Tag: Reflections

I need to stop making excuses.

Life is too short.

I need to stop over-thinking things.

Life passes too quickly.

A recent and very sudden death has plunged my life into contrast. The sister of my ex-wife passed away unexpectedly, she was 49. She was a loving, fun, smart woman. She brought up four kids on her own, went back to college once they’d grown up and earned a BSc in Nutritional Science, ohhh and she needed at least one coffee in the morning before you could speak to her. She would’ve done anything for you as she valued people over possessions. She was quick to laugh at herself, had little common sense, and for the years I knew her she was the big sister I didn’t have.

Quietly and with humility, she wasn’t one to sing her own praises or make a fuss, she just got on with things. She helped Louise and I when we moved into our first house – painting most of the living room on her own without a break – if you asked for help she always said yes, she put others first, and I don’t think I can recall her ever being angry. These are not words blinkered by grief, she was a good ‘un through and through.

Her funeral was a mark of the impact she’s had on the local community; the seats in the crematorium filled quickly, it was standing room only after that, and many people had to stand outside and listen to the service through the loudspeakers that were set up as the building was beyond capacity.

It’s still hard to believe she’s gone.

Today the life I have in front of me is, suddenly, different. Not in any specific way, there is no specific sign, no specific thing to point at, but the shift has happened, it’s there, I can sense it. The gentle voice in the back of my head repeating that simple mantra, one I’ve said many times in the past but I don’t think I’ve either fully bought into, nor fully realised what it represented. Life is too short.

At the service, Chris, the eldest of the four children spoke to us all. His words captured his mother well, her love of love, how the choices she made enriched her life far more than any amount of money would’ve done.

His message is one I am repeating here, a message I heard through the tears as they streamed down my face.

“Living a life that matters doesn’t happen by accident, it’s not a matter of circumstance but of choice, choose to live a life that matters.”

The coming year will bring changes to my life, as it always does. Some I already know about and I’m excited for, some I do not but I will deal with them when they arrive. Throughout I hope I can remain mindful to make better choices.

Life is too short.

#InternationalMensDay has been the rightful target of ridicule. A firmly established, if wobbling, patriarchy makes the notion of a day specifically for men an utter irrelevance. Isn’t every day is International Mens Day?

But whilst Yes, All Men is the cry, some people have taken this hashtag to point out that the very idea of masculinity still needs to be challenged, to make the very valid statement that many men still feel trapped by the notions of what it is to be ‘a man’ that are pushed at us day after day after day.

Man up
Sit down
Chin up
Pipe down
Socks up
Don’t cry
Drink up
Just lie
Grow some balls, he said
Grow some balls.
~ Samaritans by Idles

I have only ever been in one fight.

I say fight, it was more a push-fest until I got punched in the stomach and got winded. It was primary seven, I was being bullied and it all came to a head.

Picture the scene, a patch of grass just outside the school gates so we didn’t get into trouble for fighting in school, a few kids at the periphery shouting and cajoling two young boys. A few pushes, one punch, and I couldn’t breathe properly and doubled up, crying for mercy. It wasn’t a fight fuelled by anger, all I can recall was feeling a bit scared and annoyed at being made to do something I didn’t want to do – peer pressure sucks – and then embarrassed as everyone walked away laughing and mocking me, whilst I was left kneeling on the grass, sucking for air.

Later in my teenage years puberty brought with it a simmering anger that would, occasionally, peak and explode but I didn’t resort to violence against others. Instead punching bus stops became a wonderfully emo trait, but even that was mostly to show off and prove that I was a man because violence was something MEN did and I was a MAN. Right? It was also a good way to get attention focused on me. I was massively selfish as I grew up and it was years later before I figured out why and dealt with it (short version: I have a long standing need to feel loved and appreciated, and back then if it wasn’t obvious and evident, I didn’t recognise the love that people had for me so I acted out to get the attention that I craved).

And then there was the day I pushed my best mate off a stool.

I didn’t know it at the time, and boy oh boy would this double the guilt I felt later on, but he was struggling with coming out at the time. He’d been acting oddly, long walks home from the pub, that kind of thing, and that night I’d just had enough of what I perceived as attention seeking (seriously, I was a self-centred ass when I was younger). I’m not sure exactly what sparked my anger, if he said something, or someone else made a comment but the switch was flipped and next thing I know I’m shoving him to the floor.

I still feel the horror and guilt flooding back as I think back on that night. Today I’m very lucky to be able to say he is my best friend, that I love him dearly and I was so so proud to be his best man when he got married. Yet the legacy of my young male angst and anger is hard to brush away. What I still don’t fully understand is where it came from in the first place.

My own father is about the kindest hearted man I’ve ever known, I don’t recall him ever raising his hand to me as a child, let alone his voice. My sister was spanked once, one single smack, and it remains so notable that it’s become a family story. That one time that Dad spanked one of us!

I know I was so very lucky to have such tolerant parents, and as a role model my father is and continues to be the kind of man I aspire to become. That’s not to say I don’t get my quick emotional outbursts from the wind (shall I tell the story about getting a full glass of water thrown in my face? maybe another time…). Regardless, I know my childhood was blessed more with love than admonishment, and that on whole our family home was a peaceful one with lots of laughter and love.

Yet against the backdrop of my upbringing is the portrayal of how “men” should be that was/is played out in TV shows, movies, adverts, and newspapers. In those worlds men are tough, those men act, those men take control and dominate whatever activity is happening. There is a clear divide in the world between the things a man should do (if he chooses), and those a woman must do (because society has deemed it thus). Patriarchy to the max, especially in the 70s and 80s when I was growing up.

As a young man, unsure of himself, unsure of his place in the world, you do your best to try and fit in. You adhere to the rules that seem obvious as they are the ones propagated around you, you act a certain way, you adapt to your surroundings and pretty soon you aren’t sure who you are, or where you fit, or if there is even a place for you at all, it’s confusing and much easier to lash out at others than look inward. And so it was that bus stops became the enemy.

I read something about cliches the other day, about how the older you get the more you realise that they are cliches for a reason, that they hold more truth than your younger, world-challenging, sceptical self was willing to admit. It is all tied up in time and the realisation that YOU aren’t all that important in the grand scheme of things, so the only and best thing you can do is look after yourself. After that, be nice to others if you can, and after that it’s all gravy.

The times they are a-changin’, sang Bob. And those words feel like they are, finally, starting to hold true (I bet every generation says this). The definition of being a man has been increasingly challenged over the past couple of decades, from the metrosexuals to the millenials, there is room to be a man that isn’t a boorish thug.

So what is it to be a man?

Man up, Sit down, Chin up, Pipe down, Socks up, Don’t cry, Drink up, Just lie, Grow some balls? I don’t think so. The notion of just getting on and coping with things, not communicating, dealing with everything all on your own, never telling anyone how you really feel, and never EVER crying, is so far removed from the man I am that I struggle with those who show these traits. The alpha males, the bragging, chest thrusting egos, they are not me.

I am a man. I have a beard and tattoos. I am fragile. I am full of bravado. I am a phony. I have a soft heart. I am 186cm tall (6’1″ for those at the back). I am a complete asshole at times. I love my sister. I still catch myself mansplaining (thank you to friends for pointing it out when I miss it, I really am trying!). I love my niece more and more everyday. I am a feminist. I am strong. I love my best friends and have told them so. I cry, happily, at old movies and at all the injustice in the world. I love openly. I talk about my thoughts and feelings.

I am more than my father’s son. Which is as it should be, as I am the product of both my upbringing. Call me a snowflake and I’ll show you an avalanche*.

There are so many choices we make as we grow. From the bullied child to the (overly) angst-ridden teenager, through my younger formative adult years, to the man I am today, I’ve made a lot of choices. Not all of them good, some of them have caused pain to others and I’ll never fully forgive myself for that. But I am proud of the man I have become, and the man I’ve yet to realise. I am happy and content with my masculinity.

My sister is getting married next year. I will cry the happiest of tears.

I am a man.

As those of you who have met me in ACTUAL REAL LIFE (cos hey, us Bloggers also exist in the real world) can no doubt attest, I am not the most fashion conscious person. I’m aware of high street trends but my exposure to that is largely what I see out and about, I don’t read about fashion, I don’t get exposed to many adverts about fashion, I am not fashionable. I’m comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt, sometimes a shirt, and whilst I don’t mind dressing for the occasion I tend to view clothes as a necessity rather than a delight.

And no, that doesn’t mean I would rather be naked all the time, no-one needs to see that…

Before I moved to my new flat I went through a de-cluttering process of all my belongings. Part of that included going through all of my clothes to pare down my wardrobe and I ended up donating a few large bin bags worth to charity. It was a very satisfying activity and at the end I felt very pleased as not only did I have less ‘stuff’ (which was the main aim) I was also giving to charity and that’s always a good thing. Right?

Yet there was an undercurrent of unease as those bin bags filled with so many barely, or completely, unworn items. It was far too easy to part with far too many items as clearly they held little to no value to me. If ever there was a literal pile of reasons that I’d succumbed to the lure of blind consumerism there it was, right there at my feet.

Speaking of feet, I also had a few pairs of shoes in the pile but that was largely a fashion choice. I tend to pay more attention to footwear when I’m buying something new than any other article of clothing. Does that maybe hark back to getting my feet measured as a child, in one of this big mechanical things that I was always semi-convinced were gonna crush my toes? Perhaps, but I’m willing to spend money on good footwear so it’s not something I lack.

So where did it all go wrong, how did I end up with bin bags full of clothes that I didn’t need/want? Well it’s not hard to figure it out. For starters when I do buy clothes these days it’s usually online, which means I’m guessing at sizes, and I’ve never been that good at returning things so they just keep adding to the pile. And then even if I do manage to sum up the energy to go clothes shopping in actual shops I rarely stop to try things on, and I’ll shamefully admit there were a few items that went into those charity bags that still had tags on.

Like many people I justified this stockpiling of un-worn and un-loved clothing to myself by reasoning that I was just holding on to them for ‘when I lose weight’ or ‘just in case’ but let’s be honest, that pile of clothes in the wardrobe that you rarely look at are very much out of sight and out of mind, right? And hey it’s fun to buy new things – there is a reason it’s called retail therapy – so what’s the harm? The end result was a wardrobe chock full of clothes of which I was regularly wearing about a quarter of all the items crammed in there.

During the clear out I took the time to try on every single item and it helped me fully understand why I wasn’t wearing each item. It came down to some pretty simple reasoning; they either didn’t fit comfortably, they were never quite right (wrong shade of blue), or I just didn’t feel good when I wore them (I don’t suit many greens). On the days when its hard to ‘people’ who wants to go out already thinking you don’t look good and spend the rest of your day uncomfortably tugging and re-positioning your clothes, wishing you’d just worn that favourite t-shirt and to hell what anyone else thinks? No-one, that’s who, so you turn to the old favourites time and again.

There is also, in the back of my mind somewhere, the example of President Obama who only had two colours of suit to choose from in the morning. The fewer decisions we have to make, over the smallest things if needs be, the more energy we have for all the other ones we have to make each day. I am not the President of anything so this might be stretching things but it’s why those well-worn jeans are reached for when I just can’t be bothered trying anything else. It’s a very easy decision to make.

After that big clear-out I was left with clothes that fitted me and that I felt comfortable wearing (these are not mutually exclusive statements, trust me) and it turned out to be an easier process than I thought, although that is probably more a reflection on how I view clothes in general as I ended up getting rid of a lot of shirts based on style alone. For the items that made the cut I went through a second round of trying everything on and making sure that I felt comfortable wearing them. No matter how much I may have liked the pattern or design of something, if it didn’t feel right when I put it on, out it went.

Throughout this I had a strange mixture of pride and achievement, with a growing under-current of shame as I did slowly tried on and rejected item after item. Watching the pile of clothes grow and grow it felt good to be taking action, to be actively assessing my clothes for a change, but as that pile got larger I started to realise just how much money I had wasted and how little thought I’d given those purchases; the manufacturing of those clothes, the ethical decisions around the company who made them, all of these things I’d completely ignored as I barrelled headlong into the modern consumerist trap of ‘more is good’.

More is not good. This is something I’d figured out a few years ago when I started to reduce the clutter in my life, going through household items like a man possessed. Once you’ve started on that path it’s easy to look at all the things you own and question why you have it at all and once the mindset is in place you do look at all the things you own, and all the things you are about to purchase, in a different light. It also helps you realise how much more important every other aspect of life is, how much you need to be out in the fresh air, how good it feels to spend time with friends, and just how much you love your dearest closest friends and family.

It was around that time, whilst my life was changing around me, that I stepped back and looked at what the future might hold for me. What did I want for my life? What trappings and artefacts would that require? I soon came to the realisation that the bulk of the things I owned were superfluous to how I wanted my life to be and that made me start to question everything, not quite with the Kondo ‘everything should delight’ mindset but certainly something along those lines.

I realised that I’d been starting to change my approach to making purchases, initially to stop myself spending money just for the sake of it but that built in ‘pause’ in the decision made it easy to then look at the items I was purchasing with another lens on. Why own something ugly and unwanted? Why buy something that is cheaply made as you’ll get better value from paying a little more upfront? (mostly, this does not always hold true). I’ve slowly been replacing furniture and household items with replacements that are not only better quality but which I enjoy owning, enjoy looking at, enjoy using no matter how banal the item is (seriously, my can opener is always a delight to use) . So even the simplest of chores brings a little delight, which in turn improves my mood for larger chores, which in turn makes it more enjoyable to keep on top of those little things and keeps my home clean and tidy, which in turn helps my brain stay calm and relaxed. It sounds a bit bonkers I know, but it really does work.

Despite applying these considerations for household items, I hadn’t extended that thinking elsewhere, especially not with clothes because, in case it’s not yet clear, I’m just not that bothered. They are just clothes, I don’t care if what I own is up with the latest fashion trends – skinny jeans are NOT for me and I like wearing socks god-dammit – and after that it’s more about frivolity and function, or at least I think it should be.

But I should be bothered. I know I should.

And then I read this post by Lori on Fashion & Sustainability which outlines much of what I’m now struggling to articulate:

You may think that clothes becoming more available and affordable can only be a good thing, but encouraging us to buy more means that we no longer think about our purchases properly, and we get sucked into a cycle of spending more than we (and the planet) can afford.

These days I care more about the quality of what I’m buying for financial reasons, but I’m now starting to look at how sustainable the manufacturing processes are, what material is being used, how is the item packaged, what are the ethics of the company that made it? Those thoughts also mean I stop and pause and consider what I’m about to buy, which means fewer impulse buys, which in turn means I’m looking through all my clothes more often and wearing that long forgotten shirt at the back of the wardrobe. And this thinking is starting to spread to other purchases, where reducing my plastic footprint and improving my recycling efforts, mean I’m more mindful about the sustainability of all my purchases.

We all have a choice, and whilst finances will obviously be a factor, the more we all think about what we are purchasing, ultimately the better it will be for ourselves and this amazing planet we inhabit. And as we head for the traditional season of massive overspending I think it’s worth while taking stock and seeing what else we can all do. Every little helps, after all.

I stepped out of the shower the other morning, dried myself off, wrapped the towel round my waist and turned to face the sink. I reached up to retrieve my electric toothbrush from it’s charging point and caught my reflection in the mirror.

I don’t really look at myself all that often, I’m not exactly my greatest fan in that respect; I’m all too aware and disapproving of my shape so I don’t tend to dwell on my appearance as all I ever really see is a fat man staring back at me. I know I’m not as fat as I think I am, but there’s one part of my body that I struggle with, all the more now that I’m seeing the difference that a year at the gym has brought to the rest of my body.

So let’s focus on that for a minute, the good stuff, if you’ll excuse the vanity (and believe me, this is more of an effort for me to write than it is for you to skim-read).

For one thing, my arms have definition; my forearms actually have visible muscles, and my neck and shoulders have some new lumps and bumps. I can see the difference in my back and my legs, that walking challenge earlier in the year has definitely helped with the latter (1 million steps in two months, boom!).

Mind you, I’ve always been happy with my legs and still have fond memories of being complimented on them when I was at school (I can’t remember who said it but I’m sure it really did happen). It’s perhaps telling that the last compliment on my physique that I have stored is from when I wasn’t even aware of the term body dysmorphia. No doubt there have been other compliments, but they’ve never ‘landed’ with me which is an issue and part of my problem.

A few years ago I was at a charity burlesque/cabaret show. I knew many of the people there, both performing and attending, and felt comfortable in that company. As it was for charity there was a raffle and I won a prize. A pair of sequinned nipple tassles no less! As I walked up to graciously accept them, someone shouted that I should put them on, specifically that I should take my shirt off and put them on. The terror that gripped me was immediate. The thought of taking my shirt off was too much, I tried my best to laugh it off but it ended up ruining the rest of the evening for me and I left early.

I always knew my weight was an issue, a burden on my mental health, but that was probably the most visceral example of how much it preyed on my mind. And looking back from that point I realised that it’s ALWAYS been ‘a thing’, even as a kid I knew I was fat, or at the very least chubby. Other boys in gym class had flat chests and stomachs, some had definition in the arms and chest. I had neither, I was always a little heavy around the middle. Yet looking back at photos suggest I was pretty average size wise but my (self sabotaging) memory suggests I was, and always have been, fat.

With a father who was a PE teacher I had plenty of resources available to try and understand why my body looked a little different to so many of my friends. In one school of thought my body is a classic Endomorph; “Big, high body fat, often pear-shaped, with a high tendency to store body fat.”

And where does my body store all that fat? Around my belly. No getting away from it, no matter how I try and hide it, I have a classic ‘beer belly’. I am fat. I am fat and no matter what I try and do, how I try and shy away from it, how I try to cover it up, it’s immediately what I think of when anyone asks me to describe my body… right before I change the subject completely.

My self-image has been present so long that I barely even register it as something I can change. It’s who I am, after all, right? I’m fat, always have been, always will be? Yet I go to the gym, I try and eat better, I know that more calories out than in will help me lose weight, I know the benefits of building muscle, the benefits of cardio, the best way to perform exercise x, the proper technique for exercise y (regardless of whether I can actually do it or not), but always, ALWAYS, in the back of my brain I’m just that fat kid that got picked on (ohhh did I not mention that bit?).

Having this as a constant state of thought permeates everything, every single day. From the clothes I wear (shirts that bulge open mean I’m more frequently found in shirts that are a size too big or t-shirts), to what I eat (look at that fat guy eating THAT, no wonder he’s so fat!), to how I hold myself when I walk (if I stand tall maybe people will notice my height first?).

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not debilitating, it’s not stopping me living my life but it is always, ALWAYS there.

And believe me, intellectually, I’m aware my entire body image is skewed. Take, as an example, this question Lynsay poses at the end of her post “what is your favourite body part?”. My first answer, the one that popped straight into my head was ‘my legs’. Which is a great answer, until you ask me why.

“Because they aren’t fat”

Ugh.

Walking home through the parks of Glasgow this past summer, I saw plenty of men employing the now popular vernacular ‘taps aff’ approach to the sunshine. I envy them their freedom and ease, their glib disregard of what others think as they are safe in the knowledge (presumably) that they conform, that they are the “right shape”; there is no shame in their smooth hairless stomachs.

That’s another thing, hair. I don’t really care that I’m balding, nor that I have a hairy chest, but a hairy back seems to be a bad thing and whilst it doesn’t bother me day to day, I wonder how much of my dislike of that aspect of myself is borne from hearing and seeing reactions to it on TV or social media.

But hey, I could shave my back, right?

Equally I could just lose some weight, right? It’s not like I don’t know HOW but in the litany of failures that make up my life, it’s the one that has remained for the longest time. I don’t mind that I’ve failed at many things in the past as I’ve learned a lot about myself by doing so, but being fat is a permanent state, a futile exercise (pun intended).

And so it starts to self-perpetuate. I get upset and annoyed that I’m fat and turn to food for solace. What harm is a bar or two of chocolate, or a share bag of Doritos… and is it really bad if I have pizza for a dinner twice a week?

And there you have it, my body confidence is low all the time, not because I’m bald, not because my beard is more grey than any other colour these days, not because I’m getting an inordinate amount of hair growing out of my ears (why!), not because I’m unfit and can’t touch my toes, but because I am and always have been fat.

It doesn’t seem to matter that I go to the gym three times a week and push myself hard, it doesn’t seem to matter that I can see the progress I’ve made there, that I can lift more, do more, push myself further than before.

All I have to do is look down at my stomach. I am fat.

Body positivity is a wonderful WONDERFUL thing, and some days I will say that I don’t care I’m fat and almost mean it, but not quite, not completely. No matter how many calories I burn at the gym, no matter how many compliments are given, none of that will really matter until I’m happy with me. I’d love not to care, but I do.

My body is weird but I’m not quite able to admit that it’s cool.

Not yet.

But that’s changing.

Ultimately I want to learn to be comfortable with my body, I want to get to a place where I can look at myself in the mirror and be happy with what I see and for me, that means losing some weight. I’m never gonna be the type of guy who is ‘ripped’ with a well chiselled 6-pack, but I’m pretty sure I can at least be a guy who isn’t ‘fat’ (for my own interpretation of ‘fat’ obvs).

On the flipside, why is being ripped and toned with hardly any body fat the image I have of a ‘healthy’ me? I know it’s not realistic for me, but that is the image being pushed and peddled by Mens Health and the myriad of health based adverts thrust into my social media feeds – ever seen an exercise app advertised by someone who clearly already spends most of their life working out? Show me a fat man doing the exercises suggested please. ‘Now bend and touch your toes’… I can’t my belly gets in the way, gahhhh!!!

When I first started going to the gym it was to lose weight and to ‘get fit’ (whatever that means), I set out a long-term goal to hit my target weight and a short-term goal to be able to do 10 push ups as I couldn’t even do 1. Pretty good goals, right? Specific, measurable, achievable, realistic and loosely time based.

Well perhaps not as, over a year later, that long-term goal is still there I’m still not getting close to it. I’ve gotten close before, just by reducing my calories and I’ll be the first to admit I could be better with my diet but my weight remains roughly where it is despite all that effort at the gym, and generally being way more active this year over last. Mind you, I can now do 10 push ups, so that’s good!

Let’s look at the facts. I currently weigh about 107kgs (16st 8lb). That target was 95kg (just under 15st). The lightest I’ve ever been is 96.6kg for reference. Looking at the trend of my weight over the past two years is pretty much a flat line. So clearly focussing on my weight isn’t working, so maybe it’s time for a new long-term goal.

Ultimately I want to look in a mirror and be happy with what I see. And truth be told, aside from that fat beer belly, I can see that my body is changing. I can see the muscles developing on my arms, shoulders and neck, I can see my face is less chubby, my man boobs are now starting to look more like pectoral muscles than A-cups.

Additionally I know my overall fitness is improving. Sure I still get out of breath climbing the stairs but I recover a LOT faster. 10 push ups? Easy! I can deadlift and squat more than my bodyweight, and my bench press is getting close to that ‘bodyweight’ goal as well.

On top of that I feel healthier, I don’t really get ill too much, I’m more flexible and I’m generally starting to feel a lot more positive about this weird body of mine, starting to accept it a little more, starting to appreciate it.

AND – hold the front page – I’m getting the odd compliment here and there so I guess I must be doing something right.

Yet that fat belly remains but it is going. Slowly, for sure, but it’s going.

I’d love to be able to accept my body as it is today, and I think that time is getting closer but it’s not quite here yet. Somewhere there is a graph that charts my changing physique to my acceptance of my body as part of who I am but I can’t quite see where those points cross so, until they do, I’ll just continue to keep on working on it.

Perhaps it is those little changes and the work I’m putting that is actually what is important, perhaps the fact I’m still going to the gym, and still working on ‘me’ is actually more important than the end result itself. I’d like to be the case but it isn’t yet, not quite. But that’s ultimately the goal, to get to a point where I accept my weird body, to get to a point where the end result isn’t what matters, where I’m looking after myself well, eating well, exercising enough and enjoying life to the fullest.

The good part is that it finally feels like that time is getting closer. I don’t think it’s anywhere near. Realistically that target weight is still in my head so until I get to that I won’t be able to know if it’s enough, or not. Yet the signs are there that things are changing.

I’ve not been at the gym this past couple of weeks as I injured my back, nothing too serious but it needs rest. I’m annoyed and frustrated that I can’t work out. That is not the Gordon of a few years ago. Equally in the past I’d have reverted to my comfort eating habits but that doesn’t seem to be happening this time. I’m far more conscious of eating healthily whilst I recuperate, which is not something that would have happened in the past.

Baby steps perhaps but it makes me believe that one day I won’t see myself as just that fat guy in the mirror. One day I’ll see myself without quite so many flaws.

There is one final thing, one final realisation I’ve had recently, that suggests that my own internal thinking may be changing, that I might be starting to feel more confident about my body, that I might be making my peace with it. It’s something I know has helped me with other things in the past, helped me process them. I do a lot of it, but not all of it is shared here; the simple act of writing down your thoughts and confronting them is one thing, sharing those thoughts with others is quite another. So the fact I feel comfortable doing the latter means, hopefully, things are changing.

Thank you for reading.