So. This is Eric.

So.  Just over two years ago (ish), I weighed probably around 290 pounds.  I say probably because at that point in time, I blatantly refused to weigh myself, because I knew, I KNEW the number would upset me.  The last time I had known my weight was at least Spring 2014 during a doctor's visit. I knew then it was around 275, but I also knew I had gotten bigger since.  I wore a size 40 pant, XXL shirts (that were slowly getting even tighter).  My weight was a problem. This morning I weighed myself.  184 pounds.  32 waist.  Medium shirts are a little baggy. See, these aren't numbers I'm exactly celebrating.  Why?  Because just over five weeks ago I weighed 197.  I've lost 13 pounds too fast and it's causing me as much, if not more, anxiety than gaining weight. In August I started personal training because I felt like I had plateaued in my fitness journey and sincerely wanted to learn how to add strength training to my already sol...

So.  In trying not to live a binary life, it's not that I decided to give up the blog, it's just that I let it go for a time.  There were plenty of points at which I wanted to write, but the increasing guilt of multiple projects kept getting in my way, making me feel guilty for wanting to spend time writing.  After all, if I had time to write a blog post, there would be enough time to do that research/drawing/shopping/budgeting thing I'd been delaying. But corollary to that, to be perfectly honest, I spent this summer being happy.  Sometime in May, the crushing and overwhelming sense of dread and anxiety I'd been harboring about my personal life lifted.  It was a feeling that I didn't recognize at first, but eventually it started making sense.  I just wasn't worried anymore.  I started enjoying myself and enjoying my time, making friends, eating good food, getting very drunk, spending an absurd about of money on an arm sleeve tattoo... So this all ...

So.  This week brought on a full-blown level-nine anxiety attack.  Too often in our society, we throw these terms like "panic attack" and "OCD" around like they're free candy samples at the grocery store.  But to those of us who have anxiety that will occasionally find itself too unwieldy to control, a legitimate episode occurs. There really isn't much more that scares me as much as these attacks.  Your heart races, your palms get intensely sweaty, you can't focus on any task.  Sitting still takes enormous effort, pacing doesn't take any less.  Your head spins, edges blur, and you relentlessly repeat patterns of thought, over and over, until you're pretty convinced you've lost your damn mind. Imagine that you know you're racing out of control and there is feels as if there is nothing to help you calm down, like an out-of-control car without brakes. I've reflected often on how I've dealt with this previously, because I've...

So.  I used to think that mindfulness was something relegated to the last segment of the Oprah show, you know on those episodes after she clearly had read too much Deepak Chopra.  "Remember your spirit!" was the constant mantra.  So I assumed that when my therapist charged me to be more mindful, I had to invest in a bevy of scented candles and stand near linen curtains gently flapping in from a breeze coming across a sunny meadow. But as I've now learned, mindfulness is much more akin to a label maker and storage bins from IKEA rather than a sandalwood-induced interpretive dance done to Tibetan mediation bowls. Mindfulness to me is about correct labeling and storage.  Being mindful means that you stop to recognize precisely what you're feeling or thinking rather than letting it spiral out of control and cause damage.  I wrote about this pretty extensively in my last post. So why do I bring it up again?  Well, it's because, as was inevitable, I went o...

So.  One of the things I was most looking forward to about doing therapy was the idea that I'd be working to surpass all of the negative emotions that intrude on an otherwise happy life.  After all finding the truth to yourself, regularly spilling your guts to a mental health professional, you'd be on track to lead a problem-free existence. I think you know where this is heading and I shan't be coy or pithy about it.  Going to therapy doesn't at all erase negative emotions. I mean there are times when talking things out with my therapist, or even puzzling them out publicly here, gives a relief to the building pressure of a backlog of unexpressed anxiety.  Many weeks I find myself anticipating therapy like a shopping trip to the mall in which I have actual money to spend.  I'll daydream that I'm in session as a means to plan out the profound philosophies I intend to share that week and by doing so, I can make myself feel better.  In other words, therapy ...

So.  Last week, as I walked to therapy, I knew I was prepared to receive a gold star and continue to solidify my place in the Cognitive Behavior Therapy Hall of Fame™.  Why?  Because, obviously, I had everything figured out.  Writing this blog, for example, helps me process ALL of my anxiety in a structured manner and allows me to objectively examine EVERY issue in my life with skill and ease. In short, I got this.  I'm cured. In session, after unpacking a few housekeeping therapy-related items, I proudly announced that I was again "on the market" for dating.  Why?  Because I am SELF AWARE and and ready to practice dating again.  I am IN CONTROL and prepared to undertake the emotional turmoil that I WILL NEVER repeat because of my astonishing progress. My therapist in her own, beautiful, quiet way, took all of this in.  And in one word, she summed up her thoughts on my revelation: BULLSHIT* *OK, she absolutely never, ever said this...