High School Ch. 3

3.

    Self-doubt and disgust fermented just below the surface in my mid-teen years, butting up and spilling over into the self-conscious whirlwind of a goofy 15 year olds body. ‘My forehead’s too big,’ ‘too many zits on my neck,’ ‘bags under my eyes,’ and ‘need to lose 10 pounds’ created in me a subconscious and almost constant mental affliction that I soon became somewhat adept at hiding. I grew my bangs out long to cover my forehead. I wore collared shirts and in the summer would lay by the pool for hours tanning my zits into unnoticeable dots. I always turned my head that extra degree trying to catch a glimpse of Ms. New Booty swishing past in the hallways or cafeteria. I never looked people in the eye.

     Out of all these teenage-isms somehow it was my bangs that took precedence. They were constantly pushing to the front of my mind, even through the zits, even through the fantasies of my shameful nightly ritual. I can’t say that my forehead was the problem because although that was the source of the tension it was never my focus. I couldn’t do anything about it. Instead I developed the nervous habit of trying to constantly keep my long thin blonde hair perfectly aligned over my forehead as to never reveal my ‘terrible deformity.’ In a state known for its tornados a 50 mile-an-hour wind was considered commonplace and there I was, terrified of the back draft from a butterfly. Subsequently I knew where every bathroom was in the giant conglomeration of buildings that made up my high school. Between each class and usually once during I would rush to the bathroom, glance guiltily around and if no one was looking hurriedly adjust my bangs in the mirror. I wore baseball caps and hats whenever possible. When I was a sophomore in college I finally got fed up with ridiculous game of hiding who I really was and what I really looked like and shaved my head, looked pretty good actually. Even got some compliments from a cute girl or two. Personally, I was elated. The relief I felt was tremendous and my self-esteem soared. Also, it turns out I hate hats, haven’t worn one since. The zits eventually went away too. Yet the masturbation has remained a constant presence, persevering through the trials and tribulations of my life as only a true addiction can. This thing, this addiction, this anxiety had usurped all others, triumphantly taking the cup and cash prize for biggest ‘what if.’ What if I didn’t have a secret? What if I didn’t have constant underlying tension, shaping who I am and how I think about myself? What if I could talk to my friends about this?

     As a guy, man, male, I am discouraged from talking about my problems. The strength and unwavering image of The Man does not allow for such things. Even without older siblings or close family ties to usher me through the checkpoints of society I was non-the-less able to easily discern what it means to be male. I formed this opinion not through my own wishes and desires but from what I saw of the boys around me, on the playground, in the movies. Their unwillingness to open or express and their awkwardness when I tried to provided all the examples I needed to understand that my problems were my own and my own to deal with. However, this has not stopped me from getting some good advice, some gems from the American collective consciousness. There have been a select few people that I have told about my problem, from them I have heard ‘just think about mannequins’ (ex-girlfriend) ‘take a cold shower’ (therapist) ‘why don’t you just stop!’ (different ex-girlfriend). The best advice being ‘you can’t quit, you’re too old’ (the internet).

Fourth installement coming tomorrow....