It's in the Jeans.

"The popularity resides in the clothes," a thought that drove my summer vacation. A fear that I would be seen for the inadequate self I truly identified as. The kids seeing me as this once-popular student, now nothing more than another, “poor” kid. I knew the truth, I knew that the clothes I wore were expensive, and yet, I HAD to have them. I was consumed by the inevitable situations I would land in, depictions of Tommy Hilfiger commercials running in my head as my cargo handle was grabbed by some girl in a midriff top, interested, giving me that which I could not establish within myself. 

This is all in retrospect for in the moment, as I worked all summer long, babysitting and mowing lawns, to get the coveted check from my father to then go and budget appropriately, along with the minuscule amounts donated from mom, I could afford the clothes to match the persona of a “cool” kid. I missed the part where I was supposed to live and experience life, and instead I isolated, worked, and dreamt (literally) of the clothes that would win the affection of others. I wanted to be cool so bad that I obsessed about clothes, the bigger the flashier, the more they apparently cost, and what I thought meant, the cooler I was. I didn’t pay attention to anything but the clothes, for the clothes made the person, and for a once-overweight-now-thin kid in high school, who only knows how to mimic the likes of others, this was my plan. 

A rare glimpse of my brothers and I snuggling. 

I thought of clothes as my own social savior, a way to be seen, accepted, loved. All that time, I never saw that I wasn’t good enough, I lacked an appraisal of self, and I put more value into what I wore than any other situation encounter ever did. I was a chameleon that heard the term, “rich” in elementary school, said with a tone of inherent goodness, and I was off to the races, getting the best I could, spending an entire summer, stopping short of selling a kidney to get a pair of in-style JNCO, Lucky, or Tommy Hilfiger jeans. The Buckle at the mall held the coveted fashions, for JC Penny was too cheap, and the brands unheard of, mocked, discounted for the, “poor” and less-fortunate kids. 

See, I wasn’t well enough within myself to just be, I had to have external forms of validation. I had to have the clothes, I had to lose the body fat, I had to be the funny guy, for I wasn’t good at sports, and I knew I didn’t come from money. I didn’t have the apparent “confidence” that I was told to display from my mom. In fact, confidence was a foreign concept to me in high school, but again, you don’t know what you don’t know, and me and confidence were not, nor have we been, good friends as much as adversaries. 

The clothes covered, painted over a man whom lacked whatever it took to just be himself. This boy, turned man, turned father struggled with the same unhealthy core beliefs throughout life until change came out screaming. Seeing a daughter of my own, presented the parts of me that had to be altered, if I wanted to display the qualities I wanted her to have. Unfortunately, I know these cannot be characteristics displayed, but lived, not said, but seen. The clothes were way too expensive for my junior high budget, yet they meant the world to me at the time. Now I remain value-less as myself, but invaluable as an asset to the world. This, is definitely a step up from the JNCO-envy of all the other high school kids with their 36” Kangaroo Bottoms that I could never get my hands on. 

Body image disorder played such a significant aspect in my development as a youth, I would like for other people to take note of theirs or that of their loved ones. For more information, and more details on my story and treatment options, click HERE. 

God Bless.