Despite being a photographer for more than 35 years, I really don't like getting my picture taken and as a consequence of that, I despise 'selfies.'
As a rule, I don't take them. In fact, in the almost ten years I've had a phone capable of it, I think I can count on one hand the number of times I've allowed myself to and not felt like an utter pillock.
The reason for this isn't because I'm being egotistical or contrarian for the the sake of being contrary. It's because the older I've gotten, the more shy I've become and after a childhood and early adulthood where I was psychologically and emotionally conditioned to both want to be invisible and to leave as minimal a trace of my existence as I pass through this world, the idea of suddenly wanting all eyes on me is about as antithetical to who I've become as you can get.
Editorial Note: One of the lessons I learned in all my years as a journalist was 'Cover the news, never be the news.' Same applies for photography. I've found there's a whole lot more amazing things in the world to capture through the lens of my camera than me blocking the view.
Which naturally begs the question...Okay...why is there a 'selfie' sitting here now?
The answer to that involves setting the ol' Wayback Machine to about about two-and-a-half years ago.
At the time, and I'm not being hyperbolic by any stretch in putting it this way, but I was in as bad a situation as a person could find themselves in. After relocating cross-country and trying to get my life moving in a forward direction again, I found myself having to exist solely out of the back of a Jeep I'd picked up after my beloved Honda Civic died in an accident.
I had a job, but it wasn't permanent, although I was told it could be if I worked my butt off and things went my way for a change. But in that environment of uncertainty, I couldn't commit to anything like an apartment until it was made certain. So, while having to exist in that sort of employment limbo, I had to quickly take stock of my situation and figure out what I needed to get by.
Clothes, bedding and food wasn't a problem, luckily. I made enough money that I could get a meal everyday (even if I had to get it from a restaurant or grocery store deli) and brought all my other essentials with me when I moved.
What I didn't have though, was access to a shower.
If there's one thing I think a person feels the most self-conscious about when they're homeless, it's the idea of how to get clean in a hygienic sense, if for no other reason than it helps you feel a little more human afterward. Or at least, it was for me. Even though I could change my clothes every day, it wouldn't matter if I walked into the office or anywhere else for that matter, smelling like I'd had a sabbatical in the bottom of a dumpster.
Fortunately, just down the road from me was a YMCA, and although I could've easily found a way to sneak past the front desk and get to the showers in the locker room, that's not how I wanted to do it. Instead, I figured the best thing I could do was use the opportunity as means to finally get motivated enough to maybe get my carcass in as much shape as a newly-christened 40-year old could get.
So that's what I did every morning, probably more than I should've at first considering how truly out of shape I was, but the payoff I gave myself at the end of each workout was the idea that I'd earned that shower. I know that may seem like a trivial thing in hindsight, but you'd be surprised how much that can drive someone to do something they'd made excuses for or took for granted a thousand times before now.
Fast forward back to now, and even though I don't have to worry about where or when my next shower is going to come (for now, at least) the byproduct of those first ten months of having to live that way which I couldn't have anticipated at the time was how much I'd make going to the gym a pillar of the self-care regiment I've taken on since then.
It wasn't like I hadn't tried exercising when I was younger, nor did I think it wasn't something I needed. Growing up, I was always a scrawny, wisp of a kid to the point that as a teen, I found out some of my friends thought I was being starved by my dad. When I met the woman who became my wife, however, it didn't take long for my body to change into something considerably less healthy.
In hindsight, I can't and won't solely place the blame on her for that. At the time, I was content to let myself go thanks to my already noted lack of motivation and also my yet undiagnosed Depression telling me that I didn't need to be in any form of shape anyway. Say what you want about self-loathing, but it can be just as much a driver of apathy as self-worth can drive someone to pursue a goal in the first place.
That said, it didn't help my cause that I was with someone who'd struggled with genetic-based obesity and didn't have much interest in doing something to limit its effects. The insecurities that accompanied that situation also fueled an idea in her that if I somehow got in shape (and thereby somehow became attractive to other women) that I'd ditch her at the drop of a hat. And it wasn't until I was on my own again that I could take stock of my situation and see the toll my not seeing the toxicity of the situation had taken on my body.
I'd love to tell you it was an easier route that led me to where I am now, but I don't gain anything by lying either.
Now, the most common assumptions or preconceived notions that most people tend to make about someone like me trying to get healthy again are usually the following three:
1.) I'm still stuck in some desperate midlife crisis
2.) I need to prove some macho-Alpha Male BS to the world
3.) I'm trying to pick up women
Well, I hate to break it to you, but no...wrong on all counts. How do I know? Because my motivations are waaaay more self-centered and basic than that.
1.) I do it because it gives me an outlet to channel and process everything my Depression, PTSD and anxiety throws at me every day.
2.) It helps slow the effects of the CMT I was born with a little while longer.
3.) My clothes fit better and I can see parts of me I haven't seen in a long time.
And probably the simplest reason...I just feel better.
Not just physically or emotionally, but I somehow feel a little more human, which is hard to really explain other than when you're so used to operating each day as robotically as possible, feeling you still have a heart pounding in your chest is strangely reassuring at times.
As much as I've known I needed to undergo some type of therapy for a long time now, the one thing I didn't anticipate when I started was both how much I needed to have another outlet like this, and how easy it would be to incorporate it into my life once I let myself get into it. Having been on vacation for part of last week, my first stop after getting home the night before was the gym, because I had to get back to work and I had a lot of stuff built up from that time away I needed to filter out of my system.
Having used a million coping mechanisms over the years to deal with all the crap in my head, my one big regret is that I didn't commit to this sooner, but I can't do anything about that now. All I can do now is use it to get what I need out of it every day...
...and if that means I don't look quite so bad in a mirror, I guess that's gravy.
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