#oneaday Day 586: Commitment

I'm back from The Day At The Office. I haven't set my office PC back up again yet though, so no tablet drawings for now. I'm tired and can't be arsed to faff around with wires right now, so it's plain text for today I'm afraid.

Anyway, as I said yesterday, I'm pretty determined to make 2026 the Year I Beat My Weight. Not, as in previous years, the year I beat my previous record for "highest weight Pete can be", but rather, the year I figure out exactly how to get on top of losing it.

I have a several-step plan that I will begin pursuing from tomorrow. (Today is a write-off due to all the travelling and the Wingstop we just had for dinner. We had the Wingstop with the full knowledge that we're both going to be Eating Healthy from tomorrow.) Here are the several steps:

I will use the Lose It! app to track my daily calorie intake, and keep below the daily recommended number of calories that will supposedly allow me to lose weight. In doing so, I will continue to enjoy the things I enjoy, but in better moderation. I will not be switching to a "half a banana and a handful of chia seeds for breakfast"-style diet, because that will probably make me want to kill myself.
I will count calories even if I go "off-plan" and have myself a "treat", to better educate myself in potentially how much damage I can do to my efforts if I "treat" myself too often.
I will do at least 30 minutes of exercise per day, on some combination of my under-desk elliptical machine and/or the treadmill that we have now set up in the spare room.
I will not use the calories burned during exercise as "bonus calories" to have additional Nice Things.
I will research and reach out to some form of psychotherapeutic support to help with my efforts.

That last one, I think, is going to be the big "different thing" I try this time, and I suspect it will be helpful. As I mentioned yesterday, while I mostly found my referral to the weight loss programme via the NHS to be unhelpful, the one aspect I really did feel like I was getting something from was the counselling aspect. Through talking therapy, I felt like I was able to start looking at my behaviours (conscious and unconscious) that have led me to this point, and to figure out ways I might be able to modify them. Unfortunately I had so few sessions that I don't feel like I really got anywhere — but I feel like if I had been able to spend more time with the therapist in question, we could have made some progress.

One thing that came out of those few conversations, and something that I find my thoughts returning to, is that some of my behaviours are consistent with a pattern of addiction. Anecdotally, having had experience with other people dealing with addiction, I would be inclined to agree. I recognise this. I recognise patterns in myself that I have seen in other people who were struggling with addiction. And I feel that is an important starting point. As with any addiction, though, the struggle will always be in breaking it, little by little. Because you can't really go "cold turkey" (so to speak) with food — unlike various forms of chemical abuse, you still need food to operate normally, and thus breaking any sort of food-related addiction is more about developing a healthier relationship with food rather than completely breaking your "attachment" to it.

But I'm probably getting ahead of myself there. Fact is, I think having some sort of Professional Help would be… well, helpful. Up until now, I've been hesitant, because Professional Help is 1) relatively expensive and 2) daunting to find your way into. 2) applies doubly in my case, because my social anxiety makes it a huge effort to be able to make contact with a stranger, but also it's overwhelming to see the sheer number of therapists that are out there, and having absolutely no idea who might be "right" for me.

Thus I think rather than taking the "roll of the dice" approach and just stabbing randomly at a huge list of therapists in my area, I'm going to try making use of an organisation known as The Empathy Project that operates in my area. This is a small, non-profit organisation based in the town I call home, and I can't remember how I stumbled across them, but I seem to have added myself to their mailing list at some point. What I have read about them online seems positive, however, and thus referring myself to them seems like it would be a solid starting point, if nothing else.

So, tomorrow, I am kicking all this off. I will be counting calories, I will be exercising, and I will be referring myself to someone who might be able to help me through this. I'm feeling oddly positive about this right now, so let's just hope I can keep this mental momentum.

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#oneaday Day 585: Hotels and their unflattering mirrors

It's that time of the month again, when I haul myself down to sunny Letchworth in preparation for A Day In The Office. And as such, I am coming atcha from my usual hotel, typing on my phone.

This hotel is, as I've alluded to in the past, All Right. It's reasonably comfortable, but its rooms vary quite a lot in quality, so it's always a bit of a roll of the dice when you get here as to whether or not you, for example, have a bath or not. This time I have been unlucky — no bath, plus a bedside table that looks like it last saw a lick of paint at some point in the 1970s.

I don't mind these little idiosyncrasies, though. They add character, and this place has become quite familiar to me from my numerous visits. Not quite enough that I know from my room number whether or not I have a "good" room, but enough that it is comfortably familiar here.

One thing I do dislike, though, is that pretty much every room seems to have mirrors, like, fucking everywhere. And there's something about hotel mirrors that always seems infinitely more unflattering that the ones you have at home.

I never feel more disgusted with my own body than when I see it in a hotel mirror. I think part of it may be the knowledge that I am away from home and thus not able to "do anything" about the way I look — not that I can really do anything at home, either, but I always feel just a bit more… grounded and in control when I'm at home.

I can't continue like this. This year has to be the year that I beat this problem. It's not going to be an easy process, and there are going to be times that I want more than anything to give up, but there is nothing I want more for 2026 than to be able to look at myself in the mirror and say "good work — you still have a way to go, but you're doing good". (I am a realist about this stuff if nothing else.)

That hard work has to come from me, though. I have to want it. Seeking external help has only worked on one previous occasion, and I never recovered from my relapse. Granted, there were external factors beyond my complete control that caused said relapse, but the approach I took back then — Slimming World — is clearly not quite right for me now.

I've been to the doctor about this, too. I was referred to an organisation who offered nutrition advice and counselling, but I found most of the course to be useless. The nutritional advice came once a fortnight and amounted to "eat less" (no, really?) and the counselling was even less frequent — though I did find the couple of sessions I had in that regard to be quite helpful, so that might be something I pursue independently and privately. It costs money, yes, but if investing in yourself isn't a good use of your funds, what is?

I'm keen to avoid drug-based approaches as although I'm sure they work, I am exceedingly squeamish about poking myself with needles and am not sure I would be able to do it — and I don't want to force Andie to have to do that, either.

During my time with the nutritionist and the counsellor, I was also continually asked if I wanted bariatric surgery, and while I have seen people get great results with that, that is not something I want for myself.

Besides being scared shitless of surgery in general — something I will have to confront when I do eventually manage to lose some weight, in order to get my long-standing hernia fixed — I also worry that the surgery won't fix the main problems, which I have pretty strong suspicions are as much psychological as physiological.

To put it another way, I'm worried that even if they remove the use of part of my stomach or whatever it is they do, I still wouldn't be able to control myself. And if you overeat when you've had that treatment, you can really fuck yourself up.

So that leaves me with good old-fashioned willpower, which hasn't done me too proud up until this point. But I really do want this. I want this to be the year I can look at myself and say yes, I am on the road to recovery.

Sorry for the rather TMI post, but sometimes it helps to just express these things and get them out in the open, as much for your own benefit as anyone else. I don't need anyone's help, I don't want advice — all I do need is some understanding and quiet support. And thankfully, that is something that I do have already.

2031: Delayed Contact

How would you get along with your sibling(s), parent(s), or any other person you’ve known for a long time — if you only met them for the first time today?

WordPress Daily Post, August 12, 2015

This is an interesting question! What it's really asking, I guess, is how I've changed over the years. And I'm certainly not going to deny that I've changed over the years — in some ways for the better, in other ways for the worse.

Let's consider the "big things" first. The first thing I'd want to address is my depression and anxiety. As anyone who has had a depressed or anxious friend will know, we can be a handful: prone to bouts of irrational emotion, having a tendency to back out of appointments and commitments because we're not feeling up to dealing with people, in some cases full of seething rage or unbearable grief at nothing in particular, which is difficult for anyone not living it to truly understand.

Now, I address this because I tend to think of my depression and anxiety as a "recent" thing, though on reflection it's something I've clearly been carrying around with me for a lot longer than I might have initially thought. It probably stretches all the way back to primary school, to be honest, when I was, yes, full of seething rage at nothing in particular and would often get into trouble at lunchtimes and breaktimes for the 10 year old equivalent of casting "Provoke" on a dinner lady or school bully.

Actually, to say said seething rage was at nothing in particular isn't quite accurate. It was something of a vicious cycle. I wasn't comfortable in who I was, and kids being kids would pick on me, sensing weakness. I'd then be upset — particularly when, as often happened, my friends abandoned me and sided with the "cool" kids (who were often also the bullies of the playground) rather than with me.

But this isn't specifically about my history with depression, it's about whether people I've known for a long time would get along with me — or if I'd get along with them — if we happened to meet for the first time today. And the depression and anxiety side of things is interesting to consider; these days, I'm a lot more open and honest about talking about it in most circumstances — sometimes needing a bit of a prompt or leading question — whereas in my childhood and adolescence, when, in retrospect, I was clearly suffering from both of these issues, I didn't recognise them for what they were and consequently didn't know how to deal with them. My first girlfriend even left me because she "couldn't take my moods" — though she did also cheat on me at the school prom, so fuck her, basically.

I digress, but the point, I guess, is that anyone I met for the first time now would have to be able to deal with someone who is aware of their own mental defects, be willing to support them when necessary and be willing to leave them the fuck alone when they need to be alone.

Now, onto other matters also worthy of consideration. Let's keep things self-deprecating and consider my personal appearance. At school I was fairly unremarkable-looking, though I had terrible hair (still do), bad skin (still do) and zits (thankfully long gone). I felt like I was a bit fat at school compared to some of my friends, but looking back at some old photographs, I really, really wasn't. I steadily gained weight over the course of my time at university and beyond until I got to the point where I was so uncomfortable I needed to do something about it — hence my joining Slimming World back in February. (As of tonight, I've lost 4.5 stone in total, incidentally.)

Let's be realistic: people judge each other on appearances, like it or not, and six months ago I was absolutely ashamed of my appearance. I didn't like going out because people would see me; I didn't like walking past windows because I could catch a glimpse of myself; I didn't like wearing any of my clothes because none of them really fit properly any more; and mirrors, well, no. Just no. I've always had something of a lack of self-confidence — again, this can be traced in part back to my school days; at primary school I was taunted on a daily basis for having "big ears", while at secondary school the aforementioned crap hair, bad skin and zits were picked on — but this was the absolute lowest point I've ever been.

Today, though, some 4.5 stone lighter, I know I still have some way to go, but I'm much more comfortable in myself and, when depression and anxiety aren't laying me low, I can actually notice myself being more open, confident and less embarrassed to be myself. Just yesterday I successfully made some small talk with the store clerk in Game when I was buying Splatoon and didn't come away from the experience thinking "they hate me" or "they think I'm disgusting", which are things I'd thought following a passing interaction in the past. And while this may not sound like much, with everything I deal with in my head, this felt like a noticeable and significant victory, and worth celebrating.

I'm conscious I'm talking generally while the question implies I should be thinking about specific people, but I feel these points are relevant; self-confidence is something that is important in your interactions with anyone, and while I'm certainly not in a position where I'd call myself "confident" or "outgoing" — I'm still an introvert at heart — I am in a position now where yes, I feel like I could meet someone new, have a conversation with them and not make them never want to see me ever again.

Finally, then, there's the matter of changing interests. My interests actually haven't changed all that significantly over the years; I've always been into video games, board games, computers, music, reading and writing. Perhaps the biggest change is in the "subgenres" of certain aspects, specifically my enjoyment of Japanese games, anime and other popular media. As many of you will know, a lot of this sort of thing is enormously polarising and very much an acquired taste, so if there's anywhere I think I'd struggle with if I were meeting an old friend for the first time today, it'd be with regard to these niche interests, and particularly a lot of the mainstream popular assumptions about what people who like that sort of thing are into. (That's a rant for another day, of course.)

There are people I've drifted away from due to diverging interests. There are also new friends I've made as a result of these diverging interests, that happen to converge in different places. That's how life goes; as much as we'd like to believe certain things last forever, sometimes we move on, we grow, we change, we become different people.

Ultimately I like to believe that I'm a decent person, and that anyone I've known for a long time I'd be able to at least get along with today. We became friends for a reason, after all, and in many cases friendships are struck up over that simple, indescribable "click" you get when you start interacting and realise that the person you're talking to is someone absolutely on your wavelength. It's difficult (though, sadly, not impossible) to get rid of that "click" once you've had it, and so, to finally answer the original question: I do think I'd get along with people I've known for a long time if I only met them for the first time today. Our relationship might develop differently to how it did in reality, but that's not necessarily a bad thing; true friendships allow you to get along regardless of circumstances and regardless of differences.

1080: How These Endless "Friendzone" Rants Make Me Feel

Good morning. Today another article about "nice guys" and the concept of the "friendzone" appeared. Here it is.

Today I would like to talk about how this article made me feel.

It made me angry, and it made me want to cry.

Why? Not because I am the sort of person who exhibits those behaviours — I certainly do not expect women I am friends with to immediately jump into bed with me, particularly because I'm now in a committed, loving relationship with someone who is super-awesome — but because I recognise some of the things being described, and the fact that they are being twisted, generalised and used as a means of shaming people feels like a punch in the gut.

I don't normally talk about this stuff because it's embarrassing and difficult to talk about, but I am going to make an exception for today as a means of making my point. This article made me feel like absolute fucking shit, even though I know it was not about me. I am going to talk about my past relationships and how they came to be, though naturally I will omit names and personally-identifying details.

Some context for those who are newcomers to this blog or don't know me very well: I suffer a pretty strong degree of social anxiety, and have done since an early age. I feel enormously uncomfortable when around strangers, clam up completely when faced with the prospect of making small talk, and even, at times, find it difficult to talk to my own friends or relations.

As you might expect, these circumstances are not ideal for getting together with someone. Consequently, even as all my peers around me at school were getting into relationships, going out with people, having sex and bragging about all of the above, I was left constantly frustrated and bewildered. My already-active imagination would picture what it might be like to be in a relationship with someone — note: relationship, not simply having sex — and I'd even go so far as to imagine how those conversations might go in great detail. One of the diaries I kept as a teenager included numerous fantasy scenarios of how I might get a girl I liked to talk to me, and how I might express my feelings. Sex did not enter into this at all — I simply wanted to be with that person. (I'm aware writing fantasy conversations in itself is creepy, but I was ashamed of these entries the moment I wrote them, and inevitably ended up throwing them away immediately.)

The fact I overthought these things meant, inevitably, that I never did anything about them, and I was always absolutely mortified any time a friend of mine would tell the girl in question that I liked them. I hated myself — you can thank near-constant bullying through primary school and a fair proportion of secondary school for that — and thought that the girl discovering that I liked her "in that way" would cause her to immediately hate me because I was certain that no-one would ever want to be with me. (This never happened, of course, but it's the way my mind worked, and to a certain extent still does.)

Fast-forward a bit, and I got into my first relationship during a school production. I had got very close to a female friend of mine, and after the fact I learned that most of my friends were expecting us to get together as part of the production. However, what actually happened was that she set me up with a friend of a friend whom I didn't know very well and didn't particularly fancy. I'm not particularly proud of saying this, but I entered into that relationship because I was worried no-one else would be interested in me, and I wouldn't get another chance. (I was young. And stupid. And suffering from what I now recognise to be mental health issues.)

As it turned out, said relationship grew quite nicely over time, and I realised I actually did quite like this girl — I just didn't know her that well before we were pushed together. We did a lot together, I got on well with the rest of her family and it was all looking good.

We never had sex, though. I remember vividly "missing my chance" on this. We were sitting in her bedroom one day fooling around, and she mumbled something to me. I couldn't make out the words because she was embarrassed to say them out loud. In retrospect, it was obvious that she was saying "I really, really want to make love to you" but I was too scared to make assumptions — too wrapped up in my own self-loathing to believe that anyone would ever want to have sex with me. I asked her what she said, and to say it more clearly. She wouldn't. The moment passed.

A couple of months later, it was our school prom. We went together. We did not leave together, because she cheated on me on the dance floor with a guy she is now married to. Good on her, I guess.

My only other relationship at school was one which lasted from Monday to Friday of one week, during which time I saw my paramour precisely once and kissed her once before she decided at the end of the week that actually, she didn't want to go out with me after all, and that we should go back to being friends again. Once again, sex did not enter the equation. The fact that our relationship began at a recording of Songs of Praise may have had something to do with that. (I swear I am not making that part up.)

Fast forward to university. Early in my student career, I met someone who seemed perfect for me. We spent a ton of time together. She was constantly in my room, she was into the things I was into and we had a great time together. I knew very early in our relationship that she was someone I wanted in my life. I was attracted to her, I liked the person she was and I wanted her around as much as possible.

I said nothing. Because I was too scared. Because I hated myself. Because I thought she would hate me and think I was some sort of disgusting pervert if I said anything. Consequently, she got together with someone else, who I spent a healthy proportion of time absolutely despising as a result. (Said person is now, paradoxically, one of my closest friends. Funny how things work out.)

I liked a couple of other people at university. I even went to the effort of sending a secret Valentine to one, complete with a cuddly toy and some truly dreadful poetry. (I am never writing poetry again.) She immediately knew it was me and let me down gently. I left it at that and we continued being the friends we were before. Again, sex didn't enter into the equation. I just liked this person and wanted to be with them.

My next girlfriend at university was someone I got together with at a Christmas meal for one of the groups I was a member of. I'd never met her prior to that night, but we hit it off and were in each other's arms by the end of the night. Neither of us were the one-night stand types, though, so we went our separate ways at the end of the evening and arranged to meet up again. We went out a few times, but she dumped me after I bought her a Christmas present because it made her feel "weird". That made me feel weird.

We subsequently met up again later a few times and went out, but we eventually lost contact. To this day, I'm still not entirely sure quite what went on there, and if I could have done things anything differently. Ships in the night and all that.

I could go on, but we'd be hitting a bit close to home if I started talking about some of these other relationships. What I wanted to (hopefully) make clear by sharing some of these things is that in many cases, a dude making friends with a girl and complaining of not being able to take things any further is not always a case of "putting in kindness coins and expecting sex to fall out", as runs the phrase I've seen numerous times recently. In many cases, it is a simple case of the dude in question not knowing how to express that he would like to take things any further. In more cases than one, you can probably see that I blew my chances with someone largely as a result of my own crippling self-loathing and lack of confidence.

I have had a number of situations in my life that fall into the "friendzone" category by popular definition, and I'm fully aware they're my own fault for not expressing myself properly. But it's not a case of being a creeper, or of expecting a woman to provide me sexual gratification in exchange for my kindness — in every single fucking case I wanted an actual relationship with that person; because I wanted to be with them; because I wanted to share my life with them; because I felt we understood each other. It was not because I expected them to have sex with me. It was not because I wanted to have sex with them. I didn't express myself because I was too fucking terrified to say anything to them, because I was too fucking terrified that they would run away from me screaming if they thought I was a creep who was leching after them.

You see, herein lies my problem with articles like the one I shared at the start of this post. They are gross generalisations. There are men out there who don't know when to quit. There are men out there who have unreasonable expectations of women. There are men out there who see women purely as sex objects there for their own gratification.

I am not one of them.

But every time I read one of these endless fucking "friendzone" articles that uses a lot of words to say almost nothing we haven't seen a hundred times already, I feel like shit. I feel like a creep. I feel like a piece of sub-human scum. Why? Because I recognise some of the situations being described. I have been in some of the situations described. And yet, apparently, the following quote from the above article is universally How It Is:

Here’s the hard truth, Friendzone. You’re not a nice guy. You are a gutless, pathetic, sad, horny little worm who’s too afraid of rejection to just tell a woman how you really feel.

Yes. Yes I am. Yes, I am a gutless, pathetic, sad, horny little worm who is too afraid of rejection to tell a woman how I really feel. Do you know why I am afraid of rejection? Because I hate myself. Because the early part of my life was spent with people reinforcing my own self-hatred through near-constant bullying and harassment. Though those days may be long gone, the mental scars remain. And every time you say shit like the above, even though it may not be intended to be about me specifically, I take it personally. And it hurts. And it makes me angry. And it makes me want to cry.

It hurts even more when you make the assumption that I am afraid of rejection purely because I want sex. As I have hopefully outlined above, in every single case I was the one who wanted an actual relationship but found myself unable to express it properly. I'm pretty sure I can't be the only person in the world who feels like this, so every time you publicly shame "friendzone guys" like this, you run the risk of doing some very real damage to what is probably already a very fragile sense of self-esteem and self-worth for those people you have inadvertently and inconsiderately lumped in to your catch-all descriptions. While you may cause some of the creepers to re-evaluate their behaviour and start behaving in a less misogynistic manner — though personally I feel it is unlikely that they will read anything like the article above and take it to heart — you're just as likely to make people who already lack confidence to never ever want to put themselves out there. (Those are the people who will read the articles.)

I am very fortunate in that after my last relationship — which led to marriage — fell apart and nearly destroyed me completely, I found someone who loves me for who I am, respects me and is a good match for me. Not everyone is so lucky. If I were still alone right now, I don't want to think about how awful I'd be feeling. Fortunately, instead I find myself on the way back up from the bottom rather than slowly sliding into the abyss.

So just fucking stop it with the "friendzone" and "nice guy" articles. Please. We get it.

(As an aside, I would like to stop writing about this now because I know it's probably quite tiresome to read. But in this instance I felt it important to respond to the article linked above. I will return to writing about something more entertaining tomorrow. Hopefully. None of you die or anything in the next 24 hours.)

#oneaday Day 847: You Must be This Skinny to Ride

I've been going back and forth in my mind as to whether or not I should write about this, but given subjects I've happily covered in the past on this blog I figured what the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound, or something. Hopefully writing about this will prove cathartic, as I've been feeling fairly shitty for a fair chunk of the day.

Today, as you'll know if you have read recent posts, Andie and I went to Alton Towers. I was looking forward to this a great deal, as it's been a long time since I'd been and I was very curious about the new rides — as well as going on some old favourites.

All was going well. We'd been on the Runaway Mine Train, the Rapids, the Flume and an awesomely fun rollercoaster called Air that suspends you in a "lying down" position as if you're flying like Superman, and we were having a great time.

Then I tried to go on Ripsaw. I had a feeling there might be trouble when the seats felt a bit small. I wasn't expecting it to be quite so mortifying, however.

To cut a long story short, I had to get off the ride because I was too fat. The attendant didn't use those words, obviously (if he had, I would have probably yelled more than a few obscenities at him and/or punched him) but there it was. Apparently the (already very tight on most people) safety harness thingies couldn't be lowered enough on to me, so I had to get off. They gave me a "Priority Pass" to get on something else immediately, but guess what? All of the rides it covered also had very similar issues. I tried one and didn't dare get on any others after that, as I was so upset.

I don't think I've ever felt so humiliated as when I was getting off Ripsaw and walking across the front of the ride area towards the exit. I didn't hear anyone laughing at me, but it didn't matter. I was mortified. I was The Guy Who Was Too Fat To Ride. I won't lie, it upset me enough to make me cry. I have issues with my body shape as it is, and to have it "confirmed" by strangers was just the worst feeling.

I am totally insecure in my body shape. I'm not what you'd call "massive" by any means. But I have quite a "solid" upper body. I hate it. I feel revulsion when I look at myself in the mirror. I wish I could just be happy in who I was, but when a day out is spoiled by your own fatness, it's hard not to take it personally, particularly when you're already made to feel like a social pariah by the way the world is set up.

Every time I see statistics about the number of obese people in the country, I feel bad. Every time someone on Twitter makes some judgemental comment about obese people, I get upset. I gave up on Wii Fit in the end because I was getting so demoralised every time I did the Body Test and it made my Mii swell up like a balloon. I've even been insulted by complete strangers in the past because of my weight. The world is set up to make me feel like Being Fat Is Bad and that I should Do Something About It.

Here's the thing, though: I am doing something about it. I am going to the gym regularly, doing at least an hour of cardio every time (plus some weights work) and burning anywhere between 600 and 800 calories in a session. I am watching what I eat, counting calories and trying to make sure I have a deficit of a decent size, but not so much I'm starving myself. And still I feel like a societal reject because the weight is hard to get off. I wasn't expecting it to be easy, but I would have expected to have at least a little impact by now. Perhaps it has and I just haven't realised or noticed. But it's incredibly demoralising when you discover that despite your best efforts, you're Too Fat To Do That Thing You Like.

I'm really not sure what I can do beyond what I'm already doing — perhaps trying to up the intensity further on my workouts, and making sure I'm being as consistent and disciplined as possible. But my experience today made me feel like absolute shit about myself, through no-one's fault in particular. Besides my own, I guess.

I've known people who were pretty large who successfully managed to lose a buttload of weight and completely change their body type. I feel jealous when I see those people, and I wonder if I'll ever succeed. On days like today, it feels like it won't ever happen.

I have calmed down a bit since earlier. Shit happens, and the rest of the day was fun. I am thirty-one years old, and Alton Towers probably wasn't built with thirty-one year old men in mind. Perhaps I just need to let go of the past and do things that are more friendly to thirty-one year old men instead of stuff I was doing around half my lifetime ago. Going to the gym. Sitting in the jacuzzi at our hotel (so relaxing — just the thing after a stressful day). Hanging out with friends and playing board games. Playing Diablo III. Being at peace with oneself.

I'm not sure I'll ever manage the last bit unless I successfully manage to shed a whole buttload of weight. I certainly intend to keep on trying, but you'll forgive me if I have occasional lapses in hope for my long-term success.

Thank you for indulging me with this post. We're off to the Alton Towers Water Park tomorrow, so hopefully that will be a much more fun day.

#oneaday Day 825: Bull, Horns, That Sort of Thing

The Black Dog of depression has been rearing its ugly head a bit again recently for various reasons, and I'm sick of it. While there's not necessarily much I can do about it showing up and being a pain in the arse, I can at least try and work on some things to make me feel a bit better about myself.

For starters, getting upset at one's own reflection isn't particularly great news, and it's something that I can at least attempt to do something about. I have been fitness-ing off and on for some time now, but I figure it's Time To Get Serious. That means I'm going to hit the gym every morning before I start my working day rather than leaving it until last thing in the evening when it's easy to go "nah, fuck it". (Of course, it's easy to stay in bed and say "nah, fuck it" also, but I'm going to attempt to get out of this habit before it starts.) I won't necessarily be doing everything every day, but I'm going to attempt to get at least an hour of cardio stuff in per day at the very least. This will likely mostly be done on the exercise bikes, where I can sit back and play Final Fantasy VI on my fancy-pants tablet while I'm sweating. At other times, I'll use the crosstrainers and whack on a podcast — the Exploding Barrel Podcast from my good buddies Mike and AJ Minotti is always a favourite — or some inspirational music of some description.

As motivation and progress tracking, I'm going to be using Fitocracy, which I've posted about before here. I also considered resurrecting my Jedi Health Kick Tumblr from a while back, but given that Fitocracy provides the ability to post lengthy, blog-like status updates and has its own built-in community features, I'm going to stick with that. As well as tracking my workouts, I'm going to write a short post each day detailing how it went, how I'm feeling and what I'm aiming for. I'm also going to use Fitocracy's excellent Quests feature to take on some challenges that I might not have otherwise thought of — this will help prevent complacency if I'm making a "game" out of it all.

I'd also like to eat better. I think I eat when I get depressed, and I get depressed a fair bit, which doesn't help matters. I'd rather kick that particular habit in the face if possible — or at the very least change it so I munch on, say, carrot sticks instead of ALL THE BISCUITS, but that's the sort of thing that will take plenty of teeth-clenching willpower to resolve. I have faith in my own ability to do this, however — if there's one thing I'm good at it's clenching my teeth and stubbornly resisting things. Sainsbury's cream cakes are my most formidable adversary to date, however, so it remains to be seen whether I'll be able to defeat them using the power of my clenched teeth (and/or buttocks) alone.

So that's the plan. We'll see how long I'm able to stick with it. I'm saying this publicly so I have a bit more pressure to follow through on it. If anyone would care to join me and work out alongside me or just offer some words of encouragement, come cheer me on over on Fitocracy — it's free to sign up and there's a nifty companion iPhone app too.

#oneaday, Day 202: Someone You're Not

Ever wondered what it'd be like to be someone you're not? To be able to seamlessly switch yourself from being "you" to being a different persona, depending on the situation?

I've been reading The Game by Neil Strauss. For the uninitiated, it's an incredibly detailed exposé of the world of pickup artists. There are those out there who live by the tenets of this group. And others who believe that Strauss' story is so much bullshit. But I find the very concept of it interesting, not least for the fact it's something I don't think I could do.

The pickup artists (or PUAs, as they call themselves) go into a situation armed with a variety of "openers", manipulate the conversations using a combination of "negs" (deliberately negative comments), hypnosis, neurolinguistic programming and all manner of other techniques. And, if Strauss is to be believed, many of them enjoy not inconsiderable degrees of success—regardless of the sort of person they "really" are, and regardless of their physical attractiveness.

When I go out, I'm me. I can't be anyone else. I can't imagine sidling up to a group of complete strangers at a bar, opening with something like "well, this looks like where the party's at" and then surreptitiously attempting to manipulate the group and an individual in that group into doing my bidding. I find the concept of it pretty fascinating, though; particularly as I know at least one person who is adept at "playing the game".

Sometimes I wonder if social situations might be easier if I was able to project a different persona. Those of you who know me know my personality pretty well. But I often feel when I go out into a situation where I'm surrounded by unfamiliar people, or where I'm worried I might make a tit of myself, that I withdraw somewhat. I'll talk to people if they talk to me, but I often find myself sitting there thinking just that; "I'll just wait here and if someone wants to talk to me, I'll let them, but I'm not going to chase down anyone."

This is social anxiety at work. In some ways, I think that it's part of me and I'm glad I'm not being a player, hitting on every girl who comes into the bar. But in other ways, I sometimes wish that I could just open up a little bit more and strike up a conversation with a stranger. And by that I mean be the one to initiate the conversation, not wait for someone to come and talk to me or be introduced to me.

I wish that there was an easy way to practice this. But unfortunately, the only way to practice it is to do it. And in nearly thirty years of time on this planet, I still haven't really got the hang of it.

#oneaday, Day 170: The Pile

Ever have one of those days where every little thing that is bothering you builds up into a mountainous heap and eventually ends up collapsing on your head? Today was one of those days. Every little and big thing that's been stressing me out attacked me all at once and beat me down until I really felt like I couldn't take any more. I had what could probably be scientifically-inaccurately-described as a mini-breakdown earlier. Pretty much a solid half an hour of really, really not being able to deal with anything. It's not a nice feeling. Half an hour isn't a huge amount out of a day. But it feels like a lifetime while it's happening. Thoughts flit in and out of your head, images of things that are going to happen, things that have happened, things you fear. Then they're gone before you can grasp them and deal with them, replaced by something else. The mental noise is awful, and relentless.

Eventually, it passes, of course, and you're left with a feeling of "what the fuck was that for?" It doesn't make experiencing it any easier. If anything, it leads to residual feelings of self-doubt, guilt and of course it does nothing for the self-esteem to know that you're the person who lets himself get beaten down by all the things that are happening.

That's stupid. Anyone undergoing a difficult situation that they've never been through before is sure to feel at least some of these things. So why feel guilty about it? Why feel doubt? Why think it makes you a worse person for letting go at the wrong minute and thinking "whoa… shit, I can't actually handle this"? No-one has infinite strength, however much they might want it, however much they might try, however much they might try punching the Konami code into various parts of their body.

It has to get easier… right?

I certainly hope so. Because right now, I don't feel like I'm making any progress. I'm no nearer getting a job than I was months ago. I'm alone. I'm in a place I can't afford to live in. I don't know where to move to because I don't have a job. And it turns out I am not dealing all that well with residual feelings of bitterness, resentment and anger. I don't like the person that these feelings make me into. He's weak, angry and cries a lot. He comes and goes. But he's always back again at some point, triggered by some stupid little thing. And it's getting to be too much.

I want these feelings to stop. I want my life back.

No. I want a new life. One that involves the important people from this life, and discards those things which have dragged me down into the mud time and time again.

I'm trying to make it happen. I'm trying.

It's got to start working soon. Right?

#oneaday, Day 166: Affirmations

In the interests of positivity, I've decided to compile a list of my best qualities. Please feel free to contribute to this list through the medium of dance. Or comments.

I'm a good person. I don't like to see other people suffer. I don't like to cause suffering. Even if the person who is suffering is someone I don't particularly like.
I have a strong sense of justice. If something goes badly for someone else, I'll always do my damndest to help them out in any way I can.
I'm a good listener. I may not be great with the giving of advice, but I'm someone who always has time to listen to a friend.
I'm creative. You know that, otherwise you wouldn't be here.
I'm musical. Piano. Clarinet. Saxophone. A short foray into ensemble singing. Now you know, if you didn't already.
I'm a great writer. I can adapt my style to the situation. I can write incredibly quickly. And I don't make stupid mistakes. Except occasional typos.
I have used a semicolon correctly at least ten times in the last week. See previous point.
I'm a survivor. I have been through a shower of shit over the last 18 months. And I'm not dead. I don't know how this happened. But it has. I'm not out of the woods yet, but going on past experience, eventually I'll make it out of the other side.
I'm honest. I'm one of the most honest people I know. If I'm talking to someone I trust, they can rely on the fact that I'll always tell them the truth.
I'm understanding. Got a problem of some sort? I'm not about to judge you for it. And if I can help you deal with it, I will.
I'm funny. Sometimes. More so when writing than in person. Nothing worse than telling a joke in person and no-one laughing.
I appreciate and value my friends. Even if I don't see them that often.
I have superhuman strength. I can punch a car clean across the street.
I have an eye for the "picturesque". I can spot a good photograph quickly.
I'm a fast learner. I get double XP when learning something new. Particularly if it's computer-related.
I'm a nerd. And everyone knows nerds are the best, nicest people.
I'm passionate. If I believe in something, I'll battle for that belief.
I have a wild imagination. I can picture situations easily. Both realistic and fantastic.
I can communicate with rodents. They tell me where to find hidden treasure. Unfortunately, they're not very good at finding decent treasure that isn't cheese or socks.
I like to try new things. I won't resist doing something just because it's something I've never done before or I'm not familiar with. Unless there's raw onion in it.
I can see both sides to things. Particularly when it comes to things like fanboy arguments.
I'm tolerant. I don't judge anyone based on their age, gender, race, sexuality, religion, anything. Everyone is their own person and deserves to be treated as such.
I'm committed. If I say I'll commit to something, I won't ever give up. Ever.

That'll do for now. I'm not sure if "able to remain coherent at 3AM" should be on that list or not.

It's easy to forget the good things about yourself sometimes when you're in a situation that makes you think the very worst of yourself. So I'll try to remember and add to this list in those times when it all gets a bit too much to handle.

I'd also like to add for any prospective employers reading that all of the above qualities make me an eminently attractive addition to your company. Assuming your company isn't lame.

#oneaday, Day 121: Janet Street-Porter Is A Dickhead

"Well sure, Captain Obvious," I hear you say. "What else is new? Gordon Ramsay swears a lot? Brian Blessed is a bit shouty? Graham Norton is gay?"

Wait, Graham Norton is gay? Seriously?

Stop it, ethereal readers who aren't there really. I'm trying to make a point here. And my point is that, yes, Janet Street-Porter is a dickhead. Why do I say this with such authority though? Because of this.

For those of you too lazy to click on that link, or indeed those of you who are terrified of clicking on any sort of link that leads to the Daily Mail for fear of aspiring middle-class racist viruses infecting their otherwise happily multicultural computer, she wrote an article about depression under the title "Depression? It's just the new trendy illness!"

Not a good start. As someone who has suffered depression and stress to varying degrees throughout the years (with right now being one of the "more" rather than "less" periods) I found the title by itself offensive. But I clicked on anyway, just in case she had anything enlightening to say on the subject.

The misery movement has rapidly gathered momentum and in recent months it's become apparent that, along with the Sam Cam handbag, the latest must-have accessory is a big dose of depression.

Oh no. No no no. Fuck you. Seriously, fuck you. Depression is not a fashion accessory. Whether or not it's been diagnosed and/or treated (mine isn't and hasn't, for the record) it's serious business, and to put it in the same category as a bleeding Samantha Cameron handbag? That's just the tip of the bell-end poking through her forehead right there. She continues:

I am not denying that clinical depression is a real mental illness, or that it can be debilitating for sufferers. But let's take a moment to consider whether depression is common among the poor or the working class?

Oh, she doesn't deny it's a real, debilitating illness? How big of her. Is it common among the poor or the working class? Well, I don't know, Janet, you'd better get the SCIENCE! out and let us know.

If you're a black South African woman growing up in a township, or a mum in a slum favela in Rio, or a supermarket shelf-stacker in Croydon, or one of the band of low-paid female workers who go to work at 3am to clean the offices of the wealthiest and most powerful people in Britain in the City of London, you probably aren't afflicted by depression. What you're more likely to be suffering from is poverty, exhaustion and a deficient diet. You will have bills you can't pay and a struggle to feed and clothe your kids.

Right. Because you can't have depression and poverty. That would just be ridiculous! Hah! Look at the poor black people. Don't even have enough money to have a debilitating mental illness! How pathetic they are! PATHETIC, I SAY!

The death of my own sister reduced me to rage and despair, and the sudden death recently of a close personal friend rekindled the same feelings of hopelessness.

But my life goes on, I haven't retreated under the duvet with a bottle of pills. I refuse to accept this notion that a whole generation of women are being laid low by an unexplained epidemic of depression.

Ahh! "Life goes on!" Of course! All these people who are suffering with depression should just get up and get on with their lives! Silly me.

Of course, she does sort of have a point, albeit one expressed in the most obnoxious manner possible. The worst thing to do when suffering depression is to sit and wallow in it. That just makes it worse and worse and worse until you get to the stage where there's seemingly no way out of it. For some people, that leads to seeking professional help. For others, an intervention by the people who love them. And tragically, for some that ends in the taking of their own life.

But different people deal with things differently. We can't all be as strong as she apparently is, and for her to put down the efforts of those who are genuinely struggling with the condition as being somehow weak is both repulsive and wrong.

The truth is, we've got fatter and flabbier. Obesity is a medical condition too many of us are suffering from – but you can't claim time off work because you're fat. You can, however, suddenly find you can't 'cope' – and stress has become, in our work-orientated society, almost a badge of honour.

If you're stressed, it implies you are a busy person with plenty to do. Nowadays, women who've never been in a war zone or experienced an act of terrorism are claiming they are suffering from stress, when all they do is run a home and get the bus to work.

Stress has become so acceptable, the last government decided that the NHS would make counselling available for a whole variety of mental illnesses, from stress to depression to panic attacks and low self-esteem, totally gratis.

Oh, keep going, Janet! Have a dig at the fatties too! Go on! Especially if they're black! And poor! Poor black fatties! I bet they're gay too!

I've been stressed – reduced to midnight panic attacks with it, in fact. It's not pleasant. And I certainly didn't wear it as a badge of honour. I was ashamed of it. I was terrified on the one occasion I got myself signed off sick with stress. I dropped in the doctor's note when no-one was around and then got out of the door as fast as possible so no-one could witness my shame. It was an awful experience, and I'm by no means proud of it, as Janet seems to suggest I am. You don't have to have been in a warzone or have experienced an act of terrorism to suffer from stress. It depends on the sort of person you are. If you're someone with self-esteem issues like me, one single hurtful comment can trigger a depressive episode.

Needless to say, the article continues in a similar vein for a considerable number of words, with a particular highlight being Janet's "laughing out loud" at the prospect of men having low self-esteem. Her justification? Men have been in charge of everything for so long, so it's "karmic revenge". Well, as a man with low self-esteem, I say again, Janet, fuck you. And may the men in the white coats never come for you.

Of course, by posting this I'm probably doing exactly what was intended by the article – drawing attention to the Mail and it's "Oooh! Controversial!" columnists. Does Janet Street-Porter really hold such objectionable opinions? I don't know and right now I don't care. The Mail has long had a reputation as a filthy rag barely fit to wipe the arse of the country with. Every article like this that appears in it is a little worrying, because there are people out there who will read that and believe it. And that's a problem.

[UPDATE: The comments on that post are remarkably coherent for Mail readers, with all of the visible ones expressing concern or outrage over JSP's article. The Mail have closed comments on the article.]