Category: Self Worth

  • I Hate Skinny Jeans

    It’s been a while since I felt an inclination to post any reflective thoughts about my current state. I’m 100% primed for a mid-life crisis right now, but it seems like the only crisis I’m managing to acquire quite successfully is a mid-drift one. My chest is still pretty much where it used to be for the most of my life, so I’m quite comfortable that this is not a case of having a drop-chest. I’ve accepted that I am firmly part of the horizontally challenged brigade that still struggle to squeeze into their jeans of yesteryear. However, the situation is not as dire, nor as disgusting as it may sound.

    I have a very simple philosophy when it comes to maintaining my weight over the years. I’ve reached a point where my pants’ size is as big as I would ever want it to go, and I’ve been convinced of this for many years now. So each time when I feel it getting really uncomfortably tight around my waist, I know that’s a sure sign that I need to shed some baby fat. Incidentally, it turns out that baby fat is not as cute on a grown man. So the simple philosophy really just says that when my pants get too tight, instead of buying a bigger size and giving in to the bulge, I make a concerted effort to lose weight instead. My tolerance level to put up with that discomfort has obviously grown, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m only maintaining my pants size because of my anatomy extending over the belt line, rather than being constrained by it?

    Ok, enough of the disturbing mental imagery and on to the real point of this post. Going shopping for new jeans (of the same size I might add), has turned into quite a frustrating chore because of the insistence by retailers to shove all men (including us real ones) into that girlish designs that suggest that skinny jeans look good on real men. It doesn’t. It never did, and it never will. A man that wears a skinny jeans is probably a man that is either still living with his mother (for her to take care of him and not the other way around), or a man that gets his nails polished and has facial products to keep his skin looking soft and youthful. I hate skinny jeans. Especially for men. And I hate men that pamper themselves as if they’re women. We have more women than men in this world, literally and figuratively, so give it a rest already. Try being a man for a change. You’ll be surprised at how refreshing that can be. And no, being a slob doesn’t mean you’re a man, it just means you’re a slob. Usually a blob of a slob, now that I think of it.

    Shopping at several local retailers has proven that there is a pervasive assumption that men want to wear what women wear. I’m old school and proud of it. I yearn for a time when men were men and women were women, and each had equitable roles, and chivalry was still admired. But the feminists and the apologists will not allow such wholesomeness to survive, so they decided to force men into bootlegged jeans, skinny fit everything, straight leg jeans, low rise jeans, and everything but REGULAR FIT jeans! What happened to the good old regular fit? I don’t want some fanboy designer look. I simply want a comfortable pair of jeans that will allow me to do the chores around the house without having to shift my jewels back in place after each movement because of the feminine crotch that someone thought would be a good idea on a man’s jeans. It disgusts me to say the least, and physically pains me at best.

    No wonder we have such a dysfunctional society. Men are trying to prove that they’re as sassy and polished as women, and women are trying to prove that they’re equal to men. Neither are comfortable being their natural selves any longer except when they’re alone in their homes without any social stigmas to comply with or judging eyes to appease. All this is blatantly reflected in our children when they develop that vacuous mentality that allows only for self-promotion and a desperation for affirmation, while believing that any challenge is a reason to be diagnosed with a mental illness because the support structure that should be there to guide them through the insanity of adolescence is suddenly replaced with self-centred adults trying to compete with their children in appearance and social status resulting in social ills that leave even anarchists cringing with fear.

    Seriously. Can someone simply point me to a retailer that stocks men’s clothes for men in the men’s section, so that I don’t have to constantly look around me to reassure myself that I am actually shopping in the men’s section of the store?

  • Born Restless

    The only constant emotion that I can recall in my life is restlessness. Perhaps it’s a state more than it is an emotion. I don’t care. The net effect remains the same. There is little that I can leave untouched. I have an incessant need to unravel issues that plague myself or others. I can’t let sleeping dogs lie (all puns intended). There are too many dogs that pretend to be asleep and in so doing they lie through their fangs in their efforts to garner social acceptance or admiration. They’re dogs, regardless of their pretenses.

    The heart of mental illnesses lies in society, and not in the brain. There is no chemical imbalance that can be righted in order for it to right the betrayals of society at large, and significant others at the least. So instead of contending with the elephant in the room, we’d much rather pretend that we have a mental illness to deal with. At times like this I feel mentally ill. The same restlessness creeps into every thought pattern and disrupts my focus leading to angsty drivel that aspires to become a meaningful post. But I know that this restlessness is not an illness. It’s simply the reality of my attempts to live consciously.

    We’re all alone. No matter how big our social circles may appear, deep down inside only we understand the gravity of being who we are, and what we fear. The social circles are just a distraction from this reality, but in no way erases that loneliness. It’s all just a distraction, but it’s a very effective distraction which is why we’re amusing ourselves to death, only to realise too late that we were in fact distracting ourselves from life. It’s therefore no surprise that avenues like social networking and technical gadgetry are increasingly popular to all generations and not just the young ‘uns any longer. We all need the distractions equally.

    The problem is not in the distractions, or how they’re being abused. Those are just symptoms. The true problem is in a society that sees the need for escape as being a mental illness. The problem lies in academics that lack any real life experiences but feel accomplished enough because of a piece of paper to pronounce their judgement on the mental state of others without even considering the reality of life. That’s why we have the ridiculously high levels of bipolar disorder that is diagnosed in all spectrums of society, let alone depression and so many other abused terms of mental illness.

    In a dysfunctional society it’s next to impossible to find a healthy support structure to avoid the temptation of labelling our mental states. Support structures are not synonymous with support groups, but are in fact the family structures and community networks that talk to the village raising a kid, rather than the village raising an idiot. The collective responsibility of society has long been abandoned in favour of individual appeasement and selfish goals.

    The restlessness I feel is born out of this same dysfunction. But according to many, I could successfully be diagnosed with a mental illness because I have an insatiable desire to see wholesome values and communal living that is morally grounded realised in my lifetime. Perhaps I am mad. Perhaps my restlessness is in fact insanity. Perhaps my desire for old school values is merely my distraction from a society that has evolved beyond such wholesomeness. Perhaps I am that sane man that is compared to an insane society, and because the mirror with which I reflect on my life is that insane society, it is entirely possible that I may appear insane. Worse than this is the innocent soul that lacks such a realisation and still seeks affirmation from that same insane society.

  • Cyclic Sanity

    I’ve often contemplated, like many others, the reasons for time going so much faster as I get older. Many of my conclusions are no different to those considered by most others as well, yet I feel compelled to write them down after a few weeks of being particularly preoccupied with these thoughts. The obvious conclusion is that I have more that I’m responsible for doing now than I did when I was younger, so it stands to reason that I have less time available in between all the things I have to do. But that seems to only answer part of the question.

    It seems that life has become a ritual that operates in cycles. I often find myself fixated on observing, measuring, reminiscing, contemplating and doing everything within the context of new years, another month, the next week, or tomorrow to the point where I find that I convince myself that the cycles of these years, let alone the days, or even the hours, is what determines the activities that I should be planning for. Most of us, well at least the 99%, work from pay cheque to pay cheque. If we have disposable income after redistribution day, we consider ourselves fortunate, if not entirely blessed. The more disposable income we have, the more blessed we feel, the more we indulge, the more we need to focus on getting that next pay cheque to feel blessed again. This might sound like a cynic’s view of life, but there’s much truth in it.

    I forget so easily how to fill the gaps in between all the responsibilities that I have. Worse yet, I forget that many of those responsibilities can be fulfilling and rewarding rather than a duty, but the ever present demon of expectations dissuades me from raising too many expectations beyond what my duty is. And so the cycles of sanity are spawned and nurtured all at once. There is much merit in being spontaneous as opposed to measured and deliberate. I used to embrace spontaneity, but due to the prejudices of society, I feel like I’m sub-consciously suppressing my spontaneity from fear of being seen as one having a mid-life crisis.

    The staid, predictable, frightfully responsible, and entirely dependable family man is what is expected of me. It’s what a dysfunctional and disillusioned society expects of me. It’s what I demand of myself, despite it going against my own nature. I embrace responsibility willingly, because there is too much recklessness around me. But the cycles drive me insane. The painful predictability of life, of each month, of each day. It all stifles me. It smothers me. So I rebel. I say the things that are improper, and I challenge those views held sacred, not because I want to, but because I feel extremely restless and uncomfortable when I see others behave out of ritual or habit without appreciating the gaps they have at their disposal.

    I would rather have responsibilities between the gaps, rather than gaps between the responsibilities. The proverbial glass is half empty for me not because I don’t see it as half full, but simply because I know I’ve drunk more than most from it. I don’t want my glass to be half full. In fact, I don’t want a glass. I don’t want convention. Nor do I want routine or safe choices. I want to know that I am living and not just going through the motions pretending that doing something better today than I did it yesterday, which was better than I did it the day before, is sufficient fulfilment for my life. I need more than that. I need to look in someone’s eyes and see it confused and restless because I challenged them to think. Because I challenged them to work those gaps and move beyond the routine.

    Those gaps. They’re so damn elusive because when I get them, I’m usually taking a breather to recover from the demands of the routine. I must break the cycle. This cycle of seeming sanity has robbed me of the essence of what it pretends to be. Sanity is not the prevalence of order, nor is it the prevalence of function. It’s simply, by society’s standards, the presence of conformance. Conformance has killed many a creative soul, and destroyed many a great idea. More than this, conformance has destroyed the me I used to smile at. It’s time to break the cycle of sanity. For verily, as has been said already, a sane man, when compared to an insane society, must appear insane. But I think JG Ballard said it best when he said, “In a totally sane society, madness is the only freedom.”

  • The Oppression of Victim-hood

    Being oppressed does not necessarily result in victims, but sitting and waiting for someone else to lift you out of your oppressive state does. Immediately images of Palestine, Burma, Iraq, Syria and other downtrodden communities come to mind, for most anyway. However, this state of victim-hood happens on a daily basis in the most arrogant and privileged among us.

    We often look for signs of being victims in people that appear helpless and incapable of fending for or defending themselves. Perhaps this is part of the psyche that drives us to denounce our own state of victim-hood. I’ve often suggested that anger is driven by fear, and fear is in turn driven by insecurity. Given that victims are generally insecure, either physically or emotionally, it stands to reason then that those that are angry more often than not are most probably the biggest victims among us. However, given that anger is often used to subdue others, it’s easy to see the target of such aggression as being the weak, and the aggressors as being the strong. This is very far from the truth of it all.

    I’m not suggesting that the aggressors should earn our sympathy, because that would be further adding to the imbalance in society that aggressors create. Rather, what I am suggesting is that if we recognise the victim-hood in the aggressors, we’ll recognise their weakness. If we recognise their weakness, we stand a chance of rising above their oppression and finding ways to undo that which gives them power over others. Stop thinking about this in the context of war and crime. It’s easy to be distracted by those because of the unfortunate prevalence of it all. Instead, think about in the context of an ordinary life.

    There is always someone looking to assert their superiority over others. But there’s rarely enough to recognise that such an effort results from an insecurity that drives us to seek such significance because we don’t believe we’re significant by default. It’s easy to succumb to oppression because we have a world celebrating the victim-hood of all with the aggressor being life. Just yesterday I heard that a child that throws tantrums at least three times a month for the period of a year is deemed to have a psychological disorder. Where I come from, it’s a parenting disorder, not a psychological one. The fact that the parents are inept primarily because of their own insecurities further cements the views I’ve shared about the oppression that results from victim-hood. But we’re unfortunately conditioned to believe that victims should be meek creatures waiting for a hand up, while forgetting that in waiting for a hand up we give up our right to take a stand for ourselves.

    Standing up should not be the act of a hero, or a brave soul. Like Stefan Molyneux said, “Anytime you create a hero, you diminish your own capacity for greatness.” Similarly, each time you wait for a hand up, you reduce your own capacity to be you. To be independent. To be a master of your life, rather than a victim.

  • Where My Food Lies

    I believe that the primary source of my affirmation is what feeds my soul. It is pitiful however, that such food is rarely wholesome since what appeases my ego often enjoys precedence over what feeds my soul. I hear of the agony of the heart versus the struggles of the head and none of it makes sense to me. I wonder if these efforts at apportioning constraints to these fountains of angst is in fact a delusion in the making, and if the head and the heart work in perfect balance to create the perfect storm, either of rapture, or rupture.

    Everything is in perfect balance, but in our drive to sell products and rape the bank accounts of the unsuspecting, we’ve perpatuated the idea that balance is only achieved in wholesomeness. It isn’t. My level of despair has always been directly proprotional to my level of jubilation. When the one decreases, the other increases, and so it is with everything in life. To assume that there is a perfect balance that is achievable external to our own needs for affirmation is a lie that will result in horrible truths that face us when we’re taking our final breath.

    Balance is not something to be achieved, but rather something to be balanced. Only in living consciously and mindfully, are we able to determine what balance we want for ourselves rather than allowing someone else’s ideals to be projected on our lives. I do not seek the balance of a successful capitalist, nor do I seek the balance of an ascetic. But both the capitalist and the ascetic have a right to the balance that they have sought out in their lives. My balance is my own, and my source of affirmation has to be other than man if ever I am to free myself from the slavery of my ego.

    My life’s struggle has been to find balance, but unfortunately much of it has been wasted trying to acquire someone else’s balance without achieving the realisation of my own. Much life has been spent, but life is not spent yet, so with dogged determination I will continue to pursue a balance that feeds me not of this world, but one that makes me worthy of what bliss may lie beyond. This may sound naive or even ridiculous to those that see nothing beyond, but if I were to consider the potential of getting that wrong, and compare that to the peace and purpose that such a pursuit would afford me in this life, I would happily get it wrong, because in doing so, I would also get it right. My balance, that is.

  • The Pretentiousness of Self-Doubt

    Self-doubt, it seems, is insecurity cloaked in anxiety. It occurred to me one morning on my way to work this week that each time I witnessed someone in the throes of an anxiety attack, there was an underlying sense of grave insecurity that left them helpless to deal with even fleeting thoughts of burdens they couldn’t stand the thought of bearing.

    This same pretentiousness drives me to write, or to ramble. This pretence that if I spew these words, it will relieve me of the burden of realisation that accompany them. It doesn’t. I read, quite uninterestedly, the numerous reminders about death. Reminders intended to spur us into action before that moment arrives when we stare inevitability in the face pleading for one more chance to do everything we always promised ourselves we’d do before we got old. But those reminders don’t remind me, they only taunt me.

    They taunt me because they remind me not of death, but rather of my eager anticipation of it since my youngest years. And as I grew older, I grew more tired of the wait and the anguish of not knowing when. When I was 22, I revelled in the deep-seated certainty that I would not live beyond 23, and so I immersed myself in this promise of tomorrow not always holding true. Until I lived beyond that age and felt cheated out of the promise of peace.

    But this is not about death. Nor is it about life. It’s about the lies we tell ourselves for so long that eventually we even convince others that it’s true about us. It starts out with a simple insecurity, or a simple doubt about something inconsequential, but usually larger than life because of the audience rather than the deed. It starts out when we’re unconsciously focused on how we’re to be seen by another, instead of how capable we are. That’s when the paralysing fear of incompetence sets in and convinces us that it’s safer to hold back, than it is to push forward because ridicule is far more painful than an insignificant success.

    And so the circle of doubt is formed. There are many that nurture it to the point of debilitation, while others stop short at instant gratification. Instantly gratifying themselves with puny accomplishments and denying themselves the opportunity to excel beyond mediocrity. More than the debilitated ones, I pity the mediocre amongst us. They hinder us in our quest for excellence or fulfilment, because they’re always pandering to the accolades of the feeble minded. Meanwhile, their appearance of confidence in their mediocre endeavours feed that self-doubt until they reach a point in life when the lies are just not convincing any longer. That’s when the fear of being discovered lurks just beneath the skin of the faces of those pretending to be the shadow of their true selves.

    Most of us will die never realising our true potential. Worse still, most of us will die not having anyone believe in our true potential. That we will die is inevitable. That we will live is highly doubtful.

    My sincerest condolences to the sorry soul that can relate to the incoherent rant that I just attempted to disguise as a meaningful post.

  • The Sadness of Depression

    The sad part of depression is that you cannot choose happiness for the one that is depressed. It is a choice that only they themselves can make. My attempts at raising the spirits of those that seem downtrodden or just down often leaves me questioning my competence and my significance. But such questioning only lasts as long as it takes for me to realise that it’s not about me, nor are the choices mine to make. I sometimes think the greatest gift to a depressed soul is acting out their potential in plain view of them, without throwing it in their face, regardless of the motivation. But then again, maybe not, because it can so easily be mistaken for antagonism or condescension.

    I’ve slipped into that trap of condescension many times, despite it never being deliberate. That trap where I go off on a tangent and lecture others about why they should have no reason to be depressed, while forgetting that depression is simply a secondary emotion. It is the cloak of what lies beneath. It’s the guard that keeps us safe from facing what we truly fear. At least it has been for me on many occasions. The underlying fear of rejection, or potential of being insignificant kept me recoiled in the safe space that I created for myself. Worse still, the fear of failure on a grand scale that would rob me of any shards of credibility that I was clinging to.

    But it’s so easy to forget all that when I see myself reflected in the weary grimaces of others. Because I’ve seemingly risen above my last entanglement with the darkness, my ego drives me to believe that I’m in a position to tell others how to do it. I’m not. I never was. And I suddenly regret every indulgence that led me to spew unsolicited advice to those that seemed to be in a space darker than my own. I know it’s not what I needed. I know it’s not what turned the tables for me, because no matter how much someone says about the right things to do to escape that darkness, it was only when I detached myself from the experiences that weighed me down that I realised that the experience didn’t define me. The callous or crass behaviour of others was not a reflection of my worth. It was simply an insight into their weaknesses and fears. But they projected it on me, and I was a willing victim because I didn’t believe I was worth any more than they allowed me to be.

    I was wrong. In more ways than one, I was wrong. Sometimes getting it wrong turned out beautifully, and sometimes it drove me further away from reality. But getting it wrong was never the end of the road. It was always the beginning of a new one.

  • That Hyper Acidity Demon

    I’ve been struggling with hyper-acidity for a few years now. Like most illnesses, I prefer to take the holistic approach to addressing it rather than the instant gratification approach that calls for pills and reckless abandon in modern medicine. So over the years, I observed various tendencies within myself that seem to trigger the acidity spikes that often feel like a butcher’s hook has been inserted in my abdomen from below and is being pulled downwards with enough force that threatens to disembowel me. So I thought I’d share a few pointers about what has and hasn’t worked for me.

    Early on, I visited the doctor to identify the cause of the pain in my stomach. They immediately suspected an ulcer and promptly placed me on medication for this. So I received a standard dose of Nexium and was given some Gaviscon to go with it. It didn’t work. So I went back to the doctor to see what could be the problem. This time, because of the intensity of the pain and discomfort (tmi warning) and because of the fact that my stool was starting to get a mucose texture to it, I was given a double dose of antibiotics (i.e. two different antibiotics simultaneously) over a two week period, including a double dose of Nexium for a month. It didn’t work. The next step suggested by the doctor was a gastroscopy. The idea of having a tube shoved down my throat didn’t appeal to me, so I politely declined and set out trying to understand this issue more holistically.

    After a chance meeting with an iridologist at a local pharmacy, I discovered a homoeopathic tea that relieved the symptoms within 2 or 3 days, literally! Unfortunately, as fate would have it, that pharmacy closed down and the tea that was made as a family remedy by that lady disappeared along with it. But I recalled seeing that fennel was one of the active ingredients in that tea, so I got myself some fennel tea to try to deal with the discomfort of the acidity. I also came across a book by Louise L. Hay that provides insights into the association between emotional or mental state, and our physical state. This suggested that acidity was caused by an excessive need to please others. It made perfect sense because at the time, I was going through an absolutely troubling time in my marriage, which affected my work performance, which left me desperately trying to appease both my wife, my boss, and my colleagues at the same time. However, I just saw it as stress before that point, but after reading what Louise had to say, I narrowed it down to that effort to appease. Also worth noting is that with the stress, my caffeine intake increased substantially because I was struggling to sleep and needed an energy boost more often than not. So energy drinks and filtered coffee became my staple diet which only made matters worse.

    So I started adjusting my mindset to get more perspective on what was happening. I realised that trying to appease was never sustainable, so I started accepting my limitations in pleasing others or meeting their expectations, and slowly but surely it reduced the intensity of the acidity. But the damage had been done, so I was now predisposed to hyper-acidity because my love for orange juice suddenly became my worst enemy.

    To cut a long story short, after many years of finding ways to deal with hyper-acidity without invasive medical treatment, I’ve found that the following works well for me.

    1. Having peanut butter on toast with tea. For some reason, I’ve found that the caffeine in tea doesn’t affect my acidity, whereas coffee nails it almost immediately. Drinking filter coffee is like committing harakiri.
    2. I’m using a probiotic called Probiflora with 4 strains of bacteria. There’s one with 9 strains as well, but I’m hoping I’ll never need that one. It seems to help neutralise the stomach acids by just taking one each day as needed.
    3. I completely avoid Gaviscon and similar antacids. I do use fruit salts from time to time (a local brand called ENO works exceptionally well) which seems effective at alleviating the acid build up after an overly indulgent meal.
    4. Hyper-acidity usually makes me feel bloated and generally lethargic because of the other symptoms that it invokes, so I’ve found that taking a good (preferably natural) source of digestive enzymes usually helps alleviate the bloatedness as well.
    5. Fennel tea also works well, or rooibos tea, if you have access to that, to alleviate the bloated feeling that acidity causes. It’s particularly effective to maintain the health of your digestive system when under stress.
    6. I avoid sugar completely, and I avoid acidic fruit juices completely. The sugar is simply because after getting used to the taste of natural non-radiarised honey, I can’t stand the artificial sweetness that sugar offers.
    7. When my acid really spikes, I stay away from tomatoes, white flour products and cheeses, including acidic fruits like oranges, naartjies, pineapples and most berries, especially strawberries.
    8. Most importantly, I remind myself that my objective in life is not to please people, but simply to do right by them. If they’re not happy with me, and I’m being true to myself in the process, then I accept that I cannot make them happy and maintain as amicable a relationship as is warranted, or politely part ways if needed.

    I hope that helps, because I see many people suffering with massive discomfort from hyper-acidity these days, and more often than not, they’re either on chronic medication or insane diets which is even more difficult to stick to because hyper-acidity often makes me feel hungry more often than not, which results in horrible weight gain, which nails my self-image, which increases my stress levels and perpetuates that vicious cycle. Hopefully this post will spare someone the torment of that vicious cycle.