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.

Dynamic Duo of Dysfunction

Once again, my demons have shown up in my living room. And they've shown up screaming.

As I write this, depression is opening its mouth once more, daring me to stick my head into it. Depression also has a sidekick who's very powerful. That sidekick is Perfectionism. Sticking my head into that mouth means giving myself a break, because tonight, I made a big mistake. Maybe I'm more afraid of that mouth than depression right now.

They're a rough Dynamic Duo of Dysfuntion, that pair. Because when I make a mistake, what can lead me into depression are the horrible things I say about myself, to myself. That kind of thinking is the root of many an evil. Even after all the work I've done, all the progress I've made, it's clear I have more to do. I mean, I know that. I'll always know that. I'll always have more to do. This isn't the type of thing I'm ever going to be "done" with. Anymore than I'll ever be "done" with working out, or meditating, or enlightenment. 

The universe has given me an opportunity for my rubber to meet the road. Another test. So far, I've met every challenge, I've met every fear, head on. I have not felt fragile, until right now. Suddenly, the voices are loud, and mean, and calling for my hide. The angry mob in my head are wielding clubs, and torches, and stones. And the fucked up thing is, they think they're helping me. "This pummeling is for your own good", they chant. "This will toughen you up". Yeah. That's worked so well for me before. 

Unlovable. Unacceptable. No good. A defective model. The neural pathways of Toxic Shame vie for the fuel they need to burn themselves deeper into me. To re-establish their status. All this, triggered by a very human error. Where's my self-love when I need it most? Like, right now. 

Okay demons, let's have some tea together, once more. Open your mouths wide. Because I'm coming in. Head fuckin' first. I'm not going to bed tonight until I do. So no uncaffinated jasmine sleepy time shit for you. Load up the high octane stuff. Because you're going to need it. And bring your A Game. 'Cuz I'm bringin' mine. 

What are you trying to teach me, demons? You didn't expect that question, did you? That's because I'm done fighting with you. Someone very wise once said to me, "When you throw punches, you get punches thrown back". And I'm tired of beating myself up. All that did was bring untold tons of pain and suffering. Are you reminding me, yet again, that harsh judgment of myself, of others, impedes my healing and my growth; that such judgment is a wall to connection? A wall to love?

Are you challenging me to love myself through a mistake? In the past, I've pretty much sucked at that. Are you testing my metal? Tell me. Because I'm listening. Which is something else you haven't got used to. I've been doing that for months now, and you're still surprised by it. Get used to it. There's a lot I need to learn, yes. But this is my fuckin' house. You can trash it, burn it, violate it in every way you can imagine. And I'm still gonna ask you to sit down and have tea with me. Maybe someday you'll get used to that. It would make life easier for all of us in here.

Maybe you're letting me know you haven't gone away. That you'll never go away. Because you're a part of me. And, as great as I've felt over the past few months, I can't ever forget that. And maybe I did, just a little. Maybe I'm guilty of some hubris. And maybe you're showing me how dangerous hubris can be.

I'm leaving here in a few days. I'm leaving a place I love. I'm leaving people I love. I'm leaving work I love. There's an awful lot of sadness inside because of that. Maybe you're reminding me to show it. Maybe you're reminding me not to stuff that sadness, that pain, that loss, that grief, like I did back in November. Maybe you're teaching me that that's not me anymore. And you're giving me the chance to prove it. To the only person I need to prove it to. Me. 

The same woman who warned of throwing punches also encouraged me to "Turn poison into medicine". And I'm doing that, right now. I see the value in my mistake. I get the lessons you've come to teach me. Thank you. We'll do this again some time, I'm sure. 

Now get the fuck out. I'm going to bed.

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

Two Seventeen Seventeen

        Alone on the night of my birthday this past February, I cried so hard that my throat and lungs ached. My eyes were having the dry heaves as they drained my tear ducts faster than they could produce lubrication. Yes, this was the worst birthday of my life. I was in a self imposed prison. Solitary confinement of the heart, body, mind, and soul. It wasn't that I didn't have options; I chose to be by myself. Because I didn't feel worthy of human company.

       The day had started off more promising. In the morning, my former angel of love texted me. Just ninety days prior, we had planned to spend our lives together. She sweetly wrote me a quick happy birthday wish. I loved hearing from her - I always did - and, it brought up a storm of emotions. I wasn't doing so hot with dealing with emotions at that point. Anything that threatened me to feel was like heavy artillery on my heart. She was the atomic bomb. 

       Later that night, alone in the darkness of my condo, a fine place, but a place I no longer wanted to live in, everything I had been running from for the past few months crashed on me like a tsunami. I recalled celebrating birthdays in much grander fashion than my present state; alone, in my underwear, sweating from withdrawal, unkempt because I didn't care enough about my hygiene to shower or get dressed, crying myself dry. I recalled the many birthday parties my twin brother and I threw, with a live band, surrounded by people we loved, truly celebrating our lives together. My current experience could not be a more stark contrast. 

       I knew I had to make some changes. I had known that for a while. But I was dragging my ass on that. How the fuck did I get here? A few months ago, my life looked so different, I hardly recognized it as mine. 

       The lowest moment of my lowest birthday, the Marianna's Trench of My Soul, came when, in a fit of despair, I sprang up from the couch, screaming a sob from deep within, and practically ran to my closet. Moving quickly and hastily, as if I were trying to do something before I changed my mind, I opened my toolbox and grabbed a straight razor. I paused for a moment and looked at my left wrist, noting where my blue vein that lead into my hand was. Then I made a little cut, just to the right of that vein.

       I really don't know what the fuck I was thinking. It wasn't an attempt at suicide. I consciously didn't cut that hard or that deep. It didn't even qualify as a half-assed cry for help, because no one saw it, or even knows about it, until, well, right now as I write about it and share it. Maybe I just wanted to see how it felt. Maybe I just wanted to hurt myself even more; why not? At that moment in my life, hurting myself was the only thing I knew I was any good at, and I had been perfecting that skill for months. I watched the cut bleed for about a minute, then used some liquid bandaid and a piece of surgical tape to patch myself up. Then I went back to enjoying my misery.

       I can now look at that as a true turning point in my life. I didn't realize it in the moment, or even six days later, when I checked myself into detox at Saint Elizabeth's Hospital. 

       By the way, Saint Elizabeth's Hospital was where I was born, on February 17, 1963. 

       Well, Saint Elizabeth's Hospital was also where I was reborn. Detoxing there was the best decision I had made in months. And it was the beginning of a series of "divine convergences" (some people call them "amazing coincidence's") that continue to occur for me, even now, two months later.

       The cut on my wrist has left a scar. Hopefully, a scar that never goes away. Because I never want to forget that moment, that night, as long as I live. It is a physical imprint on my body and on my heart of where I have come from, and of where I will never, ever, go again. Moving forward, whenever I get down on myself, whenever there is a vast disparity between where I am at and where I want to be, I will look at that scar and remember how far I've come. And how grateful I am for the gift of desperation. 

       Please come with me again as I continue the story of my virtual rebirth in the following weeks here on my blog.

 ©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Puplishing. All Rights Reserved.

Gone In Sixty Seconds

       There’s this fear I have. It’s one of those ridiculously unreal fears, the kind that are completely irrational; like the adult equivalent of the Boogie Man. Unlike, say a fear of flying, where the possibility of death may be very remote but statistically possible, my phobia is not based on anything except some deep seeded dysfunctional neural programming.
       I work hard at keeping myself fit. Lots of sacrifice and discipline involved. Hours of exercise. Constant vigilance regarding diet and nutrition. In other words, it doesn’t happen overnight. Yet my fear is that, if I miss just a few days, or if I’m not constantly on top of it, one morning, I am going to wake up, and, literally, it’s all gonna be gone. Overnight, my body will have morphed into something soft and unhealthy and unrecognizable.
       Now, I’m aware of the reality that, if I had an accident, in one moment, my body could be permanently transformed. I’m not talking about that kind of fear. I’m not talking about the fear of having something instantaneous and horrific happen to me so that I would be mutilated or paralyzed. I’m talking about the kind of completely impossible notion that I’m going to have a lapse of proper eating or of working out, and, all of sudden, I’m going to look like Fred Flintstone because of it.
       My rational brain knows this is not remotely possible. But this fear does not reside in my rational brain. It resides in that part of me that has been traumatized and not completely let go of the trauma. We all have areas in ourselves like that. Some of us, more so than others, and more intensely. But we’ve all got that shit floating around within.
       Because I’ve gone inside and gotten to know myself better, even the parts that are sort of fucked up, less than stellar, flawed, and completely insane, I know what this particular fear says about me, and I know where it comes from. I know that this kind of fear points to something bigger and deeper. They always do. That’s the nature of really bizarre fears like this. They’re signposts to parts of ourselves that are still holding onto trauma and pain and constantly reliving it. It’s where these certain parts of ourselves hang out. The question becomes how often do we hang out there with them. And what do we do about that when we do, because spending too much time there can really interfere with our lives.
       This particular fear of mine has to do with a kind of emotional volatility that I grew up with, and with abandonment; shit that I experienced as a kid, in enough doses and/or with enough intensity, that they left marks. They left scars. As I’ve said, we all have scars. Both inside and out. But do I let my scars define me? If, for example, I had a big scar on my body, would I let it define my physical appearance? Would I experience myself as a scar with a body around it, or would I experience myself as a body with a scar on it?
       It’s the same thing with internal scars. There are times when I over-identify with those scars. When I do, I’m coming from fear. I’m coming from inadequacy. I’m coming from pain. From a place where I’m not operating on all cylinders. How quickly do I catch myself when I’m there, and how do I get out of it? Sometimes I’m very good at that. Sometimes I'm not.
       Support networks are very important. If we have people in our lives who know these dark places in us, we can look to them to help dig us out of those trenches. One of the worst aspects of being in a place like that is the loneliness and isolation we feel. We feel like, not only are we the only fucked up person on the planet, but that we are the most fucked up person on the planet. At least that’s where I go when it’s really bad. And let me tell you, it's a shitty place to be.
       But I have people in my life I can turn to when I’m there. But I don’t always do that. I don’t always reach out. Sometimes I keep it all inside, mind fuck it to death, and make it worse. Why the fuck would I do something like that? Part of it is shame. I’ve attached a lot of shame to feeling like that, so the last thing I want to do is cop to it, even to somebody I love, somebody who I know isn’t going to judge me. I have to be on top of that. Keeping all that shit inside is an old habit, and a bad one.
       Writing about it, and posting it for anybody on the planet to see, really helps me though. It doesn’t feel so bad, or so heavy, when I share it. Posting is one way I share. Talking to people close to me is another way. I encourage you to find your ways. There’s a saying that goes “Your mind can be like a bad neighborhood. Don’t go there alone.”.
       Right On.


©2015 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.