I'm a man of many anxieties. Behind this veil of wit and gumption lies someone constantly worrying. First impressions come with second guesses and careful wording. A blank mind while looking at a math problem leads to my eyes moving like a pinball machine. On my busier days, I've had my mind work faster than a high-speed, 24/7 monorail.
It's frustrating sometimes, walking on self-made eggshells and constantly wasting time looking back on things I can never change. In more recent times, though, I've come to try and look at my fears in a more positive light. In acknowledging and batting the little anxieties, I've pushed myself in ways I never thought possible, including overcoming one of my biggest personal hurdles.
Growing up, more often than not, my appearance was where my insecurities festered most. No amount of watching "The Ugly Duckling" or "Shrek" made me accept my accidental scars and built-in stretch marks. However, those paled in comparison to how I felt about my weight. If I can serve as my devilish advocate, though, being half an hour's drive away from New Orleans and its jaw-dropping cuisine, I would challenge anyone's diet. But, of course, a lifetime of devouring delicacies and a penchant for not wasting food meant I always had room for more.
My vibrant appetite, thankfully, never grew into anything complicated like an eating disorder or health condition. But it did lead to a particular figure which got many insults or smarmy laughs from other guys during elementary and middle school—the most common comparisons from boys on how my chest matched the "fairer sex."
I mostly fought back with snarky remarks, equally scathing insults, or blatant indifference. So I subtly adapted. Gym lockers often meant hiding my gym clothes underneath my irregular ones so I didn't expose myself to other students. Practicing on the swim team meant wearing a swim shirt over myself.
Being the son of the two doctors didn't make me feel better either. Getting a front-row seat to my yearly checkup sometimes made me feel like a frog on a display table, especially when every medical suggestion prophesized an "exercise" starter pack. YMCA, Anytime Fitness, Oschner Fitness, and personal coaches were all varying levels of "fun," even if I did make them mine.
Those programs gave me the routine and motivation for a consistent way, enough to quiet my doubts for several years until May 2021 hit. Then, from the frayed redwood that is my family tree, my mother asked me to join a Weight Watchers group along with several other cousins and sisters. My rational self saw it as a harmless proposition.
My irrational self barged in through the door and screamed: Why? Should I have worked harder? Was my diet and eating good enough? WaI good enough? These questions kept raining down like a persistent claymore.
So when the last breaths of spring made way for summer, I put myself to the test. For those of you who either don't believe in climate change (shame on you) or have simply never taken a trip down the American south (I don't blame you), let me give you a painful mental image. Imagine walking across a set of hot coals with bare feet that stretch about 5 kilometers.
Furthermore, visualize the entire trek in a massive oven set to bake. All with just enough wind to remind me of how flipping hot it is. At the very least, that's how I saw trudging 3 miles outside my home everyday afternoon on top of the levee, with the sun beating down my neck.
Any neighbor who saw me along the way thought I was crazy. I would've preferred to be called determined. Usually, by the time I got back, I was so covered in sweat that you'd think someone hit me with a power hose. My eczema sometimes flared up so badly from the heat that my arms looked like they had chicken pox. Still, I kept up the regiment along with my diet.
I balanced rice cups to the exact measurement, refused the tempting advances of Taco Bell's Steak quesadilla, and fasted if we all had to go to a particular restaurant. It was three months of bitter work fueled with spite and anger. Each milestone reminded me how much harder I had to work. Every cheat day had me feel guilty out of self-sabotage. Any greasy morsel offered by my parents got intercepted with refusal and adamant backtalk.
At first, I thought it was to prove I could lose weight better than any they ever could, but I knew that was a lie. It didn't matter if I ran till my feet blistered or my thighs seared; I was never fast to escape the truth. After all, what human could move past the speed of thought? Especially when those thoughts whispered everything I lacked at every possible turn.
I held on to those insults for so long because they only reminded me of things I would say to myself. Like I was preparing for a rejection that may never come. So when I finally achieved my goal, shrinking from 215 pounds to an even 185 pounds. A whole new set of questions burned within me.
What comes next? Could I push myself further? Do I even have to? Why is there a part of me that isn't proud of this? And why do I listen to them every time? These thoughts put my mind through a tug of war above a downward spiral for a while. Finally, in that struggle, I couldn't hide behind my veil any longer and tried getting the help I needed.
I attended therapy, talked with my parents, and started finding self-esteem tips. I tried exercising to feel better, not stronger and tracked how far I had come rather than achieving an impossible standard. But most of all, I took a good, honest look at myself in the mirror. Finally, the man of many anxieties and glaring imperfections found the courage to say-.
"I love you."
Since I realized this, I knew intimately I would rather spend my life fighting my fears rather than be ruled by them.