Big

I’ve always been big. Physically, I’m a very broad young man, to put it lightly. My height hovers just under 6 feet, while, in the past year, I’ve weighed anywhere between 240 and 280 pounds, so I’m certainly not a little guy, and I never really was. But that’s not the only big thing I am. To my sisters, I’ve always been a “big brother.” My mother always called me here “Big guy.” When I played football in highschool, I was “Big Jeff.( To be fair, this was much to my chagrin. While team-mates were afforded such nicknames as Dozer and Tank, I always felt I was saddled with a far less creative callsign, and even then, it wasn’t particularly original, as “Big Josh,” graduated a year before me. Ultimately, it seemed to be less of a nickname, and more a reminder, as though when coach said “C’mon Big Jeff!’ what he meant was “C’mon Jeff, don’t forget that you’re bigger than he is, go out there and get it done.)” And not just big physically either. People say I have a big voice, and a big personality, a big brain, and a big heart. I always find the dichotomy between all these definitions of big hard to deal with. In some cases, being big was a good thing, while in others, big was the opposite of what I wanted.

To date, my biggest issue with “Big” has always been my weight.  For as long as I can remember, I complained to my parents about how I wanted to be skinny and healthy and sexy. And they did the best they could to help motivate me to be more active, and to eat healthy, but the picky habits I picked up as a kid (There was a period of a few months where my diet consisted exclusively of tater tots and PB&J on toast) and my love for playing video games always seemed to defeat these attempts o change my habits. Now to be fair, it hasn’t always been such a bad thing to be big. I was never bullied as a kid, and I honestly believe it had something to do with the fact that for the better part of my elementary and middle school career I could have lifted, and indeed in some cases tossed, any one of a number of my classmates.  It certainly made me a better lineman in football, although I always struggled because, determined as I might be, I lacked athleticism. Not really a problem, considering I never really wanted to be a professional athlete, and, in all honesty, I was likely in the best shape of my life so far during my various football seasons.

Lately, however, my weight has become much more of a problem. The freshman 15 was certainly no myth, and for a kid who struggled with weight before going to college, the long stressful days and all-you-can-eat dining for every meal really took its toll. After a while, I got frustrated, and tried to make a solid gym routine for myself, but the craziness that is college life got in the way.

Over the summer, I again made being healthy a priority. I was living in a frat just off campus, as I was working in a research lab at the school, and needed to be in close proximity.  My diet was whatever I could afford, usually hotdogs and dry cereal, so I certainly wasn’t eating too much, and after nearly 3 weeks of waking up and running every morning, I was really feeling good about myself. However, after a project at the lab kicked into overdrive, and I found myself working many more than 8 hours a day, exercise took a back seat to desperate scrounging 6 hours of sleep before returning to work.

As this summer rolled into the beginning of this year, my health was certainly on my mind, but I never really did anything about it. Things were even crazier than my freshman year, and I was content to eat, sleep, and try to find a few minutes for socializing in between all my obligations. But then, Christmas break started, and for some reason, during that break, I found cause to step on a scale. I couldn’t believe it, but I had reached 280 pounds. 40 more than I had ever been, and 50 more than I usually answered on any given form that was concerned with my weight.

Needless to say, I was fervent with my new year’s resolution of “get healthy… again,” and thanks to a few friends who join me each time I go to the gym, I had, until very recently, done a very good job getting healthy, and had dropped nearly 10 pounds since Christmas. However, in the week leading up to this break, I found myself swamped with mid-terms, and missed out on almost half a dozen gym days. It’s been well over 2 weeks since I’ve exercise din earnest, not to mention the fast food and snacks I find myself eating during this vacation, more out of boredom than hunger. What really frustrates me at this point is the fact that half my brain is logically aware that the newly renovated exercise room is only a few steps down the hall, and being that I’m home alone most of the day, there isn’t exactly a queue for its use.

But then there’s depressed, bored, tired me, that’s just as happy to stay in his pj’s and play video games all day. Which is funny, really, because video games are really a part of a much larger related issue. I’m a sucker for progress. I remember vividly a time when I could see the silhouette of a 6-pack showing through my stomach, some feeble outline that hinted at the idea that there were abdominal muscles buried beneath my jiggling belly. And I’ve never been more motivated to work out in my life.

That exhilaration I feel in knowing I’ve made progress towards something, that I’ve accomplished a goal is really what I’m after, and usually, with exercise I don’t get that. But I do with videogames. A few hours of button pressing, and my silly little on-screen man gets a shiny new sword, or the two characters that I’ve watched dance about each other with insufferable angst finally fall in love, all thanks to me. I don’t always know where to find this same feeling in many of the aspects of my life, especially with things like exercise and eating healthy. It’s much easier to stimulate my pleasure centers now with a tasty treat, than to attempt to sate them with the far-off promise of confidence and self-worth, locked away behind many a locked door, which I only have a chance to open with a great deal of will-power and motivation.

Interlude 1

I’d like to treat this post in a bit of an “out-of-canon” fashion, in that there are three things I feel it’s important I discuss before I take on the bulk of the thoughts currently in my head. The first is more a disclaimer than anything. I’ve realized, after reviewing my first post, and seeing the reaction, that if you write something out and post it on the internet, it’s likely to get read at some point, by someone.

 I’d simply like to warn you, dear reader, to take that which you find here in context.  It’s not meant to alarm anyone about my state of mind, nor is it a “cry for help,” that so much of the modern media seems to believe young people my age are want to transmit. It’s simply how I feel, at a particular moment, in a particular state of mind, and the medium in wish I choose to express it. I invite you to share in it with me, but I simply ask you do so responsibly.

Secondly, I must be honest; I wasn’t at first sure if I’d really continue this blog beyond the first post. It made me feel better, to be sure, but I wondered if it would be something I’d make a habit of. However, a showing of positivity, along with my own desire to continue have really made me want to commit to writing out my thoughts on at least a semi-regular basis. Thus, I’d like to thank anyone and everyone that finds they are reading these words, because in doing so, you’re really justifying my desire to do this, and I encourage you to reply. I’m very much a conversationalist, and I take great pleasure in sharing my thoughts, and hearing the thoughts of others. Tell me I’m great, tell me I suck, tell me I’m crazy, I really don’t mind either way. What’s important to me is knowing you’re out there, and that you’re listening.

Finally, a more humorous admittance. From the inception of this idea for a blog, I figured that, if I were to continue it, I’d need a gimmick. It just so happens that my first ever post is titled by a word beginning with “A.” As soon as I noticed this, I decided that I should follow with a post titled by a “B” word, and my plans for my next post involve a title beginning with “C.” I really wanted to make it clear that, for anyone who might read this after a few more posts have been made, that this pattern was not some serendipitous happenstance, but done by design, because I’m crazy, and decided that, 2 posts in, my blog really needed a direction. I'm theatrical by nature, but I wanted to be upfront about it, to let you know that what you're getting here is not a simple method in madness, but some sort of Frankenstein-esque monster that is an amalgam of method, madness, and a touch of melodrama.  

Autophobic

Seems rather self-centered, really, to imagine that of all the billions of people on our bright and beautiful earth, that any number of people might be concerned with how I'm feeling, what I might be thinking at any given moment, or, worst comes to worst, what song I might be listening to. And, of course, it is with these thoughts in mind that, logically, I conceived to write a blog.

In all seriousness, my choice to do this is really born from what I believe is a moderate to major case of autophobia, a fear of being alone. You see, I'm a recently-turned-20 college student from "Downeast" Maine, which is the scenic section where the lobster traps outnumber the teeth in any given square mile. Currently, I'm on my spring break, which, in my case, consists of two weeks away at "home."

It's ironic really, because I've grown so used to being at school. I'm very comfortable now with the constant noise, the lack of alone time, and the steady stream of things to occupy my mind. In contrast, my house is a veritable den of solitude. Gone are the days when I was younger, in which case my home was a flurry of activity. At any given moment, one of the five residents could be coming, going, doing homework, practicing an instrument, playing a videogame, preparing to leave to go to any of the hundreds of extra-curriculars myself and my two younger siblings were involved in.

No,w it is not so. The older of my two younger sisters is away, having a college experience of her own, and since the two of us are now most often gone, the youngest spends most of her time at her mom's house. My parents, if they're not toiling away at their days jobs, to assure our quality of life is maintained, have grown accustomed to a childless household, and spend most of their time relaxing in front of the TV, or sleeping.

And so, that leaves me. I spend most of the actual day alone, and enjoy the few moments of excitement I get when the aforementioned parents return home, when I can spend a few minutes leaned up against a counter while i hear about how their day was "just another day at the office," or the tried-and-true equivalent, before I slink back to my bedroom, and wait for something exciting to happen. Usually, what follows is a few hours of me making regular trips to the living room to find my tired parents half-asleep in front of the TV, before they finally concede to their exhaustion, and head to their upstairs bedroom, which, again, essentially leaves me alone.

This has been the pattern since this year began. My sophomore year, my younger siblings being freshmen in college and high-school respectively, it's the first time I've really been alone this much. And I despise it. When I'm at school, I'm a very social person. I'm loud, boisterous, easily excited, and I love to spend time with my friends more than doing anything else on campus. In fact, I find it much more relaxing to be busy with a group of people I love and enjoy the company of, rather than spend a day alone, in my pj's, doing nothing. Especially frustrating is the fact that my core friends group all happen to be from the same area, so on occasions such as these, they're all going to the same place, and many a Facebook post of text remind me of how much fun they're all having together, while I'm sitting here.

I certainly don't resent anyone for this. That would be silly. I've just noticed, especially during this vacation, that I seem to talk to myself a lot more than I usually might. I made an excuse to go shopping tonight, after my parents got home, just so I'd have somewhere to go and something to do. Honestly, I could have gone without the laundry detergent and shoes until I want back to school, 2 weeks from now, but I needed to go somewhere. In short, I guess it just really scares me, that I get almost physically upset when I'm alone for more than a few hours or so. I get antsy, and sick to my stomach. I guess you could so it bothers me that it bothers me.

And thus we come full circle, for it is thus I have come to design to compose a blog. For one, I've always heard it's better to write your feelings out. To me, it sort of takes the abstract thoughts in my head, the things I can't easily deal with, and forces them into a concrete form, letters and words, which are things I can deal with. But as well, there's that simple, narcissistic thought that maybe, just maybe, somebody will take the time to read through some, or even all of that which I have written here, and that would mean that perhaps I'm not so alone as I'm afraid I am.