want to be buds with the version of me that lived in the Taco Bell drive-thru. I don't want to hang out with the version of me that ate pizza every day for 4 months straight after I informally dropped out of college.  I don't want to commiserate with the horribly depressed me that had an expensive relationship with the debit on delivery pizza fairy, and  I definitely don't want to babysit the pre-adolescent version of me that stole food and hid it (in the most idiotic way) when I wasn't stuffing it in my mouth before anyone caught me.

Those versions of me are gone.  Outgrown, if you want to get ironic.  All of that behaviour got me to a place that could have very well killed me.  And I did it to myself.  I'll be 40 years old in 5 days.  Sometimes I think it's a miracle that I made it this far, considering the punishment my body and brain have taken.  And those versions of myself are responsible for it all.  No one strapped dynamite to me and told me to eat the way I did.  No one held a knife to my throat.  NO ONE.  Just me.  Sad, lonely, confused, bored and broken me.

But the ties that bind made me question the next version of me, the "me in progress".  Who's that stranger appearing in the mirror?  Will that stranger be the same person?  Will I lose my creativity?  My sense of humor?  

No.  Because I'll let you in on a little secret:  your brain and deepest being will not melt away.  All of those other versions of you are a memory.  They've been weeded out because they're not who you truly are.  Me?  I'm know that I'm not a miserable bitchrag at my deepest core.  I laugh too much for that.  I know I'm not unloveable.  I know that I'm completely capable of being an alright, happy person.  External forces may try to prove otherwise, but I know me.

When we turn our backs on the vices that drag us down, we make the choice to walk towards something better.  I don't care if it's food, drugs, booze, whatever.  When we put down the bad shit and commit to making a positive change, the future self takes over.  We are made stronger by....wait for it....hope.  It sounds so fucking corny, but it's true.

The journey I'm on, and the progress I see gives me hope, and it helps to conquer some of the fear.  The fact that, despite any muscle-head anxiety, I still lace up my shoes and get to work gives me hope.  When I step on the scale once a week and see less than awesome results, it may piss me off, but at the same time it drives me to keep fucking going.  Despite the fact that it feels like it's taking forever, it's worth the effort.

I know that keeping my head in the game is vital.  I want to finally get to the healthy weight and shape I haven't seen in well over 20 years.  I want to change for the better. I am willing to do the work, finally.

Yes, there's a familiar stranger in the mirror.  There's a strange vulnerability to it, but I don't mind.  I'm still learning how to do this, but I'm totally into it.  I am slowly getting to know that stranger, and so far, she seems pretty alright.  

Peace out for now, and keep going.  You're totally worth the good that's coming your way.

xo

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