Digging Up A Body Image Disorder (Body Addiction part 3)

In my last intimate relationship, my lover noticed that, for a while, I became a little distant. That “while” coincided with the time span of my obsessive compulsion to get my body where I wanted it. I didn’t see the connection between distance and getting in killer shape. She noticed it. She felt it. But I wasn’t aware of it. And I certainly couldn’t explain it. 

I can now.

When my focus becomes my body, it leaves less space for other people. Especially my significant other. I learned that in a Body Image Disorder group. I didn’t know I had a BID before I got into treatment (just add this to my list. If I wasn’t so healthy, I’d think I was totally fucked up). I thought that, when I hit the gym and the cardio hard, and really watched what I ate, I was just kicking the ass I needed to get into shape. I was indeed doing that, but when you have a BID, things get far more complicated. 

Body image disorders are relational. They stem from, here we go again, a lack of nurturing, mirroring, and attunement in childhood. If we don’t get enough of that, and lots of us don’t, it can, sometimes, manifest itself as a body image disorder. As kids, if we don’t get what we need, we can believe that there is something fundamentally flawed about us. I did. Deep down, I thought I was, literally, a Defective Model. 

I carried that Defective Model bullshit into adulthood. I didn’t consciously feel that way most of the time. I didn’t act that way most of the time. But it was always there, somewhere very deep. And, when we get older, if we believe that we are fundamentally flawed, we can make the unconscious choice to go to our bodies to “fix” it. This makes sense, because our feeling of defectiveness is abstract. The body is concrete. It’s something we can alter, and actually see the results. Our body is our physical connection to life, our membrane to the world. So those of us with BID's unconsciously believe that, “If I just looked better, I would be more lovable”; no matter how loveable we truly are.

I was also a fat kid (this just gets better and better, doesn’t it). It felt beyond awful to be ridiculed and shamed. So when I discovered, in my teens, that I could do something about not being fat; in fact, I could do something that actually made me look….damn good, I took to it like a crack whore to, well, crack. 

There is some good news here. Being a heavy kid and never wanting be heavy again creates a very strong drive to be fit. And, for virtually my entire adult life, I’ve been very fit. In fact, I look and feel better today than I did at twenty-five (I’m 54). So there’s the gift in the wound. There’s always a gift in the wound. But if you don’t heal the wound, and you can’t heal it by having a great body, the wound is still there. 

Combine the fat kid syndrome with a body image disorder, and I was an accident of exercise and militant eating waiting to happen. It wasn’t about the actions of exercising religiously and eating right as a way of life that was the problem. Plenty of people do that in a healthy way. The problem was how I attached to it. I attached far too much of how I felt about myself to how buff I was. So I developed a mild to moderate obsession about being really fit. 

Being buff, however, does feel great. And not just physically; but mentally, emotionally, even spiritually. By working my ass off, educating myself, and applying great discipline, I made an ideal a reality; like creating a great career, or crafting a beautiful song. I had achieved something very difficult, so there’s a powerful sense of satisfaction. It fundamentally boosted my self-esteem, self-confidence, and sense of self. And there are more endorphins constantly screaming through my body, even long after I exercise. I looked and felt better than most men half my age. I felt more connected to my body, and more connected to life. Looking and feeling the way I want powers up my prana, my “life force”. It fills my heart and soul with positive energy. It feels like electricity is surging through me all the time. That’s spiritual. I know, because I was aware of it. I felt it. It was visceral. It was real.

However, there was a dark side to that. A dark side that not everybody shares. That dark side is that it became too consuming. Again, if I’m that consumed by this, or by anything for that matter, there’s less room for you. It’s akin to being a workaholic. If so much of your energy and so much of yourself goes into your work; if you over-identify yourself with your career, the loved ones in your life pay for it.

In my last relationship, I was very loved. I felt very loved. More so than in any relationship I ever dreamed of. But deep down, I still had that wound. I knew I wanted to look better. But when I unconsciously believe that I can fix something on the inside by looking better on the outside, I’m in for trouble and a rude awakening. And I’ve known, for many years, that you can’t fill an internal hole with external dirt. But if you’re not aware of that hole because it’s unconscious, then it’s a blind spot. Everyone’s got blind spots. That was one of mine.

The Great News is that, Clint, "You've come a long way, baby!" (Remember that ad?). I’m currently once again getting in killer shape. But I’m not consumed by it. I’ve turned this unconscious pre-occupation into a conscious choice. I no longer attach any of my self worth to single-digit body fat percentage and a muscular physique. 

I’ve had the privilege of working extensively with Ari Winograd (www.bddclinic.com), who, literally, wrote the book on body image disorders, “Face To Face With Body Dysmorphic Disorder”. He has educated me, impacted me, and been a powerful ally in my healing. And before I worked with him, I made tremendous progress in residential treatment to develop myself from the inside out. I feel better than I ever have in my life.

Finally, on a very personal note, I want to say, I’m sorry Sweet Angel. The last thing I ever wanted to do was create even an inch of distance between us. The last thing I ever wanted to do was make even an inch of less space, for you.

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

The Frankenstein Mom (MotherLand part 3)

Some of the most fertile ground for growth and healing is an intimate love relationship. Because such relationships bring up all of our deepest, well, everything, if you both love each other like fire, are each committed to personal development, and are both devoted to fully support each other on this journey, a healthy love relationship is a remarkable place, a magnificent gift, for transformation. 

Part of the therapy I’m doing is what I call The Frankenstein Mom Process (that’s not an official term, just my name for it). What I do is, with the help of a therapist, create a mom. And I create this mom from other women who embody the qualities that I would have wanted in my own mother (hence, Frankenstein). For me, these women are my Aunty You-You, my sister Cheryl, my cousin Kym, and my Aunty Barbara. 

Initially, the wall I immediately ran into when asked by the therapist who I think of when I think of being mothered, my heart and mind go right to my recent ex-love (if I was currently with somebody, it would go to her). When asked who I think of when I think of mothering qualities like nurturing, loving, affectionate, tender, attentive, and warm; when asked who I want giving that to me, I think of my most recent ex-love. That’s because I’ve completely sexualized all those qualities. Yes, one more dysfunctional behavior. Stick around. There’s more.

Because I sexualize these qualities, the only woman I want giving me that mothering is the woman I’m in love with, or the most recent woman I was in love with. Now, if you asked any woman I’ve ever been in love with if I was “needy”, and wanted to be mothered, I doubt any of them would describe me that way. That’s because when I was with those women, I’m aware, on a conscious level, that I want them to mother me. But I also know how unattractive that can be. So I bite back on that need, at all costs. I shut it down. Because I don’t want the woman I’m with to see me as weak, needy, or basically, a big pussy. I’m not saying I’m not loving, tender, gentle, and vulnerable with my lover. Because I absolutely am. But needing to be mothered? No way. I don’t want her to ever see that in me.

This is all my stuff, never hers. Part of it is my own male macho ego bullshit. You can call me stupid, unattractive, even old. I don’t react too strongly, because I know I’m none of those. But call a guy a pussy? If he’s got unresolved mother issues like this, it’s a huge trigger. Probably his biggest. Because it goes right to the core wound. And, because of the social context. The worst thing a guy can be called, at least in my mind, in today’s culture, is a “pussy”. That means he can’t take care of himself. That means he can’t take care of his queen. With a woman, I would think calling her ugly or unattractive would hit the same nerve.

The problem is, whenever I bite back on a need, any need, I pull back, I pull away, even just a little. I’m not aware that I’m doing it. It’s just a natural and unavoidable consequence of holding something that deep back. But the need doesn’t go away. It just gets stuffed. And stuffing isn’t good. For me. For her. For the relationship. 

I’ve never been able to fully articulate this until now, which is another reason no woman ever knew that about me. And, because I attach a shitload of toxic shame to this need to be mothered. If I had ever been able to articulate this issue clearly, and drop the shame around it, I would have been able to share it. 

Well I’m doing that now. Most importantly, I’m learning to give it to myself. And, let me tell you, it’s like getting rid of a sack of bricks I’ve been carrying my whole fuckin’ adult life. It’s like sprouting wings.

Sharing this with my lover would be part of healing it (that and me doing whatever work I need). If she loves me enough, is doing her work, and is solid enough, she can handle it. My last love was all of that. But I wasn’t yet in a place where I could open that up. Live and learn.

When you’ve got no memory of your real mother giving this to you, and aren’t yet able to give enough of it to yourself, you end up, eventually, putting that on your lover. Or, just never sharing that. And in the long run, neither options work. Women who had poor fathers and haven’t completely cleared this up do it to their men, too. 

When both partners are aware of this dynamic, are working at it on their own (through whatever methods are effective for them), then the relationship becomes a beautiful place to share this and deal with it, together. And both of you will most likely be dealing with it, to some degree, for the rest of your lives. Because we never get completely rid of this. We heal it enough, and learn how to handle it better. 

That’s a good thing, in my book. Because it’s one more place for the two of you to get real, get vulnerable, share, connect, love each other up, and heal. 

And that, to me, is just fuckin’ beautiful. 

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Leviathan

My recovery from trauma and depression, and all the maladaptive behaviors that go with it, is akin to a deep dive into a black hole. I wasn’t sure what was at the bottom of that hole, but I was willing to jump. Because if I stayed where I was, at the precipice of that dark, cavernous maw, my life wasn’t going to get any better. In fact, it was going to get worse.

So I took a leap of faith. The ride down has been beautiful; also painful, and the most challenging thing I have ever done. I made great progress. I got better. I healed. I inspired people and impacted lives. I kept going, and the deeper I dove, the better I got. 

Recently, I had a breakdown. Like I hit a sharp lip on the way down the hole.

And fuck, does it hurt.

It’s battered me like nothing else has yet. It’s bloodied me something fierce. It’s opened up my deepest wounds; wounds so old, I can’t remember where I got most of them. Wounds that I knew about, but that only bled occasionally. Now I’m hemorrhaging. Now, I have no choice but to heal these wounds. 

I’ve spent most of my adult life either running from, or bandaging, these deep, massive cuts. I, foolishly perhaps, thought they had scarred over enough so that, maybe, they wouldn’t open up so bad again that they would bleed all over my life.

I was wrong. 

Now, I’m up against it. Up against that which I knew, eventually, I would have to face. I’ve opened a wound that I knew I would have to heal.

The core wound is Abandonment. Specifically, early childhood abandonment. And all the other wounds it creates.

In technical terms, it comes under the umbrella of “Developmental Relational Trauma”. It happens early in life and continues to get reenacted. I mention that because, a lot, if not most of us, have this. Some of us have these cuts much deeper than others. Some of us, for a myriad of reasons, aren’t as effected by them. We all develop coping mechanisms; some, more effective than others. In adulthood, this trauma manifests itself most intensely in intimate love relationships, and the way we attach to others in those relationships.

This is my Core Trauma. I thought I had done enough work, picked up enough tools, and enough skill with those tools, to deal with this one more effectively.

Wrong again.

So I have to dive deeper still. Into the very darkest depths of this abyss. I have more diving to do. I’ve got more work, to do. 

I knew I wasn’t at the bottom yet. I just didn’t think I was this far from the bottom. Maybe I’m not. Maybe it just feels that way right now. Doesn’t really matter. Because I’m not stopping, no matter what. 

I could look at this like I’m even more fucked up than I thought. There are moments, I still do. But that sentiment won’t last. Because if there is one thing I have been, through all of this, is tenacious. I’ve faced every fear with a voracity I didn’t know I had. 

I will eventually see the opening of this gash as another amazing gift. I will get through this the way I have gotten through everything else I’ve faced over the past three months. I will come out of this with more healing, more growth, and a higher version of myself. This, just like everything else I’ve faced, will contribute to my being far more free.

But right now, it just fuckin’ hurts.

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved. 

Balanced Motorcycle CD Mind Love

Balance. How do we get it? How do we maintain it? Is there such a thing as “too much balance”, where our steadiness can be an indication that we aren’t taking enough risks? 

Actually, as I write this, I’m figuring it out. Maybe my frame of context is wrong. If I use balance metaphorically, say, as in riding a motorcycle, then it helps translate the term of “balance” into the nuts and bolts of life much more concretely than the abstract concept I’ve been writing about. This is one of the most beautiful things about writing; I actually come to new insights and connections about what I’m writing, precisely because I’m writing about them. Figuring it out on the fly. Kind of like riding a motorcycle. And speaking of motorcycles….

Balance on a motorcycle is critical. If you lose your balance riding on one of those bad boys, you can crash. And that can be mildly or tragically disastrous. If I look at my life like riding a motorcycle, it makes sense. Sometimes, I see balance as a rather staid, prosaic, even downright boring, concept. But that sort of thinking needs to be examined. Because it is potentially indicative of something I learned about in treatment called a “Cognitive Distortion”.

We all have Cognitive Distortions. It’s a function of humanity. Some of us have more than others. Those ‘some of us’ usually end up in treatment, recovery, or the halls of 12 Step Programs. No matter. Nobody is free from Cognitive Distortions, or “CD’s,” as I call them. And we can all get a better handle on them.

Cognitive Distortions are exactly what they sound like: thinking gone awry. Maybe I’ll do a whole piece on it, but for right now, as it relates to “Balance” (oh yeah, remember that?), let’s just say that I need to be aware of how my mind is working. Because when I do that, and only when I do that, can I direct it. Only then can I direct my mind and allow it to work for me, as opposed to against me. And that’s very important; I learned just how important over the past three and a half months. 

Those of us who are big, heavy, deep thinkers, we have a wonderful mind. A beautiful mind. When I sit down to talk to you, look into your eyes, and off we go, part of what I love about you, part of what you’re showing me, is that beautiful mind. And part of what I’m showing you is mine. I don’t ever want to lose that. I don’t ever want to discount that. Your mind, my mind, is indeed, beautiful. And, Our Minds, are, like, well, many things. Our Minds are like Fire: because fire can cook our food or cook ourselves. Our Minds are like weapons: in the right hands, they can serve us; in the wrong hands, they can destroy us. Our Minds can be like bad neighborhoods: Don’t go there alone. The Mind, like Money, is a wonderful servant and a poor master.

Jesus, there I go again. Off on another fuckin’ tangent. Part of my process. I’ve gone from “Balance”, to “Motorcycles” to “Cognitive Distortions” to analogies between “The Mind” and “Weapons Of Mass Destruction”. See, THIS is exactly how MY mind works. This is exactly why I have no idea what to call this post. This is exactly why I have a writing coach who keeps me focused.

Which, TA-DAH!, leads me back to “Balance”. And as it relates to one of my favorite topics, Love.

When I am with a woman who is Grounded, Centered, and Balanced, she’s really good for me. And I’m really good for her. Because I am a constant reminder that she needs to fly. I am, in fact, The Gold Standard Poster Boy of Flight. Which is precisely why I need a woman who has her pretty little feet (that I constantly touch, kiss, and pay attention to), on the ground. Ultimately, in our mutual respective unbalancedness, we balance each other.

It’s times like this when I fall in love with writing all over again. 

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

If The Devil Made Me A Deal

I wrote this last October, the very day after My Angel and I split up. We were both in so much pain. It didn't seem real.

Suddenly, there was a hole inside of me so big that I felt completely empty. Completely lost. The questions didn't seem answerable. So I turned to my heart, to my soul, and to my writing, to give me what I knew my head never could.

Sitting there, crying at my computer, I, somewhat ironically perhaps, felt the undeniable surge of Male Warrior Energy; an archetypal fire that burns in the DNA of every man. This is the Juice that we feel when we go into battle; a beautiful, primitive, powerful, primordial joo joo that gives us the courage when we stand between the woman we can't live without and any fucking thing in this or any other world that threatens to harm her. In that moment, I literally felt what it would be like to battle to the death, to give my life for, My Angela. Because in that moment, I would have. Absolutely. Without regret. Without but a second of hesitation.

Gotta say, I never felt that shit before.