Struggle is a word common in the personal vocabulary of billions. Without regard to those that were fed with a silver spoon and gifted lifes pleasures on a gold-plated platter, everyone experiences the word "struggle" at one point in their life. More often than not, it's a word that is encountered on many fronts.
Within the 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 4.1 seconds that occupy each day on Earth, I have a few struggles of my own. As one may guess, these are not great struggles by any means. Food is on my plate, muscles attached to my bones, and a beating heart within my chest. The basic necessities to live and even play are at my fingertips. My struggles are subjective.
But they're struggles, none the less.
I don't struggle to wake up, or to wash myself. Struggle is nowhere to be seen during the process of boiling water for my morning thermos of coffee. Struggle begins to peak over the horizon as the students flow into the schoolyard. Thirteen small portions of angst stream into my fourth grade classroom like tetris pieces cascading down upon each other; some fitting perfectly where they should fit, but most doing as they please while I try to organize amidst the chaos.
It's not that I don't like them. I care for most of my fourth graders far beyond any expectations I had coming into this position. When they are together and as the hours pass, it's an growing hurricane. If you're not familiar in regards to hurricane formation, let me help. Small pockets of storms that bubble up over warm ocean waters. These small thunderstorms start rotating around a centerpoint of low pressure, and as they grow, more and more thunderstorms form. A short while later, you've got a hurricane.
A rotating superstorm of chaos and destruction. These small thunderstorms on their own can be guided and educated. They can be controlled and even at times exhibit respectful and admirable qualities. However when they gather around each other, a superstorm forms. I have a three-class period every day from 10:00am until Noon, where I try to guide and instruct a classroom of restless fourth graders. It just takes a thrown pencil or foot skirmish under a desk to form that centerpoint of low pressure: the one that the thunderstorms gather around. The point of chaos.
My fingertips do not exhibit the endurance to describe life after the 12:30pm lunch period. All that's left is a trail of devastation and despair. I just want to go home.
But my struggle does not stop there.
Body dysmorphia; a mental disease that has plagued me for years, but one I cannot seem to overcome. While adventuring in Honduras, my weight has admittedly increased over the previous few months. I participated in the sport of Wrestling for nearly ten years, where I was never the strongest, best, or most athletic. Day in and day out, I was subjected to drastic weight-cutting measures, but I was always left with a lackluster body.
My stomach and sides stick out a bit. My chest could be called "flabby". I never had an athletic physique during my athletic years, and it still avoids me to this day. I want better. I refrain from eating until three or four o'clock in the afternoon, where I begin my daily caloric intake of between 1,500 and 1,700 calories. Given my active position as a teacher and my nearly 15,000 steps per day, I figure this should be enough to keep me on my track to a healthy-looking beach body.
But the track is nowhere to be seen. The numbers on the scale are stagnant. The fat remains. The body dysmorphia gets worse, and I've tried everything to help me get over my unhealthy image. Perhaps it's just not meant to be, but I'll keep on trying as I've entered myself into a twelve-week health competition.
Then comes age, and what I'm still missing in life. Dawning on me only a few days prior, I realize my 25th birthday is in 11 days.
Twenty five years old.
I'm getting older. Much like a game of Super Mario Bros, a checkpoint is something you can fall back on if you run into trouble. You've still got your belongings, your loved ones, your accomplishments. Fall off or hit a wrong button again, and you're back at the checkpoint without having to start a new game. But I look at where I am: a guy on his own. No one to share memories with. No one to grow close to. My "checkpoint" is thin.
I try to reach out and talk with as many people as I can, and try to show that I want to be your friend. I read a quote the other day, but forget who it's from. Maybe someone that's reading this can help me out, but it went something along the lines of "A stranger is just a friend I haven't met yet". Even though, for the people I already do know, there are many I'd like to grow closer to.
Yet the occasional text goes unresponded to. A phone call to hang out results in me hanging out with a voicemail recording. A Facebook message asking how they're doing goes is seen.
Part of me is ready to go home to a steady job. Part of me is ready to go back to school. Part of me is ready to stumble upon that special someone. Part of me is ready to go back to life the way it was. Part of me is ready to check off this chapter of life as "complete".
Just some things I was thinking about on a long road trip home from Belize.
Maybe time will tell. Maybe I'm just being a naive child.
No comments:
Post a Comment