Coping

BY: JASON RAYNER

The face of someone who has no idea how he’s actually feeling.

There isn’t a lot to say about the initial feeling of quarantine that hasn’t already been covered. And if I’m being honest, I still feel fairly traumatized by it and I most likely won’t process it all completely until years from now. Because that’s what happens when enduring a collective trauma like this.

As we move into the next month of living life in isolation, some of the stress of the situation may dissipate but overall, I find myself feeling the same. I may have cut down on self monitoring every possible symptom of COVID by about 70%, but I still don’t feel like myself. I still feel simultaneously tired and restless, it’s still a struggle to care about health and fitness, I still don’t feel particularly motivated, and I miss my friends.  

I still don’t know how to cope. 

And judging by the internet, I would guess none of us really know how to cope. Or sorry, the curated version of ourselves on the internet don’t know how to cope.

Since the onset of the pandemic, there have been several distinct groups of social media posters. There are the people that post every possible news story with their very own hot take (although let’s be real, they’ve probably only read the headline that doesn’t even match the content of the story). There are the people who insist on posting about their progress - pages of screenplays or books they are writing, the closets they’ve cleaned out, or photos of their daily fitness stats. These posts are the most innocuous but also confusing, as I don’t actually know what the point of these posts are supposed to be. Then again, I didn’t really understand the point of the posts before we were quarantined, so I’ll just move on. 

Then there are the two groups that are on seemingly opposite ends of the posting spectrum but are actually the same. They are the groups obsessed with productivity. There are those that believe this is the time for self improvement, the time for us to get that hot body, so we can drive that Maserati. Their counterparts are those that post political rant after political rant telling you that if you’re spending your days doing anything other than being socially engaged, you’re wasting your time. Stop watching Netflix and stop the patriarchy! (As if a girl can’t do two things at once! Also, I’m pretty sure fighting the patriarchy is a constant, ongoing fight that won’t be toppled while we are all sitting in quarantine and guilting people for watching TV is kind of a stretch. Also art is a great tool for education and  can be used to help in the fight to topple the patriarchy…but, I digress).

The difficult thing to swallow about all of these different sources coming at us is that they are all coming from the same place. We all feel helpless. We all feel defeated. We all have no control over anything in our lives right now so we turn to the internet to try and control a space where our voices are amplified. I don’t think the majority of people who post are trying to be hurtful or be malicious, but I also think we don’t realize that in a time where we are all desperate for connections with each other, everyone’s online voice is heightened. A person’s social media account isn’t just a place for people to share their own thoughts, it has a built in audience full of people that have nothing else to do but watch.

We can repeat over and over again that our social media accounts are not our actual experiences. They are carefully crafted images that hide what’s really going on. A sly smile can hide the true panic unfolding in someone’s mind. Self deprecation and memes about being stuck inside help distract from stress. But being inundated by post after post of everyone shouting into the void of the internet can get overwhelming, especially since we seldom say what we’re really feeling, allowing us to truly connect in a time when we need connection. 

So I’m here to say, even a month in, I don’t feel motivated. If I write, I’m doing it for a distraction. If I’m being honest, I doubt anyone is going to create a great piece of art about isolation while in isolation (I’m already dreading the indies about [straight white] couples learning to deal with their crumbling relationships during the pandemic).

It’s okay to be emotionally fragile. I feel like even on a good day, I have dark spells. It’s okay to be afraid of getting sick, or to be concerned about the health of your loved ones. I think about it often, too. It’s okay to worry about your financial security while also not caring about diet, fitness, or feeling motivated. Trust me, I’m there too. 

I feel like it needs to be repeated over and over because the thing no one seems to really showcase online is vulnerability. It feels like we spend so much time attaching our worth to how much we do. We are so blinded by the concept of success that I don’t even think we know what it truly means. I woke up on a true day off - I’m in between contracts and on CERB - and didn’t know what to do with myself unless I started creating work for myself. If I spend a Wednesday not wanting to do anything, I feel guilty, despite not feeling motivated. Even writing this blog post has been a struggle, with me stopping to google fun colours I could dye my hair, (everything is sold out so I guess I’m not that original), thinking about upkeep of the beard I’ve started growing, and thinking about which type of crackers I want as a snack (this actually is not different from my actual writing process). The reason why I’m writing this isn’t as a way to show my awesome writing discipline - although I admit the very pressure to be productive that I’m calling out in this blog post is looming over me - but as a way to process and hope that other people might be feeling the same as me right now, because like most people, I’m craving some honest, vulnerable connection. 

I believe there’s power in saying “I’m just getting by” without asking for advice or words of encouragement. The word unprecedented gets thrown around a lot, and I think it’s pretty accurate. We are all just figuring it out. And believe me, that is enough. Because right now, the most important thing to me right now is surviving. 

We’ve created a culture that is truly unsustainable and even as the holes are being poked through it, it still feels scary to create a space to be vulnerable and say “hey, I’m tired and I need to do nothing while I process”. Instead we try to start dialogues about how we can be doing more. I’m happy for people who can do a lot, but I’m really happy to chat with people about doing nothing but feeling the immediacy of this moment. 

Sometimes you can’t do anything, and that’s fine. Vulnerability is strength, and believing that is sometimes very difficult. And that’s okay too. 

We’re doing amazing, sweetie.

No Really, I Don't Want Children

BY: JASON RAYNER

Me, trying to find a way to tell someone I don’t want kids.

I’ve always been different. In high school, my friends would talk about their crushes and sex with the opposite gender, and I would sit silently realizing that the only people I felt attraction to were my male classmates. While I ended up going to university and completing a psychology degree, I turned away from the idea of of grad school or building a career related to said degree, to pursue a career in writing and film. While countless people around me are settled into long term relationships, I don’t know how to date - mostly because I don’t understand how to fit in seeing someone romantically with my busy schedule of binge watching my stories and seeing my friends. I’m also not quite sure I understand the concept of having sex with the same person indefinitely.

While I see that my experiences often don’t match the status quo, they’ve always felt pretty natural to me. As I’ve gotten older, I haven’t really put much thought into how these things separate me from others. In fact, it wasn’t until this past holiday season, amongst the parade of dinners, drinks, and gossiping with various friends and family that are outside my immediate circle, that I realized how different my lifestyle is from other people my age.

It was somewhere in the middle of my approximately 73rd dinner with a friend where I realized a pattern. Every conversation seemed to revolve around who was getting married, buying homes, and to my shock, having kids. While I do have many friends who are married, own homes, and are thinking about having kids, I have just as many who are not. I realized that even as I’ve been attending weddings and housewarmings over the years, I’ve never really registered how common these things were for people my age. So many people were moving through adulthood briskly, with a set of personal goals accomplished that I haven’t even thought about.

As soon as my friend left, I promptly finished whatever wine was left in the bottle and started thinking. Not only about what my life would be like if I followed a different path, but more importantly, if I even wanted any of these things.

A lot of these answers were easy. I’m in such a different economic stratosphere that I can’t even begin to think about owning a home and I’m more than okay with that. I’m doing the work to be satisfied with my career, and I’m not willing to sacrifice happiness for money - although it is a tad annoying that my happiness has to come from creative expression, perhaps the least assured form of financial stability.

Then there is marriage. My life as a partially-by-choice/chronically single person is for another essay but, I also don’t feel too worried about having to get married. It’s something I could see myself doing (I do love parties), yet I can easily see myself being content with a significant other and skipping the legalities.

The easiest answer however, is the one that I feel I’m not supposed to express.

I don’t want children.

At all.

Seriously.

Taking this stance, is of course very different as a male, especially as a gay male. I’m aware that women have a large number of factors placed on them, including their own hormones and bodies practically screaming at them to have children. The only thing I do know, is that all of us  - regardless of gender and sexual orientation - are at some point in our lives, expected to want to have kids (to the point that it’s weaponized against many members of the LGBTQ+ community when they come out).

I can already hear the choruses of people saying “well, you never know”, or “never say never”, or my personal favourite, “don’t say that!”.

In fact, even while writing this piece I have encountered people I barely know telling me how much I need children in my life. No word of a lie, earlier today a man at work I don’t know told me I was “missing out” because I didn’t have kids, nephews, or nieces (which by the way, is hard to have when you’re an only child and single). He then asked who would take care of me when I was older as if that is the true incentive for having a child (also, wow that’s fucking grim, and again this was from a man whose name I don’t even know).

Even though I’ve known this for so long, even though I’m stating it as plain fact, I’m still treated as if my feelings are temporary. Most people in my life at some point  - and I mean people both with and without children - love to bring up hypotheticals. They speak of this magical man that I’ll fall in love, who will want children so much that he will convince me to have them. Of course, this ignores my choices and how little I want to have children. This is a ridiculous of argument because, while being a dealbreaker, it’s also a pretty good sign that someone who wants kids desperately is not a compatible spouse for me. It’s also worth noting that most people seem to forget that as a gay male, the only way to have a child is to actively want it. Adoption and surrogacy are things that require a never ending well of planning, money, and effort. There are no unplanned pregnancies between two men.

The most offensive assumption I get from people is that something must have happened to me as a child to make me feel this way. Except, my childhood was awesome. As a child I wasn’t really that into children friendly things. My tastes have always been more adult. In grade five, I was obsessed with TV shows like ER and Seinfeld - even if I didn’t fully understand them. I remember telling my grade three class my favourite movie was The Pelican Brief and begged my dad to take me to see Seven when I was nine (he did; we both loved it). Even when I did something more child friendly like going swimming, I would spend my time underwater trying to figure out why Alanis Morissette was so angry on Jagged Little Pill, and then swim over to talk about it with the adult (but in actuality probably, teen) lifeguard. I was only really interested in my peers when we got older and their tastes caught up to mine.

Simply put, I’m not a paternal person. I can be selfish. I have very little patience (like, very little). I have aspirations and goals that do not prioritize a child - and most importantly, I don’t want to make space to prioritize a child. I’m loving, and I know that if I had a child I would drive myself crazy worrying about them. It’s like hearing someone tell you how hot a plate is and touching it anyway. Except I’m not curious enough to touch the plate. Again, it isn’t lost on me that I just compared a child to a burn, which again is just proof that I am not built for that life.

It’s not that I actively dislike kids, either (although I will sometimes lean into this idea to watch people’s reactions). I do however hate kid culture as perpetuated by adults. I hate temper tantrums. I hate the way many parents allow their children to behave.

Even after being so declarative, I still feel like I have to write a disclaimer, making sure not to offend anyone with kids or anyone who wants kids. It’s truly astonishing how often saying you don’t want children is taken as if its a personal attack or criticism on someone’s choice to have them. The thing is, I get why people want them. If I’m friends with you, or related to you, and you have a kid, I’ll (probably) really adore your kids and I’ll totally watch Paddington with them (but let’s be real, I’ll probably be a much better uncle-ish figure when I can show them Greta Gerwig movies and they can have a glass of wine with me). That being said, I also don’t really want to be your babysitter (unless you’re really in a bind, and in that case, duh I’ll do it), and I will absolutely never speak to your child in a baby voice.

I don’t want kids, and I know that the fact that I don’t want them is evidence enough that I shouldn’t have them. I’ve felt this way since I was at least 18 years old. Even after explaining myself, I’m sure people reading this will still think that I’m being dramatic. People will still try to get me to hold their babies even after I politely say no thank you, and strangers will continue to question me if I don’t gush over the idea of having a child. And while even I am not immune to a cute photo on Instagram or a funny precocious child moment, more often than not I’m not really paying attention when your social media accounts and conversations are inundated with baby talk.

I’m finally in a place where I know what I don’t want - and while it may not be as satisfying as knowing what I do want, it’s definitely a nice way to get there. So no really, I don’t want children. And I don’t feel bad about it.

Resolutions

BY: JASON RAYNER

New age, new year, new me?

We are now just a little more than a week into 2019. Which is just enough time into the year for any short term resolutions to have been broken.

Does that sound cynical? It’s meant to. Because, I hate New Year resolutions. Or at least, I hate what they’ve become.

I do like the symbolism of resolutions. In all honesty, I kind love the idea of using it as a way to divide the chapters of my life. I also have a birthday at the end of the year and it makes it almost impossible to not think of my age and the calendar year as being tied together as segments of my life. In fact, I even like the symbolism of looking back and noting a few things that you would like to change.

It used to be that resolutions were attainable changes that you wanted to make to your life. Things like reading more, spending less money, quitting smoking. Now they aren’t even called resolutions. The language has changed to sound more evolved and important. They’re coded as “manifestations” or “year paths”.

Which is fine. Call it what you want. It’s the content that I take issue with. No longer are these small changes made to better yourself. Instead they’ve transformed into a list of grandstanding hopes and dreams, disguised as achievable goals. Now resolutions are things like “by the end of the year, I will have a development deal with Netflix”, or “I am going to publish my book and get it on the bestsellers list”, or “I will run a successful business by the end of 2019”. This isn’t to say that any of these things can’t happen - in fact, I genuinely hope they happen for a lot of good people. I also love ambition, and these are good career goals to work toward. However, to expect major changes to take place in a 365-day time period isn’t only unrealistic but, also unfair pressure to place on one person’s psyche. Especially when a lot of the time, these are things that aren’t entirely up to you.

It’s hard enough to keep simple resolutions. Usually all it takes is a cold Saturday for a bottle of red wine to be opened up and break a dry January. Gym memberships can be bought but the harder thing is actually making time to go to the gym. Staying positive works until you log on to Twitter and have your own buffet of things to make you feel blinded by rage and frustration.

So why we do this to ourselves? Because I don’t know about you dear reader, but all this does is leave me feeling disappointed; unsatisfied that I have not done enough.

At the risk of sounding my age, I do blame social media for a lot of this. In the last few weeks I have been inundated with memes and Instagram posts written with the “Notes” app about all of the things people plan to achieve and how they plan on achieving them. I’ve been told to take a dream and put a date to it so it becomes a goal. I’ve been told to look in to a mirror and say what I want out loud. I’ve been told that a lot of people absolutely cannot stop, and will not under any circumstances, stop.

And I’m saying fuck it.

I am sick and tired of “grind” culture. I am sick of hearing people talking about hustling. I’m genuinely horrified when I hear stories of people writing over their Christmas holidays, or working from home while battling a terrible flu, or when I catch myself feeling guilty for needing a vacation.

I’m sure making grand resolutions can be beneficial for some people. I’m not one of them.

Going back, I can see that it has never worked for me. In fact, I’m starting to realize it’s actually been detrimental to my mental health. This is what is responsible for leaving me in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, obsessing over my age and what I feel like I should have already accomplished (even as I type this I’m tempted to google “what are the expectations for the average 33 year old Canadian?”). It’s what leads me to compare myself to others and what successes they have had. I never even bother to take into account other factors such as privilege, access, luck, and the work they have done to get to where they are. Mostly because I’m too obsessed with seeing how I measure up. In fact, that becomes such an obsession that I don’t actually get anything else done.

Because in the midst of panic, I create more and more goals to list to anyone who will listen. You’d be surprised by how much time time talking about my ambitions to anyone who will listen actually takes. I may feel a high talking to people about the several projects I have in the works but, in the end they don’t end up going farther than that because I’m too busy telling myself to hustle and plan the next milestone in my life that I need to hit.

I’m starting to realize that maybe life isn’t like a season of Stranger Things with a neat and tidy serialized arc. If anything it’s more like a season The Good Wife, where development gets interrupted constantly by zany and unpredictable cases of the week.

I’m aware that my anti-resolution sentiment can be seen as a resolution. Perhaps it is. I just know that I am giving up on the idea that a new year will change everything. Good and bad things happen regardless or the time of the year. Motivation is a constant, and I’m tired of being trapped in an inferiority complex. I wish it was as easy as cutting ties with social media (as if I’m giving up Instagram and miss out on daily photos of Gus Kenworthy and Antoni Porowski), and I’ll probably still organize my life based on periods of time, usually by year. I just want to reject any pressure that is put on me to constantly be working and do more.

So yes, 2019 is a new year and I do have a new attitude. It’s coincidental, I swear!

Dear Cis Straight (White) Women,

BY: JASON RAYNER

Dear Cis Straight (White) Women,

There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about for a while now. Something that initially seemed harmless but has grown to be a bit of - well…a problem. I’d like to to discuss your recent behaviour in gay bars.

I’m sure there is already a fair share of you reading this that are formulating an opinion on what I have to say. Please, stay with me and read through this. Because in most cases, I appreciate your presence in gay bars. I just think we need to talk about what being an ally in a queer space actually entails.

Of course, this is also a generalization. I know this isn’t all of you. And yes, I’m kind of singling out cis straight white women (let’s call them CS(W)W) because honestly, they are who make up the largest group I would like to address. They also tend to be blonde women that go by names like Lindsay or Kaylee, but I think that might just be a really strange coincidence.

This is to the CS(W)W who show up to the gay bar without any of their queer friends. This is to the CS(W)W at the gay bar who push past me (often quite aggressively; which I don’t understand - it’s not like they’re giving away free drinks or commemorative key chains) so that they can get to the front of the drag show. This is to the CS(W)W that are on the packed dance floor, elbows out and pushing other people, screaming that they don’t have enough room to dance, even though the space is jam packed and everyone is kind of just jostling from side to side awkwardly. This is to the CS(W)W who go dancing in a large group without any queer friends, usually on a stage or riser or really anywhere else that makes you the center of attention, and grab random gay men and begin to grind on them, touching various parts of their bodies because there is no sexual attraction, therefore you believe it is safe. This is especially to the CS(W)W who show up with their bachelorette parties, and while I know it’s unintentional, you treat the whole event like a fun novelty where the queens on stage and patrons of the bar are simply accessories and good Instagram stories.

These are just some of the now common occurrences I’ve been seeing when I’ve been out at gay bars lately.

Everyone is welcome at a gay bar, that goes without saying. Some of my fondest memories involve me being a young queer at a gay bar surrounded by my closest straight girlfriends. I’m lucky enough to be able to even share that space with straight male friends, which is pretty incredible. It’s just, well...I hate to break this to you but...as a cis straight person - you are a guest at our party.

I am very aware that the bar scene around the city is gross if you’re a female. I’m also aware that I have (white) male privilege and I cannot accurately understand how frustrating and scary it must be to deal with straight men approaching you like they are entitled to your attention. Toxic masculinity is a shit show and comes out in spades in bar culture, and sometimes you want to be able to get drunk and dance with your friends. A gay bar can seem like a safer refuge, and that is fair. Going to a gay bar and taking ownership over the space however, is not the answer. It is invoking your heterosexual privilege, demanding that you get priority over the community that the space was created for. More importantly, going to a gay bar without any queer friends is never the answer. The space we have carved out at gay bars is more than just a night out for us.

The mere existence of a gay bar is political. They are a safe space. They are a place where we can see ourselves, where we can meet other queer folk, where we can dance freely without worrying about being judged. We can consensually kiss who we want, we can be affectionate with our partners (or if you’re me, more likely a stranger), we can fall in love, and depending on the bar, we can get sexual. All in public. We have created a space to do this safely. These are freedoms that even in the best of times, even in a city like Toronto, feel limited outside the walls of a gay bar.

The reason there is no such thing as a “straight bar” is because every other bar and space is automatically given the inherent privilege of cisgender heteronormativity. It’s that heteronormativity that makes a queer like me afraid to go dance somewhere outside the village because, even if there is a special gay night at a west end bar, I still have to worry that some bro named Doug is going to call me or my friends a fag on our way home. It’s why even walking down a street with a partner outside of the village, I have to think twice about holding hands with him. I never know how safe I am. Even as a cis white gay male, which I would be very ignorant to not acknowledge comes with a certain amount of privilege within the gay community, I still feel like I have to navigate my queerness around the city. It’s a constant negotiation, and one that I’m sure most if not all queer people also have to reconcile on a regular basis.

Most importantly, please be aware of how you interact with other gay men. Just like you, sometimes I just want to dance with my friends, and if I’m going to get pulled into a grinding situation, I want it to be a consensual experience with a sexy man who is cross between Antoni from Queer Eye and Adam Rippon. If I do end up kissing a cutie, please do not tell me how hot we look. It’s creepy and inappropriate. Oh, and most importantly, if you are there to watch something harmless and fun like a Best Ass contest, do not run to the front and start smacking the asses of the participants (again, these aren’t wild scenarios, these are actual things I’ve experienced and seen firsthand).

So yes, of course you are welcome at a gay bar. Just please, when you show up, remember that you get to leave the gay bar and return to society, where your identity as a heterosexual is common and accepted, and your basic human rights are never up for debate come election time. Be an ally, and show up with your queer friends. Of course drag queens are amazing, and Drag Race really is one of the best shows on TV, but it’s our culture. We let you think that you discovered Robyn but we can’t let push us aside in our spaces.

Thanks for reading this and being so understanding. I absolutely love the fact that there is a love for our culture, and I’m happy that you want to be a part of it. It’s exciting that you are an ally, no matter how far we’ve come, we still need them. I look forward to enjoying a drag show with you and your queer friends (who are not accessories - but you know that already). And Robyn is rad and we should all love her together.

Best Wishes,

Jason

P.S. Since I have you on the line, can I just mention two other things? I’ll be quick I promise!

• What is up with the gender reveal parties? Gender is a construct, and while I love an excuse for cake, creating an event where your child is forced to conform to these gender constructs before they are even born is gross. So stop it. Please. You’re better than this nonsense.

• What is with the obsession over gender roles within your relationship? You are both capable of paying, you are both capable of cooking and cleaning, and you are both capable of proposing to each other.

Skinny

BY: JASON RAYNER

Me this past summer, in a photo where I actually think I look…cute!

I am not in love with my body. That simple statement holds so much weight (pun intended). It feels like a deep dark confession. Because it kind of is. At least, it’s not something you’re supposed to acknowledge so publicly. I can promise you, I’m not writing this for pity or compliments. It isn’t a cry for help. It definitely is not meant a form of self deprecation where I search for assurance that I look good. It is just an honest statement. One that I think is relatable to many. Or at least I hope so.

Since I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been completely satisfied with my body. I’ve had moments where I’ve felt fleeting excitement about seeing the results from fitness or diet, usually measured by things like a shirt fitting looser than usual. However, even those moments of are overshadowed by the fact that there is always more work to do. It doesn’t matter how many essays I read on body positivity, how closely I monitor the calories (read carbs) that I ingest, how many Instagram photos I take from the best possible angles (one chin only and absolutely no belly showing through a shirt, thank you very much), I have always assumed that I would be able to truly love my body if I weighed less. If I was skinny.

I should start with a little history. When I was young, I was very overweight. My body just could not metabolize food like my parents’ did. Even if I ate moderately healthy, I put weight on. At 11, I got frustrated and told my parents I wanted to ask my doctor for help. I was tired of not looking like the other kids at school, and even more importantly, I was tired of being made fun of because of it. My doctor introduced me to a radical new diet, called the Atkins diet (and it was definitely in its craziest incarnation back then). The result? Well, I lost a lot of weight. And I was happy. Until I was miserable because I would eat the same thing every day and even at 11 I was able to recognize that I’m an Italian who loves bread. So then I ate everything. Of course I would buy fries with my friends after school - they were thin and couldn’t gain weight. I was thin-ish so I couldn’t possibly gain weight either. And then I did. I gained more weight than ever. Throughout my entire teenage years, I was fat. There is no other way to describe it.

Then, at 20, I had enough. I felt horrible about my body. I felt ugly. I was invisible. So I decided to start exercising and was militant about everything that I ate. And because my metabolism at 20 is not what it is at 30 (everything they say is true, and that sucks, let me tell you - that asshole slows the fuck down!), I was able to lose a lot of weight again.

Which leads me to how I have spent the last 12 years of my life, petrified that I will gain that weight back. I’ve definitely fluctuated but I have also been very aware of everything that I ingest. And every day, no matter how much I weigh, I always feel like a work in progress. I always see a roll or loose skin, eternally convinced there is “10 pounds to go”.

Because I know myself and my obsession with accomplishing goals, I vowed to never weigh myself, which actually is one of the smartest things I’ve ever done. I actually have no idea what I weigh, and any instance where I need to provide my weight (hi, acting resume!), I would just make up a number. Because I put my body under such scrutiny, I notice every little change. In my 20s I was never satisfied. Now I see photos of myself in my early 20s and I think “what the fuck, I was a so thin! I was a skinny bitch!”

Because that’s what it all really means; being skinny. It’s what it still means. It’s why, when I went from being an XL to someone who can fit into a small, I felt like I accomplished something. Never mind the fact that I have short legs and a long torso and most small sized shirts rise right up my torso. I feel validation because at least it fit my body. It’s why I struggle with oversize clothing. I may decide that Armie Hammer’s billowy dress shirts and short shorts in Call Me By Your Name is my fashion inspiration (of course I have a reference to that movie), but every time I put on a baggy shirt, I worry I’ll get too comfortable in loose clothing and fill it out. Because even though I have an athletic build, with a big chest, and muscular legs, I’m still trying to accomplish the goal of being skinny. Who cares if my body isn’t built like that?

The goal of being skinny is so deeply ingrained into our culture that we don’t really know how to judge beauty by any other standards. The lower the number on the scale, the greater the value in physical appearance. The only exception to this rule is if you’re muscular. Then you are allowed to weigh more but you should probably have close to 0% body fat to make up for it.

As a gay man, it feels like those are the only options, as if beauty is a binary. Despite the fact that I am generally not attracted to men that fit into either of those categories, I feel unattractive or inferior for not fitting into either category. As a man, I’m not really allowed to even talk about this.

It feels sad to say that so much of this desire is rooted in vanity. Except it isn’t. Because the obsession with being skinny also affects the way we treat other people. When I was fat, I was invisible. I want to say literally because it felt like that. I would walk into stores and people would not greet me. Cashiers wouldn’t make eye contact or indulge in small talk. Suddenly I lost weight and I would be chased down by every 40 something year old woman I could only assume went by a name like Lorraine or Suse at H&M, yelling at me for my poor customer service because they thought I worked at the store. Losing weight meant I could wear the clothes. I could look the part.

I’m pretty sure that part of the reason why I never notice someone checking me out or recognize when someone is flirting with me was because in my teen years, no one was. I was stripped of sexuality.

This obsession with being skinny has all come to a head recently when I started going to the gym because well, at 31, I was understanding the general importance of health. Naively, because my attitude had slightly changed, I thought it would be different. I would be in control. So I said yes to the physical assessment. When they insisted that I had to get on a scale and insisted on telling me my exact weight, I felt defeated. The conversation was again about results, and those results were related to size. I felt awful but since I had already put down a portion of my limited income, I decided to commit, even fantasizing about finally losing those 10 pounds that have been haunting me. So I started working out hard. And with actual machines as opposed to just running on a treadmill for 45 minutes. And then something happened. My waist size didn’t change, but my legs looked good, and I had a hard time getting on certain pants. Some clothes fit better but got tight in specific areas, like my arms. I had been gaining muscle. I was growing into my body properly. I wasn’t getting skinnier at all. I was getting kind of...well, thick.

This normally would be the part of the article where I then talk about the beauty of being healthy and loving my body. But I’m not there yet.

Currently, I spend a fair amount of time telling anyone who would listen that I was done being skinny, that it’s time to get thick. The more I repeat it, the more I can feel confident about my changing body. I’m trying really hard to believe that being skinny isn’t important. Except I still catch myself sucking in my stomach whenever I walk by a mirror.

I’m writing this because I am actively trying to reject the idea that there are rules as to what types of bodies are seen as beautiful. I’m writing this because while I can appreciate and love everyone else’s different body types, I need to learn to love and appreciate mine. I’m writing this in hopes that I can eventually embrace the type of body that I have. I’m writing this because having it in writing makes it easier to make me actually believe the message I’m trying to tell myself.

I don’t love my body right now, but hopefully one day I will. I also like junk food. And good wine. And again, bread. I go the gym because I genuinely want to treat my body well - yes, I do care about the health factor that goes along with the gym, and yes I like the way eating well and post-exercise feels (the actual act of exercising is still one of my least favourite activities, what can I say?). I’m beginning to let go of the fact that being skinny isn’t going to make me happy or complete, or more importantly, something that should be a goal. It isn’t easy. I am probably going to still make disparaging jokes about being wanting to lose weight. But I’m going to try to change the way I think. And coming clean in an essay is a good place to start. So I’ll start with that.