Conversing with Selves Past

unraveling the tumbleweed

“It was you! You’re fatter than me!”

My face was hot with rage and embarrassment. High school is an assault on the spirit in uncountable tiny ways. This was just one more to throw on my mountainous pile. A pile that would soon come to an end because graduation was mercifully near.

While I can’t remember my response I’m sure it was anemic and quick, allowing me an immediate return to my lunch and my shame. Zack had the upper hand in that moment because he played the trump card. The best course of action for me was to cease and desist.

In his defense I loudly accused him of farting when some foul odor wafted over the senior picnic tables enveloping our collective olfactory senses. The perks of being a senior included the freedom to eat outside. It felt unjust to have this luxury only for a phantom farter to invade our nostrils. I thought it was funny when I pointed the finger at Zack. While he wasn’t the most popular guy, I was definitely punching up. Most anyone I punched in high school would have been up. Once again my mouth moved before my brain and he came back with a deafening jab. It was a tit-for-tat and my tit had been definitively tatted.

His response was potent. It was a strategic one on his part because if someone wanted to shut me up quickly in 2007 one just needed to comment on my weight. Truthfully that’s been the best way to shut me up since about 1995. It’s a magic button, a direct link to all my triggers and insecurities. The jackpot of insults sits right there.

The great Zack Fart Accusation of ‘07 flooded my mind in vivid detail when I stepped on the scale last week. That little blue number flashed on the screen and my heart dropped. I am currently the heaviest I’ve been in 12 years. It’s startlingly high. When I saw it I was immediately transported back to those picnic tables at Druid Hills High School. It’s wild that a cheap Chinese-made electronic scale from Target has the power to time travel.

As mentioned I’ve “struggled” with my weight since childhood. As an adult there’s now no separating these struggles from dating from diet culture from porn from childhood messages from rejection from physical health from queer culture from my job as a coach from my job as an actor from self-worth from lovability. It’s all a messy spaghetti ball of confusion whose final outcome is quirky little me. This interwoven tumbleweed of perplexity sits in my mind, my heart, and my body.

I came here today to see if I could unravel that ball but then realized what a foolish endeavor that would be. Firstly that would be impossible given the length of these weekly posts. Such a diatribe could easily be a book. Secondly no one wants to read someone else’s therapy session, which is ultimately what such a post would become.

Instead I want to offer some words to that red-faced senior sitting at that picnic table. Fresh off his humiliation. Lips glossy from medical-grade chapstick and hair hard from graphically large quantities of gel. I want to pull him aside, away from those picnic tables, out of earshot of everyone else, and speak to him -

“Hey you, it’s me. Well it’s you but in the future. Basically this is your future self talking to you. Don’t get bogged down with the details here. The point is that I know you’re feeling shitty. You’re taking in Zack’s words. It stings. I know you’re pretending like it doesn’t hurt. That’s okay. Sometimes survival looks like pretending to survive. But you already know that because that’s what you’ve been doing, more or less, for the last 4 years anyway.

I know there’s not much I can say, even as your future self, that will take away this sting. Your brain is chugging along trying to fix things as we speak. You’re already rationalizing that it was just a dumb high school boy saying a dumb high school thing. You know it on a cognitive level. You know that in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter. It’s an exercise in minimization. You’re also justifying his behavior. As though you somehow deserved it. Saying that you are technically fatter than him. Which, just for the record dude, is literally the stupidest argument ever. There’s no science there FYI. You also acknowledge that you threw the first punch. Which, to be fair, is not an untrue statement. But all this only adds another level of shame.

But can I ask you to do us a favor? Right now you should just continue pretending to survive until you’re safe. And once you’re safe I want you to turn that brain off and feel. I mean really feel. Feel the anger and sadness and shame. Let it bubble up however it wants. Don’t stop it. Maybe this looks like crying. Maybe it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter.

I hate to say it but the world has a lot of beating your ass ahead. I really wish it didn’t but it does. But if you learn to feel the feelings, you’re going to save time and headache down the line. Trust me. I’m 34 and just now starting to figure this out. You and I, we love numbing and rationalizing. We love the spin. We seek out comfort. We love the safety of our heads. But numbing isn’t the same as fixing. And the first step toward fixing is feeling.

So go back over to those picnic tables and ignore everything until you’re back home. Safe in your cobalt-blue bedroom. Then sit in some sadness. Do it before the day is over. It probably won’t take that long. Otherwise you’re going to be 34 and reliving Zack’s comment one day when you step on a scale. And you’re going to feel silly and shameful all over again.

Because here’s the thing - you have a wild fucking ride ahead of you. You’re going to travel the world and live in a bunch of places. You’re going to meet a lot of beautiful and interesting people. You’re going to see the Alps and the Grand Canyon and be in movies. You’re going to make your own money and decide your own decisions. You’re going to shoot your own TV show. You’re going to make art and write a colossal amount of words. You’re going to have a circle of the fiercest friends for the rest of your life. You see Jessica over there? Yeah that bitch will still be with you in 20 years. You will both continue to be idiots. You’re going to get a dog who is your soulmate. You’re going to fall in love with reading. Your singing is going keep getting better. You’re life is going to get so fucking good.

But there’s going to be heartache. Again, I know it’s not the thing you want to hear right now. But it’s true. But I beg you to always feel it. Or at least do your best, most of the time. Sit in it. Make friends with it. If not, that pain and heartache and shame become a giant tumbleweed of confusion that you won’t know how to begin to unravel.

And last thing, love yourself dude. We are rad as absolute fuck and things will keep getting better.

You’ll keep getting better.

I promise.”