I am famous for what I am about to say, which is I am about to share something that is not typical for a man to share. Or to be tough, none of what I am about to expose allows me to stand any taller or be any stronger when it comes to the scales of masculinity.
And no. I am not tough.
Not at all
This is not to say that one needs to be a man for them to be tough, nor is this to involve myself in the argument of gender or whether one gender is tougher than another. Before I digress any further, I want to be clear that this is not to claim a standard nor is this a claim that only a man can corner the market on toughness.
Anyone can be tough.
However, I can say that I have seen tough times. I have fallen to my knees. I have submitted and surrendered and retreated several times.
I’ve been in tough places and seen proof of the food chain. In my case, I saw where I would fit when it comes to survival of the fittest.
I know where I would fail and where I could survive. I know my place, which is fine.
But again, before I digress any further, I would like to remove the layers of pride and ego.
I want to rest my sword and my shield and speak very plainly. Better yet, I want to speak almost lovingly and gentle which, again, perhaps this is not typical when it comes to being a man or to allow for such vulnerability, but please . . .
For better transparency and with full-disclosure, I want to remove each and every layer of protection, and starting from the different images of supposed layers of so-called toughness or shedding all of my best attempts to pull of a James Dean or some kind of heroic stance—for now, I don’t want to be tough or prove my spot in the food chain.
I do not want to be the hunter or the predator. Instead, I would prefer to be honest. Eith that being mentioned, here goes nothing –
I hardly sleep. This has been a lifelong challenge for me and some nights are worse than others.
I have lived with mild to moderate bouts of insomnia for as long as I can remember.
Last night was no different.
In fact, last night was more severe than usual.
I am often awake and scroll through different clips and videos on my cell phone. I find myself going down different rabbit holes and viewing different topics that range with different interests and different genres of music.
Last night was no different.
I suppose it was somewhere past 2:30am.
I came across an old video from a show which took place about one month and a day before I was born. This was back in 1972.
The video was of two musicians, one male and the other a woman, and both are noted throughout musical history as some of the greats of their time.
I listened to John Denver and Mama Cass sing about leaving on a jet plane.
I have to say, it was nice to hear.
I also have to say that music has changed since then. No one sings like them anymore—lovingly, and perhaps I can say that age has allowed me to show a more tender side of myself, or maybe I grew tired of trying to be tough or act as if I am impenetrable to anything sweet or wholehearted.
But either way, a good song is still a good song.
I listened, lying in bed—I let myself smile and enjoy the sound of two voices sing me to a place of comfort.
I didn’t fall asleep.
But I was close.
I was thinking about how the times were back then. I was thinking about how the music was different and how people were different too.
I do believe people were more respectful of each other back then. Maybe this is only subjective yet, I can see where and how insecurity was alive and well, even back then.
I’ll explain why, even now and up until this day, I can say that although there are differences between now and then, some things are the same.
I was thinking about Mama Cass and her voice as well as her challenges with her body. I was thinking about an interview where she explained that she had been a fat kid since the age of seven and how this set her apart from other people.
She was always trying to show her worth or to be there, in the mix, and be desirable.
I don’t know much about being a woman.
I don’t know what women go through when it comes to body shaming or comparison to others who seem to be more wanted or desirable. I only know what this is like through my own perspective.
However, I am not sure that gender needs to be included with this discussion. And here’s why.
I have never been a woman. But I can relate to thinking and believing that I am somehow defective or undesirable.
I have never been what I would consider to be “commercially” beautiful. I have never been seen as more desirable than others, which is not to say that I am (or have always been) seen as ugly or gross or unsightly. Not at all.
At the same time, I was never one to be commercially stamped as perfect.
I have my so-called imperfections and flaws, if you want to call them that.
Like Mama Cass, I had my own batch of insecurities.
I grew up as a very small and skinny boy. The desirable boys were the stronger ones or the bigger kids.
I was not big.
I was much younger looking and much thinner than anyone else my age. I hated food. I was a bad-eater and finding something I enjoyed to eat was a trick for my Mother.
I was never physically strong. In fact, I was considered to be one of the weakest in the class.
Who would want to be around me then?
What girl would like me?
Where would I fit in the different tiers of popularity?
If I were at the bottom, then how would I become desirable or wanted?
Just to be clear:
I still find myself dealing with the battles of weakness and insecurity. I experience this every day when exercising at the gym. But still . . . I go every day.
And yes, while I acknowledge my improvements and notice growth and positive gains, there is this little boy in me who still sees that small child, picked on or who was called puny, timid and weak, incapable, and the one who was afraid to be vulnerable or picked on.
I hated this version of myself.
But the years have taught me that hating this person will not heal my child at heart.
No, I had to learn how to love him and strengthen him.
I had to learn how to allow him his moment on the stage and even if no one else gave a damn or if there was no one around to applaud the tiniest achievement—I had to learn to be the one who always gave a standing ovation; as if to say, good job kid. We earned our meal together today.
So, let’s not just eat.
Let’s celebrate.
Perhaps not everyone faces this struggle. Perhaps there are those who are confident when they look in the mirror and believe that their looks are everything. However, if we look at the core and the soul’s need to be acknowledged or approved, and if we look at the soul’s desire to be included and accepted, as well as invited and desirable, we can also acknowledge the competition that we see around us.
We can notice this, as if to worry about where and how we fit into the socially-acceptable models of who looks good—and who doesn’t and, of course, should vanity override our lack of inner-beauty, then being average will only allow us to survive for so long.
If we look at this honestly, we can allow ourselves the right to acknowledge where our defense mechanisms begin—like, take Mama Cass, for example.
She allowed people to laugh at her and make jokes about her weight.
Meanwhile, a piece of her would die inside each time someone took a poke or a stab.
I can understand this.
I assume she wore this openly so perhaps, this way, she could be invited and included and while she endured rejection as well as never finding the love she deserved.
Cass allowed for certain treatment just so she could tag along or be part of the group.
I did this too . . .
I let people laugh or make fun of me. I allowed for certain treatment because I was afraid that if I did not allow this or if I stood up for myself, then perhaps I would have no one to hang out with.
I supposed that I would be alone and unincluded; unless, of course, I could find some way to compensate or make up for my flaws and please the crowd with some kind of skill or trick.
This way, I could use something that would allow me to be seen as acceptable or inviting to the crowd.
In some cases, I played the role of the all-too-accepting punching-bag, and I took the jabs and punches because otherwise, there was something in my mind that believed I would not be welcomed or that I was unlikable or unwanted.
So, I had to learn how to play the role.
I had to learn how to be quick with a joke—or I had to learn how to find a trick or some kind of social device which would change and alter the outside perception of who I was—but know this, inside, each comment and each jab or poke was a dagger through the heart of my self-esteem.
I had mentioned how these videos send me down different rabbit holes where one video leads to another clip.
Take Mama Cass, for example. Or if I am to honor her, I should refer to her as Mrs. Elliot because in her words, she was a person who deserved a last name.
The fat jokes are one thing. But body shame ranges from all types and sizes and so does envy and insecurity. Whether someone believes they are on top of the social food chain or at the bottom, there is always room to fall below standard.
I have met with people who were first-string athletes and went from being celebrated as heroes to riding the bench and later becoming a shadow of themselves and then virtually unknown.
I have seen people who grew up and evolve from their so-called ugly duckling stages. And even me . . .
I have grown and improved and at the moment of this entry, I can record that I am in the best shape of my life—but again, there is always room to fall.
There is the awareness that fear of loss is big because it’s not just the loss that we fear—it’s the worry that we will never redeem ourselves or find that center of greatness in our soul.
I have lost weight and heard people tell me, “You look great!”
I gained it back and heard people tell me, “Oh, what happened?”
I want to be beautiful.
I really do.
I want to be pure.
I want to be good and wanted and included and regarded.
I want to be invited and, certainly, I want to be desired across the board; as in socially too and not just intimately.
There was a terrible rumor about Cass Elliot which was that she died from choking on a ham sandwich. But that wasn’t true
Nor was it true that she joined The Mamas and The Papas because after a concussion, her voice allowed for a higher range, which is why they allowed her to join the band—but this was to avoid the real reason why she was left out. The band thought she was too fat . . .
Meanwhile, whatever Cass was or whatever she looked like, the truth is her beauty and her talents were far greater and more beaming and beautiful than her body type.
I think about the way I was when I was a kid.
I think about the people who were picked on because of their looks.
I can remember people who used to be pretty or beautiful and sadly, age did them in.
Their youth was their prime and age did not work very well for them because who they look like now is NOTHING like what they looked like then.
I wonder though . . .
Do they poke fun at the so-called ugly or “fat” kids like they used to when they were pretty?
As for myself:
I have lived under the powerful and unfortunate scrutiny of “self” for a very long time.
Like this for example:
My diaries, which are personal to me and of course, there is always some asshole who loves to point out my typos or who cracks jokes about me ‘thinking” that I’ll be a writer someday, or there’s always someone who looks to poke holes in my content as a means to put me down.
But from within —
There is always a doubt or a fear or an insecure thought which tells me that maybe I look or sound stupid—like I’m some kind of idiot.
However, my only way to defend myself is by being consistent and persistent, which means I have to show up. Like it or not.
Rather than give in or allow myself to fall to worries or fail because of some gesture or some unwanted comment or hurtful thing, I have to be like Cass and understand the value of my endurance.
They hurt you. For sure.
But no one ever broke you, Cass Elliot.
And speaking of Cass?
I was thinking about her solo career, which I admire.
I admire her for her beauty and grace and for her ability to maneuver and meander through the shark-infested waters of status monsters who feed the commercial concepts of beauty or who feed the gossip mills and the rumor factories.
Cass sung a song called Make Your Own Kind of Music.
Here’s the chorus.
You gotta make your own kind
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind of music
Even if nobody else sings along.
And here comes the part where I resign my so-called masculinity and surrender to my truest emotion.
I think this is brilliant and brave.
Imagine life this way . . .
Make your own kind of music.
Sing your own special song—
Even if nobody else sings along.
Could you imagine the bravery of this
I would never admit to this when I was young, nor would I ever dare to report this so openly or allow this out into the universe to be interpreted by anyone else.
Not in a million years.
However, and forgoing my so-called right to masculinity or toughness, I think it’s tough enough to simply be honest.
So, rather than worry about the songs around me or whether I can keep a beat or dance; perhaps, good or bad, I should sing my own tune . . .
Even if nobody else sings along.
The Written Addiction 