What Do You Deserve?

I have recently experienced a huge set-back. I say recently, but in reality it’s been happening for over six months. In September of 2018 I hit a milestone – I lost 80 pounds! I’ve never lost that much weight before!

I looked at the number on the scale, hardly able to believe what it meant. Losing 80 pounds was more than halfway to my goal. My clothes were much looser and I was in need of buying smaller clothes, so it really shouldn’t have surprised me to see the number going down.

And in reality, I don’t know that it was the number itself that surprised me – it was my reaction to that number that surprised me. I remember feeling disbelief, then fear, then disappointment. It struck me that I should be over-the-moon happy with my weight being down, but I wasn’t. I got a little angry at myself, “Micah! Look at what you’ve accomplished! Why aren’t you happy about this?! Isn’t this what you’ve wanted your whole life? Well, it’s finally happening!! Why aren’t you happy or excited?”

First, my disbelief. The fact that I “couldn’t believe” I had lost 80 pounds means that I didn’t really believe that I would. How else do you explain being “surprised” by weightloss when weightloss IS THE GOAL?! Deep down, I never really believed that I could be successful at losing weight because I had tried SO MANY times before. Suddenly, this time was different. Something about this process had worked and I wasn’t ready for it. I was seeing it, but I wasn’t believing it. In that moment, I realized that something within me was out of alignment with my goals and how I saw myself (more on this below).

Second, my fear. This is convoluted, even to me. I was afraid of so many things. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to maintain that weightloss. I was afraid that if I didn’t maintain that level of weightloss that people would make fun of me or worse, look at me with that crushing pity or disappointment in their eyes. Suddenly I felt “pressure” to HAVE to keep the weight off and I was afraid that I couldn’t do it – I mean, I wasn’t even able to believe I had done it in the first place, so how could I maintain it? I was afraid that it would make some people feel bad about themselves. (I know, I said this was convoluted… which is just a fancy way of saying my thought process is SO F’d up!!) I was afraid that, rather than be happy for me, it might make others who are also trying to lose weight, feel bad that they haven’t lost weight or haven’t lost as much weight. I was afraid that if I shared my progress, people would think I was showing off or trying to be something I’m not (what does that even mean?! I have no idea!!).

Part of the fear was not purely my own though. I recall telling someone that I had lost 80 pounds, but still have “more to go” and their response was, “but is that realistic?” The moment they said it, my soul was crushed. Basically they were saying, “hey, you’ve lost this weight, maybe you should just be happy with that and stop trying to lose more. That way you won’t set yourself up for disappointment when you don’t lose any more weight.” I know the comment was well-meaning – they just wanted me to be happy, but it confirmed to me that other people don’t believe in me; don’t believe that I could lose any more weight and that I ought to just be happy with what I had achieved, or be happy at being slightly less fat than when I started, or just “accept” myself the way I am and stop trying to improve myself. Suddenly, I had confirmation that I should be afraid of not being able to lose more weight, because others didn’t believe I could either. Which is probably what contributed to…

Third, my disappointment. My original goal was to lose 140 pounds. Losing 80 pounds, as I said, is over halfway, but because it wasn’t 140 pounds, I hadn’t “met my goal.” Why be happy about losing 80 pounds, when I still have 60 more pounds to go? Losing 80 pounds was great, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t be happy about losing 80 pounds because I told myself (unknowingly), that I wouldn’t be happy until I reached 140 pounds lost. It’s all or nothing and I won’t be happy until ALL the weight is gone.  The problem with saying, “I’ll be happy when…” is that you’re also saying, “I CAN’T be happy until…” Here I was, 80 pounds lost, AND I STILL WASN’T HAPPY. I was disappointed that I had ONLY lost 80 pounds and not 140. 

Somehow, of all of the three feelings mentioned above, it was feeling disappointment that was most eye opening. The fact that I had achieved something I had never before achieved – and still wasn’t happy about it, made me realize just how bad my mindset has been. Even as I have gone through the grueling process of trying to change my outlook on life, I still had this deep, deep belief that I could only be happy in one way – at my ideal weight.

But since I had “failed” to reach that weight, I gave in to my disbelief, my fear, and my disappointment. It’s interesting – I didn’t stop going to the gym and I didn’t stop trying to eat clean, in fact, I went through a nutrition certification course so that I could coach others on optimal eating habits. But what did change, was that I stopped really believing that I could do this – that I could maintain 80 pounds lost, that I could lose an additional 60 pounds, that I could actually achieve my goal weight. What has been the result? Well, here I am 6-7 months later and I’ve regained 40 of the 80 pounds lost!!

This is devastating to me.

I feel so disappointed in myself. I feel like a fraud for wanting to help other people eat well and lose weight, when I can’t even seem to do that for myself!

I’ve been asking myself for weeks/months, “what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I get my act together? Why do I keep messing up, failing, and hurting myself – mentally and nutritionally?”

It finally dawned on me one day with alarming clarity: I just don’t deserve it.

When this thought came to the surface, I realized how much it felt like “me.” This is my identity; this is who I am – a man who is undeserving of anything good in his life. I don’t know why I haven’t realized it until now. How could I not have seen it until now? But now that I do, I look back over my life and I realize that it has been there the whole time. This belief has been with me for as long as I can remember, influencing every moment of my life, every choice I’ve made, every circumstance I have found myself in. Maybe I couldn’t see it because it was so good a hiding or masquerading as something else – such as being a victim, not measuring up, being afraid, etc. Being undeserving has been a part of all of those things, like an undercurrent that can’t be seen, but influences everything above it.

I have ruined diets, binged, and given up on myself over and over again, because I didn’t believe that I deserved anything better. If I did feel like I deserved something, it was that I deserved punishment, pain, and suffering. No wonder being miserable “feels right,” it’s all I’ve felt I’ve deserved. I deserve to be fat, ugly and lonely because I don’t deserve to be healthy, attractive or in a relationship. I don’t deserve to lose more weight, because that would make me happy and I don’t deserve to be happy!

Being undeserving can – and has – cut through every facet of my life. I think this is why I felt “disbelief” at having lost 80 pounds, as I mentioned above; as well as why I felt fear about losing weight – because I had achieved something I didn’t “deserve.”

For as long as I can remember I’ve had this really weird belief system that goes something like this: If I deserved to have something in my life, then I would have it; if I don’t have something in my life, it’s because I don’t deserve it. A couple of examples of this are: If I was deserving of having a good body, then I would have one (and not have to work for it?); but since I don’t have a good body, I don’t deserve it. Or, on the negative side: Since I was molested as a child, I must have deserved it, because if I didn’t deserve it, it wouldn’t have happened…

It’s as if the condition of having or not having something in my life is somehow “irrefutable proof” of this Deserving rule. Honestly, I have no idea where, when or how this rule developed, but I obviously felt it was so reliable that it just became a part of me.

Which leads me to my next question: now what?

Now that I see what I’ve been doing consciously or unconsciously my whole life, what do I do about it now? How do I just flip the switch and say, “ohp, gosh, you know what? wait…, wait, wait… I guess I was wrong this whole time; I really am deserving of having good things and being successful…!”

Like, I can’t do this. I can’t just wake up tomorrow and suddenly believe that I’m deserving of all good things – it’s far too incongruous with my experience. How do I lie to myself and tell myself that I suddenly deserve all the things I’ve told myself my whole life I DON’T deserve?

On the other hand I have this little “mindset coach” in the back of my head asking, “why does being deserving even have to factor into the equation? Why does everything have to be related to whether or not you deserve it? What if you took ‘being deserving’ out of the equation, period?”

Those are good questions, but I don’t know what that would look like. I don’t know how to answer those questions. Perhaps, instead of looking like “what do you deserve?” it might look like “what are you willing to work for?” Because if it’s no longer a matter of what you deserve, then it must become a matter of what do you really want and are you willing to DO what it takes to achieve it?

I don’t know. I’m really at a loss here. Has anyone else gone through this? What advice would you give me?

Have you ever asked yourself that question? Or have you ever wondered...

What do you deserve?

Fear, revisted

Over the last few months I’ve experienced a lot of anxiety. Not so acute as to need medical help, but a constant, chronic fear that just seemed to keep lurking under the surface, like a shark gliding silently under the water stalking its prey, ready to strike at any moment.

I’ve recently been able to name that shark and its name is “not enough.” (Yes, I’ve blogged about this before. Yes, the theme of “not being enough” seems to be a recurring theme in my life. And yes, I really am going to blog about it again!)

For about the last 6 months, or more, I’ve been experiencing a significant pain in my neck, collar bone, and shoulder, especially during workouts (FYI, my trainer has been amazing to help me modify workouts and movements to strengthen my shoulder, while avoiding pain). But still the pain is there. Something you may not know about me is that I believe that most, if not all, pain or injuries in the body have an emotional component. I think that injuries/pain are the bodies way of saying, “hey, there’s something here you need to deal with…;” especially in the case of a long-term/chronic pain/injury.

So I’ve been “asking” my neck and shoulder what’s wrong; what is it that I need to deal with? And I haven’t had an answer until now. For me, clenching my neck and shoulders are a protective measure. It’s as if I’m trying to retract my head into my chest and use my shoulders as a shield – much like a turtle, actually.

Knowing that I’m clenching my neck muscles to protect myself, I have been asking what it is that I’m afraid of. What is it that I find so fearful that I’m constantly trying to protect myself? And after 6 months or so of asking, it finally dawned on me – I’m not afraid of any ONE thing because I’m afraid of EVERYTHING!

The understanding began to materialize as greater realization came to me. To explain my feelings better I need to relate a bit of my history. You see I grew up fat. Not just “husky,” or “chunky,” but fat. Full on, butterball status. When I was about 9, I doubled in body weight for no apparent reason. I realize now that I became “broken” inside from being molested about that age, but since I had fully repressed that memory, I was unable to make that connection. All I knew was that I was fat. And everyone else knew it. I went back to school (5th grade) after summer break and my friends suddenly didn’t want anything to do with me – I had changed too much, too quickly. I didn’t fit in anymore, literally and figuratively. To say I was devastated is an understatement.

I spent the next 7 years being made fun of everyday. EVERY. DAY. Not a single day went by that someone didn’t comment on my weight or my appearance. People passing me in the hall would move to the other side of the hall, so as to avoid me. Strangers, as well as “friends,” mocked me, rejected me and made me know on no uncertain terms that I was not acceptable. And I woke up terrified – every single day. I woke up with anxiety every morning, knowing that I was going to face an onslaught of criticism, judgment, ridicule and rejection, but I just didn’t know where it would come from or how severe it would be; but I KNEW it would be coming.  I didn’t know how to prepare myself; I didn’t know how to protect myself.

So I hunched my shoulders, kept my head down and lived in constant fear of an attack that I knew was imminent, but didn’t know where it was coming from – so I had to “be ready” at all times and being ready meant being constantly under stress. By my Senior year of high school, I think I was made fun maybe only three times, but after 7 previous years of taking a daily emotional beating, I couldn’t let my guard down. I never stopped letting my guard down. I had learned how the world worked – it pummeled you for being you and brought the worst beatings when you least expected them.

Fast forward to today, when I’m 40 years old and I still wake up afraid. I still clench my neck and hunch my shoulders, “turtling,” in order to protect myself. Something else happened to me when I woke up each morning, knowing I was going to face being made fun of and rejected, it made me feel like “I wasn’t enough.” I didn’t have enough energy to fight everyone. I didn’t have enough energy, or words, or fortitude, or strength, to stand up to those who bullied me. I didn’t have enough in me to combat the onslaught of humiliation I faced each day. I didn’t have enough, because I wasn’t enough. It was so devastating to know – and be told on a daily basis – that I wasn’t good enough to be accepted for who I was, that I just didn’t have the energy to stand up to it, to stand up for myself. And then, one day, I just stopped questioning it and I just accepted that I wasn’t enough; that I never would be enough.

So what changed that this issue is only coming up for me now? I think what changed is the multi-year process of attempting self-improvement and needing to deal with some really crucial aspects of my identity; such as dealing with being molested, dealing with being a closeted gay in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, dealing with family relationships, dealing with multiple addictions, etc. All these things I’ve faced and continue to face, but as these layers peel away, they reveal other, fundamental beliefs that need to be dealt with. I think losing weight and becoming physically stronger over the past year has also been a contributing factor. I think my body is saying, “you’re strong enough to deal with this now…” And there’s the irony – I’ve become strong enough to face the fact that I still don’t feel like I’m enough.

When I wake up afraid every morning, I’m afraid of not being enough; of not having enough strength or energy to face the uncertainty of what the day will bring. It is the uncertainty that I equate with "everything;" i.e., being afraid of everything is really just being afraid of uncertainty. I know that the day will bring hardships and trials; and even though I don’t know how bad it’s going to be, it almost doesn’t matter – I won’t be strong enough to face it; because “I’m not enough.” Even as I type this I feel my neck and shoulder throbbing – as if it’s blinking a warning that coincides with what I believe about myself.

My dilemma now is to know what to do with this realization. I’ve thought a lot about it. I have to acknowledge that most of the time I’m not giving myself enough credit. I really am enough, but I’m so focused on what I lack, that I don’t appreciate what I have.

While I know I need to acknowledge that sometimes I AM enough, there is a harsh reality that, sometimes, I truly am NOT enough. I’m not enough in the sense that I have more to learn and that my capabilities can always grow. Sometimes at work, I really don’t know how to help a patient. Sometimes at the gym, I really don’t know how I’m going to get through a workout or learn a new movement/exercise. Sometimes with my family, I really don’t know how to talk to them or open up to them about what I’m experiencing. Sometimes I really am just too tired to deal with any more challenges. But what I’ve never learned was that even in those moments when I’m not enough, I’m still okay. Who I am, as a person, is still okay.

I wish desperately that I could go back to myself as a child and just hold him and tell him that he’s okay. I would tell him that the way people treated him had more to do with what those people were thinking and feeling than with him. I would tell him that there will be times when he’s overwhelmed and it’s okay, because when he feels like he can’t handle something on his own, he’s worth asking someone else for help. I would tell him that he’s not alone and that he doesn’t have to face everything alone.

I know I can’t go back and hold the younger version(s) of me, but I can look inside my own heart and try to learn those same messages now. Yes, I will have days when I feel overwhelmed and like I don’t measure up, but I’m still okay. I may not always feel like I’m good enough, but I can always know that I’m okay as a person and always worth being loved and helped.

This is going to take some practice. I’m not blogging about this because I’ve learned to “master” this skill or because I’m “through” this challenge. I’m blogging this because I’m right in the middle of trying to resolve it and I know I can’t be the only one who feels this way. If you’re reading this and you sometimes feel like you’re not good enough, just know that you aren’t alone. You can talk to me about it and maybe we can help each other feel like we’re okay, just for being who we are, because it is good enough – just being you.

Timpanogos Cave

Sunday, July 29, 2018

BEFORE
I’m writing this in preparation of my hike to Timpanogos Cave today. I feel like this is an important moment for me. For 14 years I lived at the foot of Timpanogos Mountain and for all 14 of those years I lived in fear.

I was afraid that I was too fat to make the strenuous hike to the cave. I was afraid of not being able to make it and thereby proving I was a failure.

I was afraid of getting hurt and thereby proving I was weak.

I was afraid of getting left behind and thereby proving I don’t measure up.

Ironically, I was also afraid – in the instance that someone chose to stay with me at my pace – that I would be holding that person back, thereby proving that my weakness results in the suffering of others.

So I avoided and passed up on every opportunity to make this trek…

…until today.

What has changed?

Well, I have lost about 70 pounds. I am much more active and I move better than I ever have before. While this gives me some confidence that, physically, at the very least, I think I can do this hike, there is still a little bit of fear, because this hike is new, uncertain and I know it will be hard – I just don’t know how hard.

But there is a greater challenge ahead: facing my fears. Doing this hike carries more meaning than simply, “I can do this now because I’ve lost some weight.” This hike means I don’t have to be afraid anymore.

I don’t have to be afraid of being a failure – because I know that sometimes I will fail, but the greatest measure of success is not the amount of success, but in the ability to just keep going – especially when something is hard. (Don’t F*cking Quit, as my trainer has taught me!)

I don’t have to be afraid of getting hurt, because I do get hurt sometimes and being hurt isn’t the same thing as being weak. Getting hurt is a condition, not a reflection of identity. I can get hurt and still be “okay.” I have been hurt, several times, and each time I’ve had a different, visceral, emotional reaction. But also, each time, I adapted or adjusted and eventually, the hurt went away. Being hurt is not being weak, being weak is giving up – and I know now that I’m not weak, because I don’t give up.

I don’t have to be afraid of being left behind. Yes, I will be hiking with people whose abilities far outweigh my own as they are much more active and experienced hikers. And what if they do “leave me behind?” I will remind myself of the futility in comparing myself to others. No matter what I choose to do in life, there will always be someone who is better at it than me. That doesn’t make me a failure and it doesn’t mean I don’t “measure up.” I can get left behind and still recognize that my own abilities have far surpassed what I previously thought was possible for me. That I am truly much more capable than I ever gave myself credit for, as evidenced by the fact that I have chosen to do this hike in the first place!

And what of my final fear? Holding people back, making others suffer? Is it just possible that people may “hold back,” not because they feel obligated to stay with me, but maybe because they actually want to be with me? Maybe they just want to support me. Maybe they just want to encourage me. Maybe it’s not because they feel sorry for me, but maybe it’s because they just want me to know I’m not alone. I can’t determine what’s in the minds and hearts of others, or what their motives might be. But I can stop myself from feeling sorry for myself and I can stop telling myself that my mere existence causes people to suffer. I can choose to believe that I’m not holding anyone back if they are choosing to stay with me. I can let people make their own choices and stop convincing myself that I’m somehow responsible for the actions/feelings of others, because I’m not. 

I have lost weight, and that fat was/is a very real, physical burden. But today I hike to Timp Cave in order to lose a much deeper, and no less real, emotional burden.

Wish me luck!

>>>>>.....<<<<<

AFTER
Well, I’m back – and I did it. I actually hiked to Timpanogos Cave!!

I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to make it from being too fat. But I wasn’t too fat to make it! Actually, I did even better than I thought I would. We had an hour and a half to make our cave tour time, but we did it in 40 minutes. I was shocked! The trail was as they described, steep and strenuous. But I took it at a decent pace and just kept moving. Only pausing occasionally to catch my breath or see the view. I am not a failure.

I was afraid of getting hurt. Did I get hurt? Nope! I actually felt really good through the whole thing and even when we were done, while I was tired, I wasn’t wasted or worn out. I actually think, if I’d had to, I could’ve gone right back up and done it again! I didn’t have any nagging aches and pains. I was able to move well on the trail and in the cave (there are some tight spots in there!). I am not weak.

I was afraid of getting left behind. I think I pushed myself a little bit at the start because I was afraid of being left behind, but then… it didn’t happen; I didn’t get left behind. Actually, just the opposite – I kept up with or was even ahead of the others at times. What is most important to me, however, is that even though I was pushing myself to maintain a good pace, I wasn’t comparing myself to anyone else. I was just trying to do the best I could do, which entirely removed “measuring up” from the equation, period. It’s good enough just being me.

I was afraid of holding others back. This also turned out to be a “non-issue.” I hiked at the pace I needed to hike and my pace was not a reaction to what anyone else was doing, therefore, I did not interpret anyone else actions (i.e., pacing) as a reaction to what I was doing. We shared the experience, but each experienced it in our own way, and that was a great feeling. I own my feelings and experience without being responsible for the feelings/thoughts/actions of others.

Beyond all of that, experiencing the cave itself made the little explorer boy in me very happy! 

At the cave, they were nice enough to let us catch an earlier tour (Thank you Jay Allen!!) and the cave was amazing! Such unique structures and environment; I could have stayed there for hours. It was so quiet and still. You could feel the moisture in the air and see it clinging to walls and ceilings. At one point they turned out the lights and I can’t recall a blacker darkness. I had to hold the arm of a buddy, because I’m afraid of the dark. I waved my hand in front of my face, but saw nothing. The constant chill in the air; pools of water; ravines that drop down to emptiness; mineral formations that seem out of this world; delicate structures that have survived for hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of years; it was all just so unique and surreal.

And I realized something. A year ago, I would not have been able to do this. Well, maybe that’s not entirely true – I think I could have done it, physically, but it would have been a miserable experience. I would not have had the endurance to keep moving. I would have been much more out of breath. I don’t know that I would have even fit through some of the narrow passages in the cave, quite frankly. And I would have been wasted when it was over. As it was, I not only completed the whole trip, but, as I said before, I probably could have done it again. That is a big, damn deal for me!

Not only did I do this (previously terrifying) hike – I actually enjoyed it! I needed to do it to realize that I had nothing to be afraid of.

It was later, as I was driving back down the canyon, and as I was thinking about the experience, I actually hollered out loud to myself, “woohoo!! You did it, man!! You f*cking did it!!” And that was the moment I realized I didn’t have to be afraid anymore, which caused me to tear up a bit, I’ll be honest. Then I did something I’m not used to doing – I told myself that I did a good job and that I was proud of myself for my accomplishment. As far as I can recall, it was the first time a message like that – coming from myself – carried weight. And maybe the first time I truly believed it.

So today was a good day. It was good for my body; it was good for my mind; it was good for my heart; and it was good for my soul.

For years I resisted fear and it weighed upon me like a boulder. Today, I held that fear in my hands and I gave it a place in my life; I allowed it to be a part of my journey. When I did so, I freed it and it drifted away from me, like a mist evaporating with the sunrise. Truly, a new dawn for me, as well.

Aftershocks

Sometime in 1984 or 1985, there was an earthquake in Salt Lake City, UT, a city that happens to lie on a major fault line. I would have been 6 or 7 at the time. I don’t remember the earthquake at all – it happened while I was sleeping. Here’s what I do remember.

My eyes opened slowly to a blurry world of darkness and light. My vision cleared just in time to see my mother with a blanket in her hands, spread out in front of her. She was coming down the stairs to the basement bedroom that I and my two older sisters were sleeping in. She was coming down so fast that the blanket flew out to her sides and she looked like a bird, with wings spread, descending to its nest. She wrapped me up in her blanket wings and carried me - and subsequently, my sisters – upstairs to my parent’s bedroom.

Once all of us kids were safely deposited to my parents bed, my dad came in and moved the bed away from being directly under a support beam, in case it came crashing down on top of us during the aftershocks. He went back to the kitchen to listen to the radio for updates.

I was scared, but I didn’t know why. “The earthquake is over, but there may be aftershocks,” I was told. I didn’t know what an earthquake was; I had slept right through it after all. But we waited for aftershocks and I didn’t know what those were either. I was scared because everyone else was scared. I was afraid of not knowing what was happening to us or not knowing what was going to happen to us. So we waited for the aftershocks.

Flash forward to today and the fear of aftershocks has come back to me, though not in a way I would have expected.

In my life, trauma has been like a massive earthquake; it shook up everything in my life and rattled me to my core. I felt powerless, weak and useless. It arrived unexpectedly and overwhelmed everything going on inside me. The actual events were brief, yet their impact would affect me for decades, because of aftershocks. And there were aftershocks. Emotional upheavals that weren’t as intense as full on trauma, but felt just as powerful, just as threatening and left me feeling just as helpless.

My aftershocks come in many forms: fear of not being good enough; fear of being inherently “wrong” or worthless; fear of being a failure and/or a disappointment; being ridiculed, pointed at, laughed at, or singled out in some way; fear of loneliness; fear of being weak and powerless; and so on.

When I feel these aftershocks, I do what anyone should do in an earthquake - I hide, I cover (or mask) and retreat. Only my hiding/covering/retreating includes isolating myself, binging on junk food, fantasizing about perfection/control over my body and my life, watching movies/tv to escape and so forth. 

But this is where my analogy differs because aftershocks – the inner/emotional aftershocks I’m talking about – aren’t really real. I mean, they are real in the sense that they feel real, and create an emotional/behavioral response, but they aren’t real because these emotional aftershocks are not the actual trauma itself. They are phantom traumas – they exist, but have no substance. They are reflections of traumas that ripple through my soul, becoming real, only because I expect them; I wait for them; I fearfully anticipate them…

I felt another aftershock recently during a workout. I was attempting to do a kettle bell down and up, which I’ve done before, but this time, I was flooded with fear. I couldn’t recall all the steps, for some reason. And even when I did, nothing felt right. My arms were giving out. I wasn’t able to lower or lift my core without some pain in my lower back. I couldn’t control my descent and felt like a sack of blubber, crashing into the ground.

And then the “aftershocks” began vibrating through me: “You’re weak. You’re not even strong enough to support your own bodyweight. You’re pathetic and never going to get this. You’re never going to make progress and you’re going to stay fat, weak and stupid your whole life. What made you think you could do this? What made you think you could get better at this? You’re only getting worse. You were able to do this with a 14 kilo kettle bell and now you have to go back to un-weighted? What a loser.”

I wanted to leave. I want to run away and say, “this is such bullsh*t.” I wanted to drive to the nearest fast food place and shove as much crap down my throat as I could stand. I wanted to cry. I wanted someone to hold me and say, “I’m sorry this is hard for you right now, but it’s going to be okay; you’re going to be okay.”

But I stayed and finished my workout. I went home and ate healthy food. Not because I wanted to, but because I recognized the aftershocks. I saw the phantoms rearing their ethereal heads again, only this time I knew they weren’t real. I knew that they would stay as long as I continued to believe in them and right now, it’s the hardest thing in the world not to believe in them. Aftershocks can be like that. They can keep coming and bringing a host of fears and doubts with them, but it is my belief that if I can see them for what they are then I can accept them for what they are, and I can gradually minimize their impact on my life. I can brace for them, or I can embrace them.

Counter-intuitive though it may seem, embracing aftershocks (accepting that they appear as remnants of trauma) helps me to dissolve them, because it means I can see them for what they are – fears of uncertainty, or fear of things that only “might” be true. I get to decide what’s real for me. Maybe I am weak, but that doesn’t mean I always will be. Maybe I am just a big loser, but somehow, I’m still here and I have to think that that makes me a winner on some level.

What I have learned is that I’m not worthless; because no one is worthless. I have worth, because we all have worth. Our worth cannot be changed and it cannot be diminished in any way. Not even by “earthquake” trauma and certainly not by aftershocks. Even though I still deal with aftershocks, I know where they come from and to some extent I know why they’re here. My challenge is not to be afraid of them when they do show up and especially not to waste my life waiting in fearful anticipation for when they’ll appear next.

And who knows, maybe one day, they won’t show up at all.

The Worth of Movement

Just some background so you know where this is coming from: I have always been overweight. I don’t really remember a time when I was thin, however the bulk (no pun intended) of my weight gain happened the summer between nine and ten years old. I nearly doubled in bodyweight and I went to several doctors who couldn’t explain why. So, I was fat. I grew up fat; I knew I was fat; my family knew I was fat; my friends knew I was fat; and being fat was a problem – for lots of reasons, but my message today is about just one of those problems in particular: movement.

Moving was hard for me – not because I was lazy, but because I felt “lumberous” and awkward. I didn’t move as well as other kids because I couldn’t move as well as other kids – there was so much more of me to move around. I grew up believing that maybe “being active” just wasn’t in the cards for me. And yet, I longed for that. I wanted to be active; I wanted to move as well as other guys my age. I wanted to be thin and athletic. I wanted to move with confidence and ease, like they did.

But I was afraid.

For one, I thought I would hurt myself if I tried to heave my ponderous bulk along the asphalt, whether walking, running, biking or otherwise. Also, after years of being sedentary, I was afraid that I would injure myself from trying to do ANY exercise and from not knowing how to use good form. Of course, my biggest (again, no pun intended) fear was going to the gym. Wow, could there be any other more perfect place where I felt like I did NOT “fit” in? (Pun totally intended this time.)

The gym was terrifying in that there were contraptions that looked more like torture devices than exercise equipment. But more than that, I was afraid of the people in the gym. I felt ashamed of my body and inferior on any given day – but put me next to a hot, muscular, athletic guy and you might as well stick a fork in me, because I’m done! I couldn’t even picture myself in the gym, working out next to these toned, athletic hunks (or meatheads, depending on the gym!). It was a foreign country and even  though the people there looked like their lives were so much better than mine, I just couldn’t fathom trying to learn their language and customs; again, because of fear.

I was afraid of how stupid I would look, not knowing how to work any of the machines. I was afraid of how much people were going to look down on me or look at me and laugh – as if they thought I was fighting a losing battle or wasting my time. I lived with these fears for years. Years and years and years; longing to be like those guys in the gym, but believing that I wasn’t worth it.

And then one day, at the ripe old age of 35, my life fell apart. Without boring you with the details, I had moved states for a job that didn’t work out; I was unable to find a job, living off my rapidly dwindling savings, waking up nightly with panic attacks, trudging through the days in full-on depression and realizing the problem was me – because I was afraid… of everything. And I knew I needed to face my fears.

I decided to start with one of the riskiest and hardest fears I’d known – I bought a gym membership. Man, that was hard! Just going through the doors for the first time was like facing down a charging rhino; but I did it. I met Kevin, one of the lead personal trainers. Kevin was a good looking guy and in good shape – not, like, just walked off a magazine cover or anything, but just in good shape; enough that I felt really self-conscious around him. But Kevin got it – he got where I was coming from and he understood that just coming to the gym was a challenge – it took me awhile to realize it was actually quite a large a victory.

Kevin taught me about using the i̶m̶p̶l̶e̶m̶e̶n̶t̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶o̶r̶t̶u̶r̶e̶ exercise equipment, but more than that he focused on movement and helped me learn the basics of lifting, squatting, pushing, pulling, etc. I got stronger and it felt great. I truly believed that what happened next was a result of me learning to move better and getting stronger. I was meditating one night when I saw in my mind flashes of two experiences that I had completely forgotten – repressed, actually. I recalled being molested by two different men, once at the age of six and once at the age of nine. These memories just about shattered me completely. Why would I connect the recollection of these repressed memories to getting stronger in the gym?

For two reasons: 1) I had proved to myself that I was ready and capable of facing my fears; 2) I was getting physically stronger, which meant I could physically endure the visceral recollection of the harm my body endured.

For those who might be curious, yes, I did seek out and received some excellent counseling to deal with this new emotional onslaught. But I also kept moving; I kept going to the gym. I worked out at this gym for about a year, until I decided I needed to move back home (to Utah). Once home, I found a new gym to go to. You know what? I was still afraid to walk in those doors! Even though I had spent about a year exercising, learning and improving, I was still afraid. What if this gym had different equipment that I don’t know how to use? (It did.) What if there were super athletic people there who look down and me and make me feel bad about how heavy I still am just by looking at them? (There were. [I still remember you, little-blue-shorts-guy!!]) What if I looked stupid or awkward because, even after a year, I’m still only just learning how to move? (I did.)

But it was also this gym that lead me to Craig and Kathryn; where I learned even more about nutrition and functional movement (I puked after my first time pushing an un-weighted sled for 4 lengths of 50 feet each!). I learned even more about the benefits of movement and even though I wasn’t losing much weight, I was moving better, I was getting stronger, and I was feeling better about myself.

Through Craig and Kathryn I connected with Chirofusion (sport chiropractors Chad and Janson) and they helped me understand functional movement even more. Life went on. I ended up moving away for a year, then moving back home and this time – thanks to Chad at Chirofusion – I connected with Michael at Wasatch Fitness Academy (WFA).

WFA is ALL about MOVEMENT! Functional movement – bodyweight exercises, sleds, slam balls, sandbags, kettlebells, TRX bands, and so on, but the focus is always on safe, efficient, proper form and movement. I have had some amazing results from working with Michael, but for me personally, the most profound revelation I’ve had is this: I can move. Even overweight, even heavyset, even morbidly obese (which I have been medically labeled by every doctor I’ve ever had!), even uncoordinated, awkward, uncomfortable me – I can move! And not only can I move, but I can move well. I’ve actually had my share of injuries already and had to scale back, adjust or even omit particular exercises at times, but I kept moving.

Why is that such a revelation? Because I spent SO MANY years afraid; afraid that I couldn’t move, that I wasn’t built for it, that I would never be able to be active. I was never able to see myself in a gym like WFA, because I was afraid I couldn’t do it, or that I didn’t belong there. But I was wrong. I can do it and I do belong there. I belong there because I WANT to be there and because I keep showing up and I keep moving. In all honesty, I still have days where I compare myself to other gym members – and yes, I’m still the fattest guy in the room (for now!) – but I can move! And the more I move, the less there is of me to move!

I don’t mean to sound overly dramatic, but I truly feel that “movement” saved my life. Movement made me stronger; movement gave me more confidence; movement caused me to face some dark memories and helped me work through them; movement has caused me to change the way I see myself and challenged what I believe about the world; movement has caused me to improve my mental and emotional function on every level. I firmly believe that none of those changes would have been possible without challenging myself physically – without movement. For me personally, the worth of movement in my life cannot be calculated.

What is movement worth to you?

You're okay, you just don't know it yet...

Well this topic has been a long time coming. Literally. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for over a year. It’s something that I’ve wanted to write down, but just couldn’t and I didn’t really know why. I believe what I’m about to explain was given to me – inspired, I want to say, hopefully without sounding presumptuous.

But look, this is hard for me to say. It has to do with identity. It should be the most freeing thing in the world to say, “I am ______,” whatever; fill in the blank. But for me it’s not that easy.

I come from a very black and white world (i.e., shame-based), where you’re either good or bad; good enough or worthless, etc. In that world, I wasn’t good enough, so I presented a “false” me. The one who was “good enough;” obedient, calm, helpful to others; the one who was happy all the time; got along with everyone – a peacemaker, even; never really had any serious problems; jack of all trades, master of none; etc. Hard to find any downsides to those qualities, right? Maybe not overtly, but subtly, the downside is this: it was just an act. It wasn’t truly who I was. Everything I did, I did out of fear of being evaluated, then judged “unacceptable,” while secretly punishing the real me for NEEDING a façade. The only way I could ever complete the sentence, “I am ______,” was by saying “I am a worthless fraud.” THAT was my identity.

You can’t go through life presenting a false self to the world and expect to be accepted for who you are, let alone happy.

So I’ve spent a significant amount of energy diving into the shades of gray of being me and trying to sort out what I believe about who I am. Which shifted my belief from, “I am a fraud,” to “I am a mess!” (Hey, progress is progress!) Joking aside, though, so much of my identity has been caught up in being the victim. Wow, what a trap to be in! It feels justified in its innocence, as in, “I was innocent, I didn’t cause this trauma, it wasn’t my fault,” etc. But in order to be justified in innocence, you also have to be powerless, because a powerful person wouldn’t have let themselves be victimized (some flawed thinking here, but keep in mind that being hurt as a child doesn’t allow for logical/mature thinking). This is referred to as Locus of Control. Someone who has an External Locus of Control believes that everything that happens in life has a cause that is external to them, such as luck, time, circumstance, etc. This meshes really well with a victim mindset – everything that happens is outside my control; versus an Internal Locus of Control where the person views themselves as being in control of their own life.

I have rarely felt in control of my own life. That includes my identity – how I see myself. I have straddled the line between discovering who I am and creating who I am. And it’s the creation of who I am that I have a hard time with. “What if I fail to maintain that identity?” I ask myself. “What if I say, ‘I am – whatever’ and then find that I’m not?” For example, what if I say, “I’m a writer,” but then fail to be successful as a writer? That word “fail” is hard to get around.

I’m trying create some context for you to understand why what I’m about to share is so hard to say. There is so much fear in just trying to be me, when being me for so long just wasn’t good enough. I also know that I’m stalling. I don’t want to type it. I don’t want to say it out loud. Once I hit “publish” on this post, it’s out there. I don’t want to admit it because it means a monumental shift MUST take place accordingly. It means I must change how I think, how I feel, how I see myself, how I define myself, how I think of myself, how I present myself, how I interact with the world. It means I can never go back to being who I was. It means the death of the false self (who protected me for so long!) and the emergence of the real me…

Enough stalling.

Here it is:


I am okay.


Wow, that was hard! Can you just let that sink in for a minute? For me, the fear and doubt immediately come creeping in. “But what if I say I’m okay only to find that I’m not? What if I say I’m okay and then everyone expects me to be okay, but what if I’m really not? What if I just lied to myself? What if I can’t keep being okay? What if the real me really isn’t good enough?”

You know, one of the major problems with trauma and victimhood is that it creates an internal rule – I am not okay. (Variations are: I can’t be okay, I never will be okay, I don’t deserve to be okay, I’m not worth being okay, etc.) This rule is formed at such a young age that it seems immutable. Set in stone. Just the way things are.

You may not believe this, but I’m kind of lightheaded all of a sudden and feel inexplicably tired. I know this feeling. It’s resistance. It’s the struggle within myself that is taking so much energy that I want to shut down.

But I can’t.

I mustn’t.

I won’t.

“Come on, Micah, fight it!” I can hear a voice within me saying. “Keep going.” And now I’m nauseous. My brain is – foggy; I’m having a hard time concentrating. I just keep typing because I know I can’t stop. It feels like someone has invisible magnets all around me and I can feel the magnetic pull shifting in different directions, but I can’t see anything. [Is this what the moon feels like?! Oh crap, and now the lame jokes have started, that’s not a good sign…]

Okay, I just took a drink and some deep breaths.

Being okay is scary. It’s not at all familiar. It’s a paradox. Being okay actually means you can mess up, once in a while. Because even when you mess up, you’re still okay. Even when you make a mistake, you’re still okay. Even when you look stupid (especially looking stupid trying something new for the first time), you’re still okay. What a foreign concept for me!!

The message I received a year ago was really this: “Micah, you’re okay, you just don’t know it yet.”

It was true. I received it, but I couldn’t admit it to myself. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how to “be okay” in light of everything I’ve been through. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve prayed and asked Heavenly Father to tell me how to be okay with the things I’m not okay with! I’m not okay with being fat, yet I’m I supposed to be okay with myself that way? Not a chance!

But here I am. Letting whoever is reading this know – I’m okay.

I trust the Lord’s timing, but I wish I had been told this from the very beginning.

When I almost died at birth: “you’re okay, you just don’t know it yet.”

When I was sexually traumatized: “you’re okay, you just don’t know it yet.”

When I was neglected and criticized: “you’re okay, you just don’t know it yet.”

When I was rejected socially for being too fat: “you’re okay, you just don’t know it yet.”

When I was lonely and scared: “you’re okay, you just don’t know it yet.”

When I was suicidal: “you’re okay, you just don’t know it yet.”

I have always been okay, I just didn’t know it. I’m laughing and crying at the same time.

As much as I’ve needed this message – and continue to need it – I also want to share it with you. I don’t know who’s reading this. I don’t know what you’re going through in your life. Maybe things are great, and if so, I’m genuinely glad. Or maybe you’re just having a hard time with something and don’t know how to let anyone know. To you I want to say - you’re okay, you just don’t know it yet.

I’m sorry for whatever hardship or trial you might be going through. Maybe you feel weighed down and hopeless, maybe you feel helpless and like a victim! Maybe you feel lonely and afraid. I promise you – you’re okay, you just don’t know it yet. It’s hard to wait for the sun when you’re in the middle of a storm, but I want you to know – you’re okay, you just don’t know it yet.

This is my first post of the year. I felt like this was the message that needed to be out there right now. May it guide all that I accomplish this year, but more than that, I hope this phrase will come to you IN THOSE MOMENTS when you feel afraid; when you feel out of your comfort zone; when you attempt to improve your life and encounter setbacks; when you experience uncertainty, doubt, and fear; when you’re doing all the right things, but challenges overwhelm you; when you’re feeling lonely and forgotten; I pray you’ll remember what I absolutely know in my heart is true:

You’re okay, you just don’t know it yet.

At The End Of The Storm

I want you to imagine something with me.

Pretend that you are in the middle of a terrible storm. You are walking down an unfamiliar road and you’re only thought is to return home. You are cold and shivering, with only a light hooded jacket to protect you. The wind and rain are beating down on you so hard that you draw the hood around your head and you hunch over trying to minimize the force of the wind and rain battering you relentlessly. The only things keeping you warm are walking and your thin, hooded jacket. All you can see ahead of you is a few feet of rain-soaked pavement, and your drenched shoes, as you put one foot in front of the other.

Imagine this continues for days, weeks, months, years. This darkness, this coldness, this discomfort – and even pain – are all you know; they are all you’ve ever known.

Then one day you stop. You just stop walking. You see that there is no water on the pavement. You feel that there is no wind or rain pelting your hunched form. Your shoes are dry, but your feet are weary and throbbing from constant movement with no rest. You try to stand up straight, but your back screams in protest from being hunched over for so long. Nevertheless, you remove the hood and look around you. You don’t really recognize what’s around you because all you’ve seen for so long is dull, gray pavement.

The storm is gone. The sky is blue with puffy, white clouds. The grass is green. The valley you’re in gently sweeps up to rolling hills, which become tall, jagged mountains. You see rivers and waterfalls; wildflowers, trees and forests. You hear birds singing nearby and the unfamiliar warmth of a zenith sun. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and completely foreign. This is not the world you know. You feel more lost now than you did before.

You want the clouds to gather and darken. You long for the wind to pick up and the rain to fall. You don’t want to see vistas and panoramas; you want your vision filled with the few yards of pavement that you’ve grown accustomed to. You just want things to back to the way they were because that is what you know. That dark, cold, wet, furious world is what you know.

This new world is terrifying. It’s so open, so uncertain, so vast. There is no safety out there – there is only safety within the hood of your jacket. But you can’t help but wonder, “when did the storm end? How long have I been walking in this terrifying sunshine and not known it? How many miles have I traveled hunched over, alone and scared?” And even more terrifying, “what do I do now that the storm has ended?”

This is what life is like for me right now.

The storms of my childhood were criticism, bullying, neglect and sexual abuse. The hooded jacket I wore was inferiority, self-pity, self-doubt and fear, because I learned to use these beliefs to protect me from the storms. This is all I’ve known. As I have aged and received much counseling, I’ve come to realize that the storms of my childhood are over. They no longer rage, though I have no idea when they stopped, because I never stopped feeling the storm!

Yet, I look around me and I see that the world has changed. My circumstances have changed. I no longer need to walk through life as if in a storm, because the storm is over. But this is a new world that I don’t know anything about. I don’t know how to navigate a world where I’m allowed to have desires, wishes, hopes and dreams. I don’t know how to live in world where I don’t have to suffer anymore. And a part of me wants that suffering to come back. I want the storms to return, because it’s all I’ve known. I may be in pain and uncomfortable all the time, but it’s familiar, it’s what I know.

I see that I create negativity in my life. The storm around me did not end, it simply moved within. I needed the storm. I needed the suffering. I didn’t know there was any other way to be. What the storm taught me was that I wasn’t worth sunshine (being loved). I didn’t deserve wide open spaces (freedom to be myself). I thought that I was a mistake; that with me, God had messed up. That’s just the way things were! It was just an unchangeable, immutable fact. All mankind can be saved… except me, because I’m not worth saving.

Having your eyes “un-blinded” is terrifying. You would think that seeing a world where good, beautiful, hopeful things exist would be welcome, but it’s not. It’s terrifying in its unfamiliarity. The implications for regret over living a life in fear (i.e., not knowing when the storm ended) are soul-crushing because it forces you to ask: “how long have I lived this way… and DIDN’T NEED too?!?”

This is the crossroads I am at in my life. I am looking at the immense and open world around me, seeing the hope and freedom it offers, but longing for the familiar storms to return. I am asking myself, “what do I do now? How will I survive a world I know nothing about? How do I begin to believe that I have worth, when I have never known worth?”

The "Santa Clause" Trauma

...and no, I'm not talking about the trauma of being forced to sit on a foul-breathed, fat, old stranger's lap while someone gets a photo op out of it...

I'm talking about movies.

It's funny how common it is for a Christmas movie to have the following premise: Child desperately wants something; Child asks Santa for it; Child doesn't get it; Disappointed child "grows up" in that instant and refuses to believe in Santa Clause. (Only to find out years later that he IS real and that their gift was delayed, but just what they needed, when they needed it, whether they recognized it or not... cue sleigh bells for a happy ending!!)

Which leads me to this question - what do you do when someone hurts you by what they DIDN'T do?

As in the case of so many Christmas movies, when a child does not receive what they expect to receive, it can be traumatic. It can shape that child's experience of the world and their fundamental beliefs about themselves in the world. This is especially true when the child has done all they know how to do to get their desire, even if all they know how to do is have hope, faith and belief.

I guess what I'm talking about here is a little more serious than a Christmas movie, but it's the principle of the analogy that I'm going for here.

How does a child grow up to believe in herself/himself when the actions of their own parent(s) say, "you aren't worth my time..."? A child naturally believes in the superiority of their own parents; even sees them as "god-like," in a way. Developmentally, a child doesn't have a mature sense of attribution of cause and effect. In essence they, themselves, are the cause of everything. For example, it's ridiculously common for a child to blame themselves for their parents divorce. For the child, there is no other possibility.

I think that could explain why so many people hurt themselves. And hurt could be anything from negative self-talk to actual physical harm, leading up to suicide. It could explain why some people have a hard time believing in themselves. Or why change is so hard for some people - their own parent(s) taught them that they aren't worth it.

While both of my parents were loving, or at least, did their best to be, my mom often served as an active critical influence (there are loads of reason's why, which I won't go in to...), and that has it's own type of trauma associated with it, but my dad was absent. It's not ironic that I write this today. Today is the anniversary of my dad's death, March 11, 2007. As I write this, I miss him, but I am also realizing that I've been "missing him" since childhood. He was kind; he was gentle; he never yelled or got violent - and I absolutely love and honor him for that. But I have more memories of seeing his back than his face. I have more memories of him retreating, or walking away, than I do of him coming toward me. I realized just today, while I was thinking about him, that I think I was able to let him go when my parents got divorced when I was 14 and I was able to let him go when he passed away 8 years ago when he died, because I had already had to let him go as a child - because he wasn't really there to begin with; at least, he just wasn't "present."

You can be in the same room as someone and say that you're "with" them, but if you aren't giving them your attention, you aren't really "with" them. You're near them - that's all. There were loads of times when my dad would come home on a Saturday evening and I would find out that he'd been out metal detecting, or rock hunting, or fishing, or whatever, and I'd think, "why didn't he take me with him?" I learned early on that my dad liked being alone. In fact, in those rare times when he did take me with him, I always felt like he didn't want me along. I knew that he'd rather be alone and that he had brought me along out of obligation. No child likes to feel that they're a duty.

I talked with him about that before he died and what he told me blew me away. He said he loved being with me, but he felt that I never wanted to be around him! Here we both were, thinking that the other didn't want the other around. As an adult, with a more mature sense of cause of effect, I can look back and see that he liked to be alone because that was what he knew. His own siblings had alienated him and I don't think he ever dealt with that resentment. But he learned to function in the world alone. I see now that his "absence" was just his own loneliness, but for me, as a child, I didn't see that - I couldn't see that. All I could see was that he pulled away from me because I wasn't enough to keep his attention. That was my "I don't believe in Santa Clause moment." But, what I really mean is, that was my "I don't believe in myself," moment. How could I believe in myself, when I wasn't even good enough for my own father's attention?

What happens to a kid with a fearful/critical mother, a present, but "absent" father - and don't forget to throw in some traumatic molestation for good measure? You get a kid who isn't able to see his own worth. You get a kid who thinks very little of himself. You get a kid who doesn't know why he's here or what his purpose in life is. You get a kid who gets involved in lots of addictions and self-defeating/self-harm behaviors. You get a kid who gets anxiety and depression, because he doesn't believe that he's worth being happy, or deserving of it. You get a kid who will do almost anything to avoid the pain of being himself.

I may not believe in Santa Clause, but I am starting to think it's a Christmas miracle that I'm still here...

Here is my plea to fathers: Please pay attention to your children! Please don't just be in the same room with them, give them your undivided attention!! Be interested in them. Ask them to share their thoughts and feelings and then listen/accept without judgment or criticism. Ask them what their interests are, or what their hopes and fears are. Put your arm around them and tell them they are loved. No, more than that, tell them that they are precious to you; that they are important to you and that you are proud of them. Console them when they are scared or lonely. Tell them that they are okay and that everything will be okay. Hug them tightly.

Just to be clear - I do love my father and I miss him terribly! But the disappointment I feel is real and I know that it will just take time to work that out. I look forward to the day when I can think of all the good my father did for me and not feel the hurt anymore.

Facing my fears (or Swimming without the devil...)

I faced a fear the other day - I walked into the Columbia River and went for a swim.

Strange to sum up such a momentous occurrence so simply, but there it is.

There is a narrow strip of land that connects Bateman Island to the shore, so it is quite possible to "walk" to the island, which I did. At the far end are a few small stony beaches. I picked one and when I got to the edge of the water I just kept walking. Nearby were several geese, who became very alert at my presence and once they realized I wasn't leaving, all swam out in a line toward another small island further away. Sorry, geese!

It was a strange sensation. As I walked into the river, the water was warm on the surface and colder as it got deeper. There were thousands of little bubbles that floated up from my shoes with each footstep that tickled the hairs on my legs. As I got to waist-deep water, I began to feel lighter, as the water was beginning to carry my weight. I stayed there, for a bit, questioning why I was there and what I was about to do. When I woke up that morning, I had no intention of swimming in the Columbia River. The idea just came to me on a whim and I did it. It felt like a good day for facing fears, I guess.

I watched the fishermen and boaters for awhile. I watched the ripples and waves that formed from the natural river currents, the wind, and the speed-boaters pulling water-skiers in the distance. Where I stood was actually the meeting of two rivers - the Yakima and the Columbia. The location I was at didn't have strong undercurrents this close to shore, however, so I felt this was a good place to "get back" into the water.

I walked a little further. When the water got up to my shoulders I felt the weight of the water on my chest, making it hard to breath. My footholds were less and less secure as I bobbed more and more with the gentle waves rolling past me. Was I really doing this? Wasn't this far enough and maybe I shouldn't push my luck and just head back to shore already? Did I really have anything to prove here? I was alone after all. What if something did happen and I couldn't get help? Was I tempting fate, or worse... the devil? All of these fears and doubts pressed upon me more acutely than the water pressing on my chest, or perhaps, they somehow coincided.

The thought that I was tempting the devil may not make sense at first. But there's a reason I have a fear of the water.

When I was about nine or ten years old, my family went to a rec center to swim. That was unusual in and of itself, first, because we rarely went swimming as a family, and second, because if I recall, it was a weekday or at least some "off" day when there virtually no other people there. Although I had had some minor scares swimming in the past, they weren't too serious and I was actually looking forward to practicing what little swimming I had learned.

At one point I found myself nearing the deep end, holding on to the edge of the pool because I wasn't nearly tall enough to reach the bottom. I looked around. Deserted. No one was anywhere close to me. I let go of the side and doggy-paddled for a bit to tread water before practicing kicking. That's when someone grabbed my legs just above the ankles and pulled me down. I had no warning and didn't take in enough air. My arms were flailing, trying to bring myself back up to the surface. Instinctively, I suppose, I looked up and opened my eyes. Full of chlorinated water, I couldn't make out any detail, but I could just make out that I was near the surface. In fact, I was so close that my hands could reach out of the water. But in all of my flailing, I wasn't getting any nearer to the surface - I was held fast. I felt the pressure in my face from holding what little breath I had, knowing that any moment I would need to open my mouth to try to breathe - I was losing the fight over the primitive instinct to breathe at all costs.

In my mind, my thoughts turned to Heavenly Father and in desperation I pleaded, "please help me." Immediately my legs were freed and I felt myself being pulled up to the surface. I gasped for breath and sputtered, trying to press the water out of my eyes so that I could look around to see who had done that. I figured that someone had swam over to me without my seeing them and played a trick on me. But as my vision cleared, I looked around and saw no one. Not even someone swimming nearby under the water.

I suppose I was in shock for a while. I pretended like it hadn't happened. I didn't know how to explain what'd just happened. But I clung to the edge of the pool for dear life and worked my way over to the very, very shallow end and stayed there the rest of the time. I vowed I would never go back. As it turned out, there were two times I did get back into the water, once at a young men's activity and once while at a scout camp. Both times I was injured and could have drowned.

Message received Satan - I won't ever go swimming again.

Until recently, I guess. I've been working on changing my beliefs about myself and what I think I'm worth or capable of. This just felt like one more way to challenge old beliefs and fears. As if to say to myself, "I'm not going to let this get the better of me and I'm not going to live my life in fear, or live my life reacting to fear." And so I found myself standing in the Columbia River, nothing more than just a head, bobbing in the water. Looking westward toward the descending sun and squinting from the sharp reflections off the water's sparkling surface, I pondered which was greater, my fear or my faith.

I took a deep breath, and dove.

The fact that I'm writing this should tell you that I did, in fact, make it out alive. I wasn't there too long and I never went far enough to have my feet leave the bottom, but I did it. I dove and I swam and I conquered. I also learned that swimming is NOT like riding a bike, I quickly realized I had NO idea what I was doing. I probably wasn't even really swimming, I think was more like "nordic-tracking" under water?! Anyway, I could do with a few lessons, is my point, but I still consider it a "win!"

Faith - 1 :: Fear - 0

Life is a game of...

Let me tell you a story. This is a story about you.

You are around 11 years old. You’re sitting with the rest of your class in the gymnasium. It also doubles as the cafeteria, but the tables and benches have been carefully folded and put away and the lacquered floor swept and mopped to its highly reflective sheen. You are nervous and distracted. You are unintentionally eavesdropping on the hushed conversations going on around you, jealous of everyone else’s apparent calm. P.E. is NOT your favorite class. You hate that you are literally the fattest kid in school, let alone your class. You hate that no matter how good you do, you can’t ever keep up with the other kids; they are all faster, stronger, smarter and way more agile than you. You hate P.E. and you hate where you are. You hate the cavernous quality of the gym, where even the slightest sounds echo off the walls, floor and ceiling. You try not to even think too loud for fear that your thoughts will begin to echo around the room. And if it’s so open, why is it so hard to breathe?

You hear the door click and you whip your head around with everyone else, all conversations immediately stopping so that even the silence seems to echo around you. Your senses are sharpening and your breathing increases almost imperceptibly. You watch your 60 year old, past his prime – but probably still more athletic than you give him credit for – P.E. teacher walking in, pulling some gym equipment behind him.  As comprehension of what he’s dragging behind him hits you, you feel like a trap door underneath your stomach has suddenly been released; your heart jumps up into your throat and you are barely aware of how your muscles have tensed up as your heart rate steadily increases. You see that he’s pulling a wire cart loaded with balls - big, red, rubber balls with small hash marks stamped across the surface, increasing their grip, but making them feel rough. Tiny beads of sweat begin to form on your forehead as your thoughts are dominated by the one word that spells your imminent destruction – Dodgeball.

You look around at your class and you see the familiar range of expressions. Some kids are rolling their eyes, as if to say, “dodgeball? again? it’s so boring, don’t you have anything new for us to do?” Some kids are looking around, as if they too are uncertain what to think, apparently apprehensive. And then there’s always one or two kids that are looking around the class with hungry, greedy eyes. They’re already evaluating everyone in the class and deciding who are the easy targets - the weak links. They look at you and they smile an ominous, “grinchy” smile that can’t – and doesn’t – mean anything good. Your anxiety gives way to panic as the blood rushes out of your head into who knows where.

You already know the outcome. Everyone will be gunning for you because you are the easy mark. You stand out no matter where you stand. It doesn’t matter how you turn, there’s ample mass to target. Because you’re fatter than everyone else you’re also slower than everyone else, which means it doesn’t matter if you try to hide behind someone else, they’ll be able to move out of the way faster than you. You know you can’t back up to the wall because the opposing team can still see you and 9 times out of 10 the coach will call you out anyway. You toy with the idea of making a kamikaze play – walking right up to the line with no one else around and just stand there – exposing yourself for the easy target that you are and just wait for the sting of the rubber as multiple balls slam into you like heat seeking missiles.  But exposing yourself hurts more because you know the other kids will be aiming for your head and face, not just your massive gut. Clearly, no one seems to understand that you have feelings. Maybe they think that your extra layer of lard protects you from physical and verbal threats, but it doesn’t; if anything, the opposite is true. Not that they’d care about that anyway. It’s kill or be killed in dodgeball.

All you can do is lumber around in a panic, bracing yourself in fear for that inevitable rubber smack stinging your skin and being “out” for most of the game, i.e., the pathetic loser. Ever since your first game you’ve known that life is like a game of dodgball and you end up in life just where you end up in dodgeball…

The End

Okay, this isn’t a story about you. This is a story about me and it’s actually a true story. This really was my experience and it I share it here to illustrate one thing – fear. While the feelings I felt during dodgeball were clearly amped up, those feelings are and have been constantly with me. I feel that anxiety every day. Every morning I wake up with the panic of not knowing what’s going to “hit” me that day. Being terrified of the uncertainty of what will come, but knowing that something will indeed come – something always comes to knock me down. And while I may not know what it is that’s going to happen, I do know one thing – it’s going to hurt!

I have recently come to understand that I fear pain above all else. In my flawed thinking the presence of pain means that I’m not safe, that something is wrong and that I’m not okay. The condition of not being okay is so painful that I will do just about anything to avoid it – including (as illogical as it sounds) enduring a lesser pain to avoid the greater pain. And what’s even better is being able to “control” that lesser pain to remove uncertainty.  Therefore, I can binge on chips, cookies and other luscious carbs any time I want. It may not make me feel good in the long run (i.e., is the lesser pain), but it satisfies my emotional/physical need to be safe (i.e., avoiding a greater pain). It makes me feel like everything is right and that I’m okay – even if it is just temporary.

The problem is, of course, that this is no way to live. Living this way leads to misery, depression, weight gain and decreased health. It leads to emotional breakdowns as well. These conditions are not how God intended His children to live. It is said that fear is the antithesis of faith and I truly believe that.  My life has reflected more of fear than of faith, which only gives me one more thing to feel bad about! (It’s kind of a bad cycle.)

I’m reading a book called “Self-Compassion” by Kristin Neff, which I highly recommend. One of the points she makes is something she learned from a Buddist teacher, Shinzen Young, that “we can distinguish between the normal pain of life – difficult emotions, physical discomfort, and so on – and actual suffering, which is the mental anguish caused by fighting against the fact that life is sometimes painful.” (pp 93-94) As he taught her, “we can’t avoid pain in life… the key to happiness [is] understanding that suffering is caused by resisting pain.”

The take-away message for me is that the majority of my problems are caused by my resistance to pain and not necessarily the pain itself. I would be much happier if I allowed myself to experience pain WITHOUT interpreting that to mean that “I’m not okay.” The truth is, I can be “in pain” and still be “okay.”

This is supported in the scriptures when Lehi says, “For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things.” There was no exclusionary clause to this statement. He didn’t say there must be opposition – except for righteous/obedient people, then everything is smooth sailing. He said there MUST be opposition in ALL things. (Must is actually a very strong word here - not “may” be, or “might” be, but MUST.) In other words, it is essential that opposition be present, which means – I’m going to experience pain at times and since I’m supposed to experience pain to some degree, there’s no reason to fear it or resist it (i.e., suffer).

As Jesus said in Matthew 5:45 “…for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and the unjust.” In other words, no one is exempt.  Of course, a greater understanding of the Atonement leads one to acknowledge that all pains are swallowed up in Christ and, therefore, need not be feared at all.

The irony is not lost on me – how much pain I’ve caused myself by trying to avoid pain. Which is where self-compassion comes in. Offering myself forgiveness and understanding can overcome the guilt I feel for how poorly I treated myself over the years, all as a result of trying to avoid pain. Then acknowledging that pain is inevitable and that’s okay!! The hardest thing for me to do is to “sit” with bad emotions and tell myself that I’m okay. I feel the autonomic response of fight-or-flight kick in and I panic. Since I have nothing to fight, I choose “flight” or avoidance, e.g. drowning my sorrows in a bag of oreos, and the cycle continues.

This process of sitting with bad emotions and still being okay is going to be tough to learn, but I also have hope that it will help me end the cycle of pain I cause myself, that I can be free from fear and that ultimately, I can stop believing that life is a game of dodgeball. 

The promises we keep

I woke up this morning to a feeble light trying to find its way into my room. Feeble, but persistent as it had to travel through a covered patio, a covered window well and two sets of curtains. I'm surprised any light made it through at all. The brief joy of waking naturally was quickly replaced with the discomfort of sore and achy muscles. First, from the two to three days of packing and cleaning my old place and second, from the strange contours of a new, unfamiliar bed.

A blind stretch to my nightstand, gentle groping and a squinty-through-one-eyelid glance at the piercing light of my cell phone display told me it was 6:13am. My first reaction was to bemoan how early I had awoken, knowing that I had given myself permission to sleep in, but then I recalled that I had gone to bed at 10:00pm the night before and getting eight hours of sleep felt like an accomplishment; even if I was pretty sore.

"Well now what am I going to do?" was the actual question I asked myself.
"Go back to sleep," was the obvious answer! ... and yet...

I couldn't help but watch the light, which seemed to be glowing, behind the curtains. Was it blue because it was indirect and had to go through so many levels of obstacles? Or was it blue because the sky was a brilliant morning blue, however far away it may be? All I knew was that the light meant that the sun was rising on a new day and did I really want to miss it?

Then I began to contemplate my life and the sudden changes I am experiencing. Graduation from a program that felt like it would never end. Unexpectedly obtaining a job... in another state. The ensuing purge of neglected possessions; some to throw out, others to donate. Then packing and cleaning and the realization that nothing will ever be the same for me...

"Can I really leave my family? My friends? My whole life has been here. How can I just leave it behind like this?" What a curious thought - that my life is somehow tied to a specific set of circumstances! Isn't my life my own? Isn't my life simply wherever I happen to be? And what do I want out of life?

It had been suggested to me that this change is an opportunity to make a new start. That was an idea that had already occurred to me, truth be told, but another idea also occurred to me. What guarantees me being a new person simply because I move to a new place? The truth is, when I move I will be "taking myself" with me. I will be taking my same thoughts, my same words, my same ideas, my same beliefs, my same way of seeing the world and others and myself... Will all of that mysteriously change simply because I move to a new place?

Another realization, which is perhaps somewhat self-convicting, why am I living a life where it becomes necessary, or even just desirable, to "start over?" If I need a new start, perhaps I wasn't really living "my" life to the fullest. Perhaps I spent to many mornings "sleeping in."

(Side note: I love these deep philosophical debates with myself, no matter what time of day it is!)

I had resolved that if I am going to make a new start, it is only going to be coincidence that it's happening along with other changes in my life. I am going to "make a new start" simply because I want to live a different life, starting today. So I did what I promised myself I would do and went for a walk this morning.

Now, I don't know where or when this started, but for as long as I can remember, every time I exercise, I immediately feel ashamed and like people are going to laugh at me. Today was no different. Being in a (temporarily) new neighborhood WASN'T liberating, as I had thought it might be. It was just a newer set faces to look at me and make fun of me; new people to be afraid of. But I had made a promise to myself that I was going to live my life not fearing what other people may or may not be thinking of me. So I set out.

I took in several deep breaths of air, held my head up high and started walking. The sky WAS in fact a brilliant morning blue. While it WAS light outside, the sun, much to my chagrin, had not yet risen. A five minute walk took me to an open field and just as I reached it, the sun slid up from behind the mountains. I felt like it was shining just for me at that moment.

Just south of Thanksgiving Point in Lehi, Utah looking eastward



My walk also took me past a busy street (yay - more people to stare at me!) that runs under some train tracks. During a brief lull in traffic, I got this fun view:

 

 



But without a doubt, the best view was the one I got when I made it home. What was that great view? I had kept my promise to myself!

That may sound anti-climactic for some. But for me, it's a big deal, not for the act of walking, but for the meaning behind it. It meant that I was challenging my own beliefs and thoughts about myself. I haven't always felt that I was worth much, but today I chose to believe that I was worth something. I have always been afraid of what other people may think or say, but today I chose to believe that it didn't matter (FYI - nobody made fun of me for exercising!). I haven't always believed that I deserve to improve myself, but today I chose to believe that I do.

So maybe it's just coincidence that I am taking these risks now that I've graduated and am in the process of moving to a new place. Or maybe I just needed this upheaval in circumstances as an impetus to make some changes within. I accept now that the changes I make within are the ones that determine my life and NOT my circumstances. It's not where I live, or what I own, or even what I look like - it's how I think and feel about myself and how I treat myself that determine my life.

Today was just a Wednesday. But it was a great day because it was a new start - a new life of faith, of belief and of keeping promises to myself.