So, this happened. (Nonfiction)
Before you wonder, there’s nothing fictional about this entry. This isn’t a stealthy intro to a story like “you’ll never believe this happened!”, and it's not sexual or about muscle/macro.
It's just a human thing I want to share. It happened and it's important to me.
If you don’t know, I’m in the USA. I was at Thanksgiving with friends tonight. This group of guys has two serious muscle guys in it, and there was a short period where I was there with just the two of them, hanging out, talking.
You probably don’t know anything about me. I keep this Tumblr like that. So just take my word for the rest of this. I hope it makes sense, but I’m not even sure I can tell it in a way where it does.
Writing this, I’m now in my mid 50’s. About ten years ago, I had a phase where I was seriously pretty damn big. 5 '10" and just shy of 300 pounds at my biggest beefy-musclebear phase. Chest solidly over 50”, arms just a little over 20”, back like part of a barn door, thick waist.
Once at a gas station I was asked if I was pro wrestler Rick Steiner, and that made my f*cking month. (Link, other link.)
That was then. After, and since, I stayed usually in decent shape. I was never cut or lean, but a good weight for me was between 240-250. Big enough muscles, but never those numbers from earlier. I was a solid example of a salt-and-pepper Muscle Bear Daddy.
This year, I’ve had to suffer through a major injury. Recovery will take about a full year, and I’m about halfway through it. I will certainly have some limitations in the future. I don’t know them yet - this is all still ongoing - however, it will certainly change my relationship with the gym.
Tonight, I somehow knew I could talk to these two guys. I hadn’t planned it, but I took the opportunity when I saw it. One friend is a younger guy, six foot, 300 pounds, total wall of well shaped beef that I admire. The other is aged in his early 40’s, five-eight, low 200’s, and is a nice short stack of muscle himself.
Both train hard, both deal with the same paradox of “Being Big” and having all the body dysmorphia that goes along with it. Back in the day, I joked that this was where I’d walk by the mirror and say “Woah! Who is the hunk?!?” and an hour later I could walk by it and say “Woah! Where did he go?!?”
There is nothing that could have happened in an hour to change things that much. That perception change was all in my head.
In the last couple of weeks, I’ve had to get honest that whatever vision I had held for the future of how I’d look from before my injury, that vision is now gone. I always, somehow, thought I’d get back to “Being Big”, whatever that meant for me at this age. Now, with this injury, I have had to admit that whatever I thought was going to happen, is not going to happen.
If I’m being honest, that younger 300 pound self was never coming back in the first place. If you know anything about loss, you understand that part of what I was dealing with was grieving the loss of the idea that I held that “somehow in some way that could happen”.
That can never happen again. It's impossible.
I told the big guy: “At one point, I was your weight. I - FUCKING - LOVED - IT. Walking around the world like I was a goddamn tank; shoulders bumping doorways all the fucking time, turning sideways now and then just get through; arms stretching every shirt I owned; just walking around and knowing that I was BIG. Sure there were bigger guys, and a flight of stairs would suck the life out of me, but I F*CKING loved it just the same.”
He said yes, he feels that way too. Existing like a human tank, a wrecking ball. For him the down side includes stairs too, but also for him tying his shoes. But, he loves it and totally knows what I mean.
The other guy nodded about it all and said he gets it, been there too. The man is a great example of a “Short King”. You look at him and you instantly know he is B-U-I-L-T. Thick, defined, muscles showing through his clothes. Fuck yeah!
They got it. They understood what I missed. Unexpectedly, I reached the real confession I needed them to hear.
“And, I hate saying this, but I’m having this horrible feeling like I’m NEVER going to have that again! I loved that feeling. Earlier this year, before my injury, I wasn’t a competition prize winner. I didn’t have a six pack, I didn’t have 20” arms, but I worked hard at the gym, and I overcame my own shit, and I felt like I had earned the right to be comfortable to just take my shirt off at a pool party with any number of gay men, in any shape!”
I never had in the past, and would never have in the future, a bodybuilder shape. I’m not that guy, and I know it. But I felt good in my body, and I felt like I was doing a solid job of being myself as one of the musclebear dads at the pool. I fit in just fine.
I had worked hard to earn that feeling, both outside and in. I’d paid for it already, dammit.
I told the guys: “...and now I’m scared that feeling is GONE and that it is never coming back.”
I didn’t know that until I said it then, tonight, when I had the opportunity. I’m actually surprised I didn’t cry when I told them. (I’m crying now as I write this.)
They both helped me remember that I’m still just partway along this process. That I am on day two of being back at the gym, and the last time I was there was seven months ago. I don’t look like I’ve missed that much, and to remember my own dysmorphia in all of this.
AND they also reminded me that while I have lost one vision of the future, another one that I have yet to discover will likely take its place. This isn’t over yet.
So, it doesn’t suck that I have to get honest about this: I was never going to be the 300 pound tank again, even if some corner of my mind expected that I would, for some reason..
At my age, body foundations, and the limitations I have to work with given what I’ve gone through, there are a lot of weight ranges and physique looks with which I will absolutely be able to Rock Onward Proudly, I just haven’t discovered them yet.
And someday, SOMEDAY, I will feel comfortable and even proud, in my own skin again, taking my shirt off or not.
