I've been
ruminating over writing a new blog post for some time now. Life has
been completely insane, on all fronts. My writing career is and will
always be a work in progress, but since signing a five project deal
with Permuted Press, being invited to craft a groovy, dark short
story for Jonathan Maberry's V-Wars anthology's fifth volume, and
working on my hybrid publishing stuff, 2014 has been NVTS....NUTS!
And, let's add
the fact that Shelly and I are remodeling big parts of Casa Erb and
that's has been over a month so far, with mucho more to go before we
finish.
So yeah, the
Erbman's life has been a bit crazy. But, I look at that as a good
thing.
See, I've
already rambled, but hey, the train is back on the Erbal track.
Blog posts and
what the hell am I going to write about? Well, a couple of things
have happened recently (and some, not so recently.) that have struck
a deep chord within me and have pushed me to write a little bit
something about it.
There have been
a few deaths that have moved me and caused great waves in my soul and
caused me to pause and really look at life.
Pardon the pun,
but, the Elephant in the Room that I'll be penning about tonight is,
me being the life-long fat guy. Whoa, I know...it's a shocker. But,
there it is.
With all of the
bullying things being posted, written, argued about over the past few
years, I couldn't help but have thoughts on the subject. And of
course it does tie in with being overweight, fat, chubby,
gravity-challenged, husky, whatever descriptor you prefer.
Now kids, I
want to warn you, this might get serious, deep and a tad bit
personal. I know I am a carefree, good dude, who loves everyone and
would do just about anything for you. BUT...there is another side.
You've been warned.
I just turned
47 a couple of weeks ago. I wasn't as freaked out as much as I
thought I would be, but still a little flustered. Damn, I still (for
the most part, more on this later) like I'm in my twenties.
Writing this,
I'm not really sure what I want, or need to say. It's funny, because
even at 47, and staring down the business-end of fifty, I still have
this small, insidious knot in my gut and whispering asshole in my
mind that make me, at times, feel like I'm still in junior high,
walking down the hall and being laughed at and called some not-so-fun
names. All of which, of course, are fat kid related.
I need to say
something, straight away. If you're not, nor have ever been an
overweight person, especially a kid, there is an overwhelming and
damaging mind-set that overtakes you. It's the fat-kid conditioned
response, as I call it.
My therapist
later called it “Negative Self-talk”. And let me tell ya, it's a
bitch.
Having been
overweight most of my life, I've learned how to deal with all of
that. Some techniques healthy and productive, others, well, let's
say, not so much.
I went through
a phase where I hated every single moron that called me “fat
ass, tub a lard, pig, Orca, lazy bitch,etc. And if you've read
some of my fiction, you'd say that I was still working those demons
out.
But now, I
think I've realized were all just hormone-zombies and had no damn
idea what we were saying or doing. Now, does that change the fact
that some damage was done? Oh hell no.
Now let me
touch on some of those quasi-permanent damages. And this is where I
am probably opening myself up more than I ever have.
I alluded to
the hateful self talk. That still lingers and I fight with it every
day. When you are made to feel like you are lesser, different and
useless from kindergarten on, yeah, that tends to leave some deep and
painful scars. Like Pavlov's dog, albeit a really fat one, (see?
There's the self-deprecating defensive humor.)
It's truly
insidious, because it permeates every part of you. It attacks your
self-confidence, self-worth, and you doubt any and everything about
yourself. I know, I know, many of you macho-tough guys may read this
and say, “Ah, buck up, you Pansie. It's all part of growing up. I
got called names and I'm just fine.”
My response to
you, good for you. I am NOT you. We are all different and have
experienced far different childhoods and experiences. I'm happy
you've turned out fine. (although, I truly doubt you are completely
unscathed.)
I've had many
hours of therapy, and it's been amazingly helpful. On top of being a
fat dude, I was blessed with the great gift of depression. I was
initially diagnosed years ago as Manic Depressive. While my best
friend and lovely wife, Shelly, both agree that I was miss-diagnosed,
I still suffer from bi-polar disorder without all the uber, get rich
quick highs and lows of manic depression.
I've been on
numerous medications and found most of them left me more of a
life-less zombie than the grand ol' Tom that I truly am. Effexor,
Lithium, etc. I took myself of medication easily over ten, twelve
years ago. I, (personally) don't them.) or, my illness is better
served by not being drowned out by the heavy meds. It's worked for me
thus far, and I hope it continues to do so.
I know I am all
over the place with this post but I'm trying to make it as cohesive
has possible.
On being a fat
kid:
I had a close
group of friends that didn't change too much from elementary to high
school. Birds of a feather, I suppose. While I don't hate my school
years as much as some of my pals, I do have some bleak ghost that
have haunted me since those days of Marion. It seems that I've made
a better peace than others and I've forgiven most of those jerks. It
does no one any good to hold onto such negative feelings. Nothing
good at all.
I will tell
you that it does affect my behavior. Even after all these years, when
I walk into a room, a store, etc, if I see people laughing, looking
at me, I automatically think they are making fun of my weight and
taking all kinds of hateful words.
Now, my
logical brain says, “hey, slow down, man. Why would they be talking
about you?”
But the
conditioned fat guy, automatically tugs down on his overly tight
t-shirt and averts his eyes and walks on. Allowing a dark cloud to
rule over the rest of his day.
See what I am
saying? I've worked and will always continue to work against those
old ghost that have crafted deep grooves into my already fragile
psyche. It's powerful stuff, my friends. It truly is.
I could write
a completely different blog on my thought on fat guys and women and
all that shite, but you know, it's not worth it. After all, as far as
my life goes, I've won the Cupid Lottery. I have the best, most kick
ass wife on the damned planet. So... moving on.
I'm only going
to touch on the topic of fat guy health issues briefly. For one, we
are more than aware of the health risks of being overweight. I won't
beat a dead horse here.
All I will
say, is that overall, I've been pretty healthy most of my life, even
for a big guy. I've had leg/vein issues since I was in high school
and have had some more serious treatments in the past few years,
including surgeries and such. But I keep fighting the good fight with
that.
I must say now,
that there have been a few incredibly positive things that have come
out of me being the fat guy.
I'm sure with
the amazing genetic history that my O'Brien/Erb fore-bearers blessed
me with (sans the whole depression thing.) is who I am.
I had a
fantastic basic palette of colors to start with. And when mixed with
all the hues of childhood- the scars, the good stuff, etc. Every
single happy and pain filled moment molded me into the man I am
today. Flaws, and all.
Every deeply
painful incident in school where I was made fun off in front of a
gazillion classmates, to the friendships I have to this very day.
My sense of
humor...my sense of compassion and understanding for others. ( I know
many folks would consider that a weakness.) And, some of the
trusting, compassionate behavior has led to friends using, or taking
advantage of me. I guess it is what it is.
Yeah, some
parts of growing up the fat guy sucked six ways from Sunday. But,
hey, isn't it the constant wash of the water that crafts the amazing
detail and beauty of the rocks?
And there are some health issues I am addressing and working on changing many of my bad habits and working on getting back into the martial arts and improve my life on all accounts.
I'm not going to lie, even at forty-seven, I still cringe a bit when I walk into a place and folks are laughing and still deal with negative self-talk. And hey, that's why I chose to be a creative. It's not like we need a thick skin against judgement or rejection...Right? What? Oh......Shit.
I guess, Alice raised a son a glutton for punishment. That's okay. Bring it.
She also
raised a son that will proudly march to his own drummer...no matter
how measured or how far away.
I'm sorry if
this was incredibly disjointed, I just wanted to get my thoughts down
without too much self-censorship. I hope it made some sense to you
all.
Bottom line:
Be kind. Everyone comes into life with their own demons. Be
compassionate or at the very least...do no harm.
