Life goes on. It always does… until it doesn’t.
I’ve realized lately that, as much as things around us change, somehow they’re still the same. History tends to repeat itself all the time. We’re older and we may look different, but deep inside we’re still the same. We carry the wounds of the past with us even if somehow we’re not aware of it. It takes a moment of reflection to understand that our childhood and our upbringing are what shape and define us as human beings. We tell ourselves we’re better people now and that we’ve improved but the scars are still there, obviously still there that pretending that we’ve forgotten about them and have moved on is just delusional. We are who we are, not who we wish to become.
When I was a teenager, I went through a very hard time accepting myself. It all started when I became so aware of my body and how people perceived it. I was self-conscious because I wasn’t as ripped as the other boys in school. Although I had a fairly decent body and that was mainly due to the fact I was a swimmer, it still wasn’t enough to compete with the close-to-perfection bodies people like Stephen had. I went through all kinds of phases of sadness, hopelessness and feeling worthless, and so I slowly started to neglect my physical body by quitting swimming, over-eating and barely doing any exercise. My dad would go furious when he’d see me binge-watching a show on TV all weekend and would complain about the lifestyle I’ve been carrying on with.
Now that I’m back home, I’ve been feeling exactly the way I used to fifteen years ago. My beard is now the longest I’ve ever grown it, and my hair has been neglected for almost a month now. I’m almost starting to look like a caveman. Part of me is liking it, though. At least for now.