Arrogance of Adolescence

I wish I still possessed the blind conviction I had as a suburban teenager.
Convinced I was a great bassist. Convinced I was a great artist. Convinced complete strangers from the internet thousands of miles away loved me unconditionally more than my family ever had, I mean why not? They like a few of the things I enjoyed based on keywords and phrases I had searched to find them!
Convinced I was a greatest, period. I had never had talent and lacked the discipline to even consider honing any of my professed crafts. Even when failures occurred or I was introduced to peers with real talent I dismissed it through either arrogance or cognitive dissonance.
One such example was brought to my recollection the other evening while dining and it was pointed out to me that one of the other patrons in the restaurant was this kid Jordan from some band I had participated in a high school battle of the bands event with where I was to play bass for Dream Theater's Metropolis Pt. II. Not even on the same level as a chump who could only seem to play the intro to Staind's Mudshuvel, the first line of the underground theme from Super Mario Bros, and an unrecognizable version of In a Gadda Da Vida. During the rehearsal, it became blatantly obvious I lacked chops and so I was stuck at this guy's house while they practiced diligently. I blamed my inability to perform the song on my inability to connect to the internet (56k!) to find tabs for the song.
Maybe a week later, they decided maybe I could be used to sing Pantera's A New Level as the band lacked a vocalist. I had never sung before. This seemed like an obvious choice for such a natural talent, so blessed was I that I waited until the day of the performance to attempt learn the lyrics to this Pantera song. I sang, if you could call it that, but was completely out of sync with the music. More karaoke than anything else, but none of my peers were none the wiser, less for two or three who later confided in a mutual friend that they were plotting to upstage me and steal the mic because I was not doing Pantera any justice with my crude rendition. I laughed upon hearing the story, then retorted something along the lines of "I'd like to see that." Barring the fact that said individual had nearly half a foot on me and was far more athletic that I was.

Through all this, I sat in the back of high school classes flunking out, convinced I was destined for greatness despite everything. Here I am 8 years later, in junior college. After quitting on a degree in graphic design/Fine Art because other people in Drawing and Painting classes had better portfolios. How was I to compete, might as well go home and drink crown and coke and cry. Then shamefully, drunkenly, admit to your devoted mother that you're quitting art. Quitting school. Telling her not to worry, you're "a grown ass man" as you borrow money from her to go to the bay area to apply for a job testing first party video games for Sony.

Anyway, what brought this to mind was these postural issues I've acquired from a lifetime hunched in front of one glowing box or another. I sought out a Personal Trainer who offered a free consultation and the guy's obviously used to dealing with the obese, as I'm sure most trainers are. Anyway he asks me what I am interested in from him, and then he asks if I'm happy where I am at with my body image in some vague way. And I'm like yeah, I'm okay. I mean the scale at my house says I'm like what 14-16% body fat as I lift up my shirt to show him my protracted shoulder girdle, he sort of grins in a way that makes me believe that he's holding back laughter as he pans the room and let's out an unassured "eh, that's pretty lean." with a sigh. Clearly the scale is bullshit, but there was a little bit of faith invested in it. It was a buoy through all my degradation, assuring me throughout my loss of fitness that I was still acceptable. Still okay. Yeah, you're not a body builder or an athlete, and you're not the obese child you once were. "You're okay by me boss. Keep using me periodically, if nothing else to make sure the batteries are still fresh!"
His comment, cut me down to size. Maybe he wanted to prey on my insecurities? Maybe this is how he gets sales? Maybe he was completely unaware of how dubious his phrasing and delivery seemed to me. I tried to rationalize it as loose skin, "He doesn't know." but through the 30 minute consultation I kept an inner dialogue with myself dwelling on what he had said and reassessing, trying to account for the discord between body and mind. Amidst all the injuries and actual academic classes in 2008, I had lost my will and discovered that I wouldn't automatically revert to 270 lb. if I relaxed a little. Initially I was waiting for the pains to go away, to heal themselves rather than address them medically. Then when I started to ramp up again, school required more attention as I had shifted priorities into a marvelous dream of Kinesiology and Physical Therapy. Each semester seemingly more rigorous than the next, but then paranoia or nostalgia set in and started going at the Tri thing again. Vibrams in tow, or is it "in toe"?, i started jogging a little bit trying to build mileage, riding a little bit at a time. Still putting off swimming I'd decided I would stick to Duatholons since I wasn't really competitive enough to participate in Tris, especially now that I was in the highly competitive 25+ bracket where I looked like a chump on the time slips.
Just when I had the foundations of a routine building, I broke. There was diarrhea. Lots and lots of unexplained diarrhea, which flowed freely from my rectum like water from a tap but it felt like a solid bowel movement whenever my body prompted me to find a toilet. There was no rush to ever find a toilet, but this feces wanted no part of me and would always depart in a rush. After a week or was it two of this I set up an appointment with a GI specialist directly, rather than seeking some sort of referral from a primary care physician. By the time I got an appointment, the fecal waterfall was dry. The physicians assistant played it safe, ordered tests for this and that. Lots of lab work, lots of lab work that the labs would process incorrectly, lots of lab work to repeat and slowly break you down. "I am/was healthy. Why am I being asked to repeatedly collect feces?"
Then there was a colonoscopy, an endoscopy and CAT scans. "Doctor, cure me! What is the cause of my condition?"
I was taken from a ride, despite the diagnosis of Crohn's disease. I had willingly bought in and surrendered six months of my life to depression, anorexia and atrophy.

Now I am at a deficit. Emotionally, physically, financially. Weak and insecure.
Lost at sea.